Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (27 page)

The next time she glanced up, she saw Joe had gotten home early and was storming up the street to meet her.

Sarah Gilchrist

  Sarah pulled her cloak more tightly around her in the chilly darkness. She was late. Sharing time with Amber, wonderful as it had been, had put her behind schedule. She'd sent Amber and Ben off to the party while she stayed to check her pumpkins one more time before she'd get Ben or one of the other men to drive them over. Or maybe she'd drive them over herself.

  But even more than checking on her pumpkins, Sarah wanted to take a few deep breaths of chilly, breezy Kettle air and come to some decision about Tom. The scene with Amber had been an eye -opening experience. Sarah was proud of her daughter for having the guts to tell that Larry animal that she wasn't going to be his lay for the evening.

  Of course he'd been furious, told Amber she was tied to the apron strings of a bitch, and plenty of other ludicrous and insulting things. Happily, his testosterone tantrum hadn't endeared him any further to Amber. Amber had gone happily to the Kettle party with Ben, who had dressed as Stephen King, a joke no one would get, and he'd have to explain it a hundred times.

  The decision about Tom was turning out to be a bigger decision than just infidelity. This decision was about choosing the kind of person she was going to be, the kind of woman she wanted Amber to have for a mother. One who stayed home in servitude, not living up to the promise of her education and ambition? One who was forced to sneak out to meet the man she hoped to love soon? Or one who got what she wanted honestly and openly when she was free to do it?

  And yet, the idea of meeting Tom, of the passion and tenderness he'd bring her . . . Maybe this once she could allow herself that on the sly. Maybe once would be enough to make clear whether her marriage and her life here were worth fighting for. Maybe just this once. To feel like a real woman, indomitable and powerfully feminine and free. Like Vivian probably felt every single day of her life, no matter what she'd been through.

  And yet Sarah was not Vivian. She'd built a life here, confining as it seemed in her clearing vision of the last few weeks. She was unofficial chairperson of the Kettle Social Club, a responsible citizen with an unblemished reputation. Everyone liked her. Everyone respected her. In Sarah people knew they had a friend, someone they could depend on, someone they could trust to do the right thing.

  Was she willing to risk that? Would little Katie and her parents rejoice quite as purely over the money from the pumpkins if they knew it had been raised by a philanderer?

  Up in the field ahead, she saw the flatbed truck, the tarp covering the pumpkins . . . Something was wrong. The tarp wasn't up high enough. Had someone stolen some? Stolen her hard work, and Katie's hope for recovery from her accident?

  Sarah ran for the truck, reached for the tarp, peeled it off with a few heaves from her strong arms.

  And brought both hands up to cover her mouth.

  Her pumpkins had been smashed. Methodically. One by

one. Where there had been a glorious pyramid of fl awless specimens, now there was only pumpkin flesh and pumpkin seeds and stringy pumpkin guts.

  Who could have done something so cruel and so heartless and so . . . personal.

  With utter certainty it came to her. Larry. Because Sarah had come between him and his humping, panting, revolting teenage orgasm in her sweet, pure daughter.

  Damn him all the way to hell.

  She backed up, needing to put distance between herself and the horrible sight. Her foot hit something, and she fell on her butt and stayed there, staring at the chaos, smelling the sweet, overpowering pumpkin smell. Gone. All that work. All that nurturing. All that perfection.

  The tears that slid down her cheeks were expected. As were the pair of warm -up sobs. Sarah covered her face with her hands and prepared for the torrent that would follow.

  Instead, inexplicably, Sarah started to laugh. She laughed and laughed and laughed, doubled over onto the long damp grass, straining and writhing, nearly vomiting from how desperately the laughter wanted out of her.

  Screw it. Just screw it all. She'd go see Tom.
Now
.

  Ten minutes later, she turned onto Maybelle Street, thankful for cover of darkness, thankful for most people already gathered at the high school gym. Tom would be home, hoping for her, half out of his mind with anticipation. He'd explode into relief when she showed so much earlier than he suggested.

  She strode up his driveway, glorying in her resolve to do something really good for herself. Her marriage to Ben was over. It had been over for years; she'd just been too stub bornly convinced that someone like Sarah Gilchrist would never make such a stupid mistake as to marry the wrong person. Not Sarah. Sarah did everything right.

  Well, this time Sarah was doing something really right. Something wonderful and beautiful and passionate and right.

  She rang his back bell, breathing slightly fast from her speed walk over here, parting her cloak to give him an enticing glimpse of what lay underneath. She'd waited so long for this—they both had. All their adult lives. She could hardly wait to be in his arms, feel his lips on hers. It would—

  His door swooped open. "Sarah."

  He sounded surprised rather than carried away by his burning desire for her.

  "Tom." She started toward him, expecting him to grab her, and was startled when he moved back to let her pass into a dingy back hallway adjoining a kitchen that looked as if frat boys had camped there for weeks. "I'm . . . early."

  "Yeah, um . . . yeah." He turned to look at her, one hand still holding the door as if he was afraid of closing it. Or had forgotten to. "Chilly out there, huh."

  Maybe he was just nervous. Maybe he was embarrassed because he hadn't cleaned yet this century. Maybe her beauty in the uncharacteristic getup stunned him.

  A girl could always hope.

  "Yes, but it's warm in here." She unfastened her cloak and let it drop to the floor. Stood there in her teeny black satin outfit with the push -up bra, the black fishnet stockings, and the furry ears and tail.

  "Wow." He laughed and closed the door, put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "Wow. Look at you."

  "Do you like it?" She posed provocatively, one leg slightly bent, a dancer's pose, only instead of holding still, she rocked gently, which made him laugh again.

  What was the matter with him? He couldn't possibly think she was here for a neighborly visit.

  "Yeah. I like it all right." He laughed again, kind of a hyuck hyuck, gosh -'n-by-golly laugh, and Sarah started to have trouble holding her irritation at bay.

  Where was her passionate man? Where was the fi ery excitement he promised? Where was the chemistry that sizzled every time they met?

  She didn't come all the way over here to be laughed at.

  Three steps and she was pressed against him, arms around his middle, which was softer than she expected, but okay, none of them was eighteen anymore.

  "Tom." She lifted her face for his kiss . . .

  His arms came around her fiercely, he breathed her name with just the right amount of reverence, and she started to heat up. Yes. This was it. This was right. This was what she—

  "Oh baby, you feel good." Then he kissed her, a huge, passionate, fiery kiss, which left enough of his spit on her face to fi ll a medicine dropper.

  Funny how time erased certain memories.

  His breathing became short, shallow, as if he was about to have some kind of seizure. He grabbed her hand, covered it with more wet kisses, and pressed it urgently to his crotch, which appeared so far to have nothing going on whatsoever.

  Nausea replaced the sexy tingles of anticipation, reluctance nearly overcame the willingness of her heart to melt into his. She rubbed him halfheartedly through his pants, and though he moaned embarrassingly loudly, and thrust his hips and moaned some more, what God intended penises to do when undergoing focused manual stimulation did not happen.

  Apparently that part of him wasn't eighteen anymore, either.

  He pushed down on the tops of her shoulders, as if he wanted her to kneel. "Sarah. Suck on my cock and I'll get hard as a rock for you."

  Sarah sank down obediently.
Oh my God
. What had she done? Betrayed her marriage and morals for the chance to kneel and service another man? A man who used the detested C word?

  
Be patient, Sarah.
What was she going to do, leave because he hadn't greeted her the way she fantasized? She'd come here for Tom, for what they'd meant to each other, what they still meant to each other. They were both nervous. This was normal.

  She opened his fly and took him into her mouth. He was soft, small; sucking him was like mouthing a little balloon partially filled with water. But that wasn't his fault. Most men encountered this situation in their lives at one point or another. Or so she'd heard.

  A few minutes later, the balloon was still in the same fl accid state as when her efforts started, and Sarah's jaw was getting tired.

  "Sarah. Baby. Let's go upstairs.To my bedroom." He laughed nervously. "I want to get you naked, I want my hands all over you. I want to see your tits, and your pussy. I want my tongue all over you, sucking your clit."

Sarah froze. Her what? And her who? And her
what
?

  Under her now -motionless lips, his penis finally started to swell. She jerked back and let it flop out of her mouth. She wasn't turning him on. He was. With his own nasty words.

  If she went upstairs . . . oh God, she couldn't. He'd probably have her on the bed on her hands and knees so he could do her like a dog. She'd probably have to talk dirty to get him off. Or worse, he'd talk dirty and get himself off, and how was that any different from sex with Ben?

  This was ridiculous. Worse—she was ridiculous. She didn't want Tom. She wanted the fantasy of Tom. She wanted to feel loved and worshipped and desired. And that had nothing to do with who he was, just what she wanted him to make her feel. "I can't go upstairs."

  "What?" He looked crestfallen, like a kid told Santa wasn't bringing him toys this year.

  Sarah got to her feet, not bothering to wipe her mouth surreptitiously. "I thought this was what I wanted. But it's not. It isn't right. Not for Ben, not for Amber, not for Kettle, and not for me."

  "Because I couldn't get it up right away? Well, I'm sorry, I was nervous." His voice became nasal and petulant. "Just give me a few minutes and I'll be fi ne."

  "It's not that." She looked into his eyes, and instead of the blazing fruition of a spark from long ago, there was nothing but an old friend she'd built up into something more.

  Saved from herself by a small, limp penis.

  "I should go. I'm . . . truly sorry about this, Tom."

  "You're a tease, Sarah. A cockteaser. First in high school,

now again. Is that what you get off on? How many other men have you done this to?"

  "None." She was beyond weary. Beyond humiliated. Beyond empty. She picked up her cloak and headed for his door.

  He followed her. "Well, I've done quite a few lonely wives favors, and they were
all
satisfi ed."

  "In K
ettle
?" Couldn't be. People here didn't—

  Tom gave her a look as if she hadn't passed fi rst grade yet.

  
Oh God.
Lonely wives. In Kettle. Sarah was one of many. In spite of her beyond -everything exhaustion, that managed to hurt.

  "Well, Tom, congratulations. Keep up the good work."

  She left him sputtering, calling her names that would probably have more of an effect on his penis than she had. And how she longed for antiseptic wash for having had something in her mouth that had invaded women she probably knew.

  The chilly night air in Kettle was no longer invigorating and freeing, but cold and lifeless, oppressive and damp.

  She walked to the end of his driveway, tears welling up in spite of her valiant efforts to stop them and save her face from telltale black channels of mascara.

  What was she going to do now? Where could she go? Where could she possibly feel safe after tonight?

  The party was out of the question. Even she wasn't brave or strong enough to act normal. Smiling, chatting, wondering which of her friends Tom already had his dick in. Impossible.

  Nor could she go home and sit thinking about what she'd done, waiting for her betrayed husband and daughter to come home, which they would when Sarah and pumpkins didn't show.

  She needed a friend. Not on the phone. A live body with a warm shoulder to cry on. Someone who'd understand what she'd done and why; someone who wouldn't judge her or be shocked or condemning when she found out Sarah wasn't what she'd pretended to be for so long.

  She stopped walking. Her head lifted. She caught her breath.

  There was only one person like that in the whole damn town.

Twenty - two

Erin

  Erin stopped walking and waited. Joe would get to her soon enough.

  Why was he home so early? He always stayed forever at Rick's . . .

  Joan had called him from the gym. Joan had told him he better get his ass over here because his bitch wife was at that slut Vivian's house, working together to find Erin a boyfriend, or plotting to kill Joe, or sinning in some unimaginable way together. Erin wondered if despite two husbands, that was something Joan would like to watch.

  It was a miracle Joe hadn't come home even earlier. Maybe Joan waited until she thought the evidence would be most damning. Or maybe the football game hadn't been over yet, or he wanted to ponder her rebellion to work himself into more of a rage.

  He hesitated in his approach, a slow, bizarre suspension of movement that knocked his stride off, and she realized he was staggering drunk.

  At first she wanted to turn and run. He wouldn't be able to catch her. He was strong, but hopelessly out of shape. She'd leave him in the dust.

  But where could she run to? Vivian might protect her, but for how long? Vivian was leaving. This battle was Erin's to fi ght or not fi ght, exactly as Vivian said.

  "Er'n." He was using his calm, quiet voice, which meant he was at his worst. When he yelled, it usually wasn't so bad. Passion and anger got in the way, and he was sloppy and more threat than punishment.

  "Yes, Joe."

  He'd see the hair, even in this dim light. But if she ducked her face, maybe she could get home and wash off the makeup before he noticed. It wasn't much, but it was all she had besides her usual plan of taking whatever he dished out.

  "What the hell're you doing out here?"

  "Coming home to make dinner for you." She stared at the ditch beside the road, a black stripe in the near-darkness. She couldn't believe it but she wasn't afraid. Maybe she was too cold and hard and dead inside to feel fear anymore.

  "What's this?" He grabbed her hair, yanked the braid so her neck snapped back and her face was exposed to the faint light from the streetlight across the street.

  "What's
this
?" He took hold of her jaw, squeezing, forcing her face up to him. "You whore. You painted whore."

  Of Babylon? Erin muffled a gasp of laughter. His mother would have written those lines for him.

  "Who did this?"

  Still no fear. But something else. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she was just plain sick of it. "Vivian."

  "Vivian." He spat the name out. "I'll deal with you fi rst. Her later."

  Erin muffled more laughter, not as carefully this time. As if anyone like Joe could come close to conquering the fi re and passion and power that was Vivian. Vivian had already rid herself of one man. Joe would simply be next.

  He yanked on her braid again, squeezed her jaw harder. "What. Is. So. Funny."

  She couldn't answer the question with her jaw clamped in his harsh fingers, apart from weird mumbling sounds, but she tried anyway. "Nff -ing."

  He held her there, and she heard a rumble of gas through his belly, a beast -growl of hunger. He was shaking, sweating. She prayed he'd drop dead of a heart attack and roll into the black stripe of the ditch, so she'd be free, cleanly and faultlessly.

  She used to think she was like the bird she'd tried to let go in the woods. That after an initial taste of life in the wild, she'd try to get back into the cage, too. Not tonight. Tonight she felt she'd eventually learn to fly on her own.

  "We're going home, Er'n.You're going to wash that shit off, then I'm gon' take my bath before I touch you. You unnerstand?"

  She instinctively waited for the fear, off -balance when it still didn't come, like a meticulous friend forgetting a regular lunch date. Maybe after the mirror glimpse of what she could have been—what she still could be if she dared—and after the sweet touch of Vivian's fingers, Joe seemed more pathetic than threatening. If he finally killed her tonight, he'd feel only her contempt.

  "You unnerstand me?" He shook her, pinching her jaw harder, breathing heavily, and she knew he already had a hard on from thinking about what he was going to do to her.

  "Ysh."

  He let go of her face and grabbed her arm. "Let's go home."

  
Sure thing, Joe.
She followed him, outwardly meek, into the house and the master bathroom as she'd followed him truly meekly so many times.

  But now it was her turn to breathe heavily, perspire, feel the churning in her belly. Contempt, a slow, rising anger, and for the fi rst time, resolve.

  This was the last time he was going to do this. The last time. The only way she'd submit was to keep repeating that to herself, over and over, and then find some way to make it true.

  Joe ran water into the tub, grabbed the elastic off her hair, and raked the braid out, using his fingers like a claw -comb. He tested the water, grabbed the back of her neck, and forced her to her knees, bending her over the tub.

  The last time.

  The water was hot. Scalding. She didn't scream. Not from the heat and not when he used Comet powder on a washcloth to clean her face.

  Something was building in her. She recognized the force immediately and wondered how she could have mistaken it at Vivian's. The only kind of power Erin had ever had was building, the ball in her gut, swelling and squeezing. It hadn't happened for a long time, not since a year after Joy died, when Joe had taunted her for losing their child and being barren since.

  She didn't fight the pressure. She let it build, nurtured it along. Screwed her eyes shut against the sting of the chemicals, forced herself to bear the scraping of the abrasive on her skin, choking on the bleach that powdered her nose and lungs.

  
The last time.

  "There." He hauled her to her feet, examined her dripping, raw face, exhaling foul alcohol fumes. "You're clean. Dry yourself. I'll make you mine again after my bath."

  She winced even at the cautious dab of the towel on her skin, fighting not to gasp for air, the hot, angry ball up in her chest now, wider and wilder. Behind her, the metallic thunk of the drain stop falling into place, water still running.

  He undressed, body bloated and hairy, penis sticking out from its tangled nest of hair, a foolish pink bad design, and he slipped into his ridiculous ritual purifying bath.

  Erin stood sentry at the side of the tub, stiff, unmoving, waiting for the blazing ball in her chest to rise further, expand further until it took over her brain and her vision started fading to snowy static.

  "Dry your hair. Then take off your clothes." He pawed at his silly stiffening sausage, looking her over greedily. "I need to make you mine ev'rywhere a man can take you."

  
Not this time, Joe.

  She pulled the ancient hair dryer from the cabinet under the sink and plugged it in, surprised she could do that much with the ringing already in her ears, and the false brightness affecting her vision.

  "I changed my mind." His voice was higher, strained with arousal. "Take 'em off now."

  "No." She spoke calmly, aimed the dryer at her hair, temperature on low since her skin couldn't handle any heat.

  "What'd you say?"

  "I won't take off my clothes."

  "
What. Did. You. Say?
"

  She turned, tried to meet his eyes, but only got to his chin, panting not with fear, but with rage. "No."

  "You bitch." His penis was harder now, fueled by her defi ance into hotter lust for control and discipline. "You think you're something now Vivian put crap on your face?"

  "Yes."

  He laughed. "You're wrong, sweet pea. You're nothing."

  "So far."

  "What the hell makes you think you're something? Lipstick? You can't work, you can't have children, you sit home all day painting ugly pictures, what're you exactly?"

  The ball rose into her head, pressure on her brain, burning and bright. "I had Joy."

  "Joy wasn't even a kid. She was a deformed thing they pulled out of you dead and threw in the incinerator with the garbage."

  "How . . . could they do that?" she whispered, panting, barely able to get the words out.

  "I told them to."

  The ball exploded. Erin opened her mouth to scream. Scream and scream and scream the way she'd screamed and screamed and screamed her whole life when the ball built and caught fi re and rose into her head and exploded like that.

  But this time the scream didn't come. This time she looked her husband right in the eye and tossed the still -running hair dryer into his bath.

Vivian

  Vivian pulled her grandmother's dress over her head, still not sure why she was going to this stupid party. A few weeks ago she'd have wanted to go for the sole purpose of pissing everyone off. A few days ago she'd have wanted to go to prove to the media she fit in here. Now she just wanted to leave Kettle. Start over somewhere entirely new, fresh, exciting, somewhere she belonged, somewhere she'd be accepted, or at very least somewhere she'd be anonymous.

  Like . . . nowhere on this planet.

  She caught back her hair and wrapped it into a severe French twist, then wrinkled her nose at her schoolmarm refl ection. Why bother partying if she wasn't in the mood? No articles about Lorelei Taylor had come out in the last week or so. Nothing newsworthy was going to happen tonight, whether she went to the pumpkin bash or not. Nancy had slavishly volunteered to staff the makeover booth; Nancy could handle it. God knew Vivian wasn't anxious to spend the evening listening to her. And she'd sell more certifi cates without Vivian's foul presence anyway.

  Early next week, she'd put the house on the market. It was time. Mike was getting intense, mentioning Portland again this morning before he left. She wasn't biting. All her life, from one man to another, leaning on this one, depending on that one, betrayed by all of them.

  Yeah, Mike seemed different. Yeah, she'd fallen pretty hard. But hello, she was massively on the rebound from a disastrous dysfunctional relationship. Any man who didn't beat her up and involuntarily frame her for murder would look good.

  She stepped into a dreadful pair of plain beige fl ats she'd bought to complement the dress, annoyed at herself for being flip. Her feelings for Mike ran deeper than that. But if she moved to Portland, it would be Mike's house, Mike's friends, Mike's choice.

  It was time for Vivian, on her own. Cue swelling background music and shots of widowed pioneer women chopping down trees. Time for Vivian to make it in some capacity not involving men, for the fi rst time in her life.

  She was evolving.

  Stellie's house would bring enough money to buy somewhere. Nothing fancy. No more East Side luxury for a while. If she found she needed big city living, she could get a roommate, teach aerobics, maybe hair dressing.

  She didn't know. It sounded lonely and dull and ungrounded. But she couldn't stay here. Couldn't face Mike's loving eyes anymore, the eyes that increasingly said "mine" and "wife" and "forever."

  Forever was too damn long to be talking about at this point in her life, no matter how she felt about him.

  A knock at her door, the bell. Mike. Again. Her heart rose in anticipation of seeing him, and she told it to calm the hell down, scowled at the mirror and pulled the pins out of her hair. Ran downstairs and flung open the door—to the most unexpected apparition she could imagine: Sarah. Looking as if she'd just been struck by lightning.

  "Whoa. Come in." She waited to close the door until Miss Zombie America managed to walk past. "What the hell happened to you?"

  "I think . . ." Sarah swallowed as if she had zero moisture left in her body. "I made a mistake."

  "Okay. You want some tea? Coffee? Whiskey?"

  Sarah stared with eyes that reflected a complete lack of comprehension. Or possibly a complete lack of brain function. "I . . . don't—"

  "Whiskey." She pulled Sarah into the living room, since otherwise Sarah would have stayed standing in the kitchen for the rest of the night. "I'll get you a drink."

  In the dining room, she opened the cabinet of what had originally been a writing desk, pulled out Irish whiskey, and filled a glass with a healthy dose. She'd guess Sarah was in no mood for partying Kettle style with sugary virgin punch.

  "You've done nice things for this place."

  "Thanks." She crossed through the living room she'd spent the morning putting back in shape and held out the glass. "Here. Take off your . . . cape thing and have a seat."

  "Yes. Okay." Sarah yanked at the ties and let the cape fall from her shoulders, swung it around, and dropped it across the arm of the couch.

Vivan's eyebrows shot up. "Holy shit, look at you."

  Sarah took a long swallow of whiskey and smiled wryly, her eyes coming back to life. "I'm a sex kitten."

  Vivian guffawed. "Come as you're not. You're perfect."

  "Yeah." She looked down at the glass resting on her knee, sniffed, and drank again. "I'm just perfect."