The moment his hand spread across her naked back she was lost, it was all lost ... and Jesus, Don had seen!
When she unlocked the front door, her teeth were chattering as much from the cold as from tension, and from the fear that she wouldn't be able to explain to Norman that her foolishness- no, she corrected harshly as she slammed the door behind her. Not foolishness. Idiocy. Weakness. But not foolishness.
She rushed upstairs and stripped off her clothes, was reaching into the closet for something more appropriate for having drinks with the mayor and his wife, when she heard someone knocking on the front door. Don forgot his key was the first thing that came to mind, and she snatched up her bathrobe and struggled into it on the way back down. And she would have to tell him something. He was so frail that anything near the truth would have to be tempered. Your father and I are having problems-vague, unsatisfying, and something the boy already knew.
She opened the door and immediately clutched the robe's lapels to her throat. 'Harry, for god's sake! What the hell do you want?'
Norman watched his wife rush off toward home, then turned, stopped, and found himself alone. He almost laughed-all that posturing, all the snide joy of letting her know about Don, and it was wasted. His dramatic exit spoiled because he had no way to get to the Starlite unless he walked the ten or twelve blocks.
'Nice going, jerk,' he muttered, shoved his hands into his pockets, and started to follow her, grinning at the horns that blared out the victory, waving once in a while when someone called his name, staring at the few faces he passed and wondering what in hell there was about a lousy high school football game that made people think all was right with the world.
He paused to light a cigarette, bending away from the damp wind that promised rain later on. The smoke was warm, and he enjoyed it for a minute, then scowled and tossed the butt into the gutter. He licked his lips; he swallowed. He was working himself into a bad, self-pitying mood, and that was hardly the way he had to be when he faced Garziana.
He straightened his back, let his arms swing, and whistled a silent march as he moved on, thinking to call a cab when he got home and have both of them arrive at the lounge in a flourish. A good entrance, first impressions, the mayor would be pleased.
Think about the game, he ordered; think about all that good feeling, all that cheering, the rush when Pratt caught that first pass, the lucky sonofabitch.
His stride lengthened, the whistle became audible, and when he had to stop at the Snowden driveway to let Chris pull in, he even saluted her and gave her a grin.
And waited.
To watch as she slid out, long legs white in the streetlight, braids slipping and sliding over her chest as she turned toward him and grinned, grabbed her pompons from the backseat and rounded the back of the car.
'Hi!' she said, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
'Hi yourself.'
'Gonna celebrate?'
'Damn right.'
'Me too. See ya.'
She ran up the walk, up the steps, and he didn't stop watching, knew what he was doing and didn't give a damn. Right now Joyce was fussing with her hair, her makeup, and beating herself to death over what Don had seen. It wouldn't hurt to wait a few minutes, to let her calm down.
'Mr. Boyd?'
He looked. She was standing at the open doorway.
'Mr, Boyd, my father-' And she gestured inside.
What the hell, he decided; a celebratory drink with a rich surgeon wouldn't hurt. Maybe a check for the campaign kitty if he played his cards right.
He made a show of deliberation before nodding and following her into the house.
Where the door closed silently, where the lights were all out.
'Hey, Chris,' he said, suddenly nervous.
'I was going to say,' she said softly, 'that he was out of town, but wouldn't mind if I offered you something to celebrate the great game.
Mother wouldn't either. She's in Florida for a vacation.'
They were shadows and half-light, and he reached for the doorknob, looked stupidly at her fingers when they caught his wrist and held it.
For a second. For two. One by one lifting to release him, the rustle of the pompons as they dropped to the floor.
'Chris,' he warned, but didn't reach again.
Dumb, Boyd. Dumb, you stupid asshole.
'I have to change,' she said, and walked slowly up the stairs he hadn't noticed on his left. She didn't look back, her hips and legs pulling him as if they were beckoning.
He considered only for a moment what he was doing, what he was getting himself into, then decided with a sharp nod that being a saint hadn't kept him his wife, hadn't kept him his son, and wasn't it about time he took what he wanted, had what he deserved.
So he followed, on his toes, and walked into a dark bedroom where he saw her on the mattress. In dimlight, naked, her hands slipping across her breasts, across her stomach, spreading to either side and kneading the sheet.
He stood at the foot of the bed. He unbuttoned his shirt.
He almost stopped when he saw her smile and thought it was a sneer.
'Celebrate,' she said.
He nodded, undressed, and crawled over her legs, held himself above her and looked into her eyes. In the dark they were dark, showing nothing at all; and the smile was still there, the upper lip curled.
'I know what you're doing,' he said in a whisper.
She nodded and shifted to bring his gaze to her breasts.
'It won't work.'
'Sure,' she said, and grabbed for his shoulders.
He resisted just long enough to show her he meant it, to show her who was boss, then lowered himself while she guided him, and heard himself gasp. Felt himself thrust. Looked up at her face and saw her staring at the ceiling.
Falcone pushed in and closed the door, took Joyce by the shoulders and practically dragged her into the dark living room. 'He found out, didn't he? The sonofabitch knows what's going on, doesn't he?'
'' Of course he does
'Jesus Christ!' he said, dropping his hands and turning to the bay window. 'Joyce, what the hell were you thinking of?'
'Me? All I wanted was someone to talk to. You were the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself.'
'I didn't notice you screaming rape,' he said quietly.
Streetlight reached weakly into the room, building shadows out of furniture, adding pits and slopes to his profile.
'But you know what you do to me,' she answered. 'You know, and you shouldn't have.'
'Ah, Christ, don't give me that, okay? That's soap opera stuff. You're a grown woman and-'
She saw his eyelids drop into a squint and she leaned around Norman's chair to look out onto the lawn. No one could see in without a lamp on, but he might have seen Donald coming up the walk; or worse, it could be Norman.
'What?' she whispered.
He pointed. 'You got me crazy, Joyce. I could have sworn I saw some kind of animal out there.'
She laughed. It was going to be all right. Harry was making jokes now; it was going to be all right.
'Look, Harry, this isn't going to work. I've got to get back to Norman, so why don't you-'
'Damn, there it is again.'
With a smile she shook her head and moved to his side, looked out the window and saw it in the yard.
Under the trees the slope of its back nearly reaching the lower branches. Around it a drifting fog, snaking
