arms, and he went down on his knees at her bedside, and the arms
locked around him. 'Bill, my darling Bill…' Her lips moved over his face. 'How could I ever have – what would I ever do without you? You've been so good, so wonderful!'
'You're pretty wonderful yourself,' he said. 'And now you're going to sleep. Right now, young lady, understand?'… With superhuman effort, he forced himself to disengage her arms, to stand up and walk out of the room. It left him unnerved, sleepless throughout the night, but it proved worthwhile. The last shred of her caution was struck away. Carrying her to her room became an almost nightly happening, even when she did not fall asleep. She would demand it, playfully, moving drowsily into his embrace. 'Soo tired, Bill. Help the old sleepy-head upstairs, hmm…?'
Her weariness was not pretended, he knew. She had worried herself into exhaustion, and the long years of sexual starvation, or near starvation, had robbed her of vitality. Now, at last, she had someone to lean upon, someone who loved as unselfishly as she. So she leaned willingly, anxiously.
The Free Speech petition… well, the old man had reacted exactly as he thought he would about that. He wasn't sure that he hadn't signed. In any event, he would not deny that he had and thus indirectly damn a cause he had believed in. He had stood pat, and, of course, the school board had promptly booted him out of his job. And with his failing health, the blow was almost fatal.
But, no. NO – Dusty almost shouted the word. That wasn't the way it was. It had worked out that way, but he hadn't planned it. A street-corner solicitor had offered him the petition, and he had signed it… without even thinking of the consequences. He had signed it simply William Bryant Rhodes, because there had not been enough space to add the Jr. (That was the only reason.) And he definitely had not faked his father's signature. Dad had taught him how to write. It was only natural that their signatures should be very similar.
She had been almost hysterical that night. She had been denied so much, real motherhood, real wifehood; she had had so little, and now that little – the modest security – had been lost. She was frightened; she was bewildered. In the dimly lit living-room, she lay sobbing in Dusty's arms, weeping and clinging to him like a lost child. Slowly drawing strength from his strength, reassurance from his softly whispered words.
She sniffled, and began to smile. He held a handkerchief to her nose and she blew obediently.
'J-just look at me,' she smiled tremulously. 'What a big crybaby!'
'My baby,' he said. 'My little baby. And you just cry all you want to.'
'Oh, B-Bill! Darling! W-what would I ever do without-'
'Nothing. Because I'll always be with you. Now. Hold still a minute and…'
He took the handkerchief and tapped the tears from her face. Very business-like, he tapped them from her neck… From her half-exposed breasts.
'My,' he said, 'a little bit more and you'd have been soaking.' And he cupped one of his hands over the bare flesh. 'You just ought to feel yourself.'
He looked up, then, forced himself to, and he saw the shadows in her eyes. Then, his eyes narrowed, lazily, and she buried her face against his chest. And she whispered, 'You shouldn't do that, Bill. You know you shouldn't. Never ever.'
'Why not?' he said. 'If you knew how much I loved you…'
'I know. I love you, too, darling. You've been so wonderful, so good to me that – Oh, Bill, sweet' – she tightened her arms desperately-'I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me.'
Her body stiffened and went limp. He withdrew his hand, shifted her gently from his lap to the lounge. She lay there, motionless, hardly seeming to breathe, one arm flung across her face.
He hesitated. Then, kneeling, he turned back her robe, and pulled up her nightgown, and…
Her open palm exploded against his face.
It rocked him back on his heels, and he sat down on the floor. She sat up,'readjusting her nightclothes.
'I had to be sure,' she said, quietly. 'I couldn't believe that you meant what you seemed to – I hated to believe it. But I had to be sure…'
… Then, she had begun to scream at him… bastard… filth… monster… pouring out her hatred and disgust.
Fortunately, Mr. Rhodes had taken a heavy sedative before retiring.
… The fan hummed drowsily. Stretched out before its warm, narcotic breeze, Dusty relived that terrible scene with his foster mother and found it not so terrible after all. He was glad that he had done this, forced himself to honestly re-examine the past. Taken bit by bit, looked at in the light of background happenings, he had only reacted normally to an abnormal situation. It was her fault, not his. She had been the aggressor, not he. Probably, if he had been a little more adroit, a little less clumsy, she would have done what he wanted her to and what she undoubtedly wanted him to do to her.
No, it wasn't so bad, and he wasn't so bad. On the whole, he had behaved, and was behaving, a lot more decently than most guys.
He didn't hate Dad. He got a little annoyed with him, depressed when he thought of being saddled with him for years to come – but who wouldn't? He didn't hate him, certainly, and most certainly he didn't wish him dead.
And Bascom. He didn't hate Bascom, nor wish him dead… even if it was possible to bring his death about. Bascom had rubbed his nose into the dirt for months. Now, the old guy was scared out of his wits, and it was his, Dusty's, turn to do some rubbing. And why should he have been disturbed about doing it?
Tug Trowbridge. He felt no admiration for Tug, no identification with him. It had been up to Tug to rescue him from a trap. Naturally, since the matter was vital to him, he had been keenly interested in its success. That was all there was to it.
Marcia Hillis…
Well, his attitude toward her was harder to analyze. First, he had been sick with concern for her. Then, the concern had shifted to something that was almost hate. She had been the prey, and they the hunters, and when it seemed that she might escape – as he had hoped she would a moment before – he had almost hated her.
Well. But was that so odd, after all? He had much the same mixed feelings about that other her, his foster mother. And there had been a parallel situation in that case. He had been afraid that she might tell Dad – dreadfully, sickeningly afraid. So loving her, unable to keep from loving her, he had also hated her. He had wanted her punished for the terror she had caused him.
Now, well, now, of course, he only loved her; he would have loved her if she had still been alive. And now that the danger to himself was past, he felt only love – he could think of no other way to describe his feelings – for Marcia Hillis. He would talk to Tug tonight. Find out where she had gone. Then, when Dad died… if he died… or sometime, somehow, he would get in touch with her. Go to her or have her come back here. She liked him. He was sure of that, despite this thing she had tried to do for financial gain. So… so they would be together, and this time it would be different The scene would be the same but this time…
… no sudden, terrifying blow in the face. No icy voice, no hatefully screamed reproaches. Only the yielding ivory body, the warm welcoming arms, the mass of hair tumbling silkily over his face… And, at last, fulfilment.
Dusty stirred restlessly. His eyes dragged open, and after a minute's more tossing, he sat up. He lighted a cigarette, blew the smoke out in nervous, excited puffs.
It would be like that. It had to be, he realized now. Through the years, he had been so formed that he could accept only one woman. And without her there could be nothing – no rest, no peace, no completion. Only an aching void where strange fears dwelled and multiplied, and gnawed unceasingly.
He had to have her, and he would. She liked him. He made good money – and there were ways of making more – and if she'd been desperate enough to attempt… dimly, he heard the phone ring. Then, his father's voice answering it, and his footsteps shuffling back from the living room. He stood up, just as the old man opened the door.
'Hate to call you, Bill, but someone from the hotel…'
Dusty muttered a curse. 'You've already told them I was here? Well, okay.'
He thrust his way past Mr. Rhodes, and snatched up the phone. Then, forcing his voice to a semblance of politeness, he said, 'Yes, sir. This is Bill Rhodes.'
'How are you, fellow?' It was Tug Trowbridge. 'Sorry to wake you up, but I figured you and me had better have a little talk… Now, yeah,'
