67

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON FIORE took his wife apple picking. He felt he owed Grace a good time, and knew he’d need her help even more when the campaign got into high gear. Two or three televised debates with Singer were being arranged, and Doug wanted Grace to be present at all of them to project a warm family image He wondered if Carol would show up with Bruce. Probably not, he decided. Still, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to find a way to convince her to stay home, just in case. Do whatever it takes to win, he told himself. That was his watchword now, although still in the context of waging a clean campaign. He reasoned that it was in Carol’s best interest for her husband to lose, but he certainly wasn’t going to say or do anything that would put pressure on her to avoid being there.

“How come you’re so relaxed when you know Singer is out there working today?” Grace asked. They were driving along a country road, about twenty miles south of East Greenwich. The oaks and maples were just beginning to show their fall colors.

Doug took his right hand off the wheel of the Camry, Grace’s car, and put it on her knee. “I don’t care what Singer’s doing today,” he answered. “I’m with you and I’m happy, so let’s not talk any politics today.” He ran his hand along her thigh. She put her own hand on top of his briefly, but then pushed his away when she began to get aroused.

Fiore noticed a sign pointing toward a church fair and pulled off the road. They bought and shared a homemade brownie before perusing the merchandise laid out on long tables in the church vestry. Doug checked out some old 78 RPM record albums and wandered around the used clothing tables that were in an adjoining room. He found a white corduroy baseball cap with a University of Southern California football logo on it, and purchased it for a quarter. Grace caught up with him, looked at the cap and said she didn’t think the rust colored stains on the brim would wash off.

They stopped for a light dinner back in East Greenwich. Fiore was beginning to feel the effect of the three Macintosh apples he ate while they filled a 10-pound bag in the Sunny Farm orchard that afternoon. Grace saw a number of people in the restaurant glancing their way during the meal, and several of the diners stopped by their table on the way out to wish him good luck.

“Too bad about Richie Cardella,” one of them remarked.

Doug shook his head in agreement. “Yeah,” was all he replied. That’s probably what Cyril was talking about, he thought to himself. I’ve got to put on my sad face whenever someone mentions poor Richie’s name. Just make believe he was my good friend. Do anything to win the election.

Grace went into the den to watch television just after they got home. A few minutes later she called Doug to join her. He said he’d be there shortly, that he just wanted to rest for a while. He went to the bedroom and got under the covers without taking off his jeans or his shirt.

Fiore remembered later that in his dream he was making a movie with Miss October, whose nude pictures he saw recently in the latest issue of Playboy. They were filming a love scene in bed. The director was standing just a few feet away, next to a cameraman, telling them what to do second by second. The klieg lights were bringing out tiny pebbles of sweat on both of them. He recalled the director whispering to his bedmate to look suggestively toward Doug’s groin and to start moving her body in that direction. “Don’t worry, the camera won’t follow you,” he told her. Just then, Doug’s ejaculation woke him up. Almost an hour had passed. He could feel the wetness in his shorts and on the inside of his thigh.

“Damn it!” He said the words out loud. He knew Grace would be coming to bed soon, and now he wasn’t sure whether he could get hard again. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of those nights when he tried to make love to her but couldn’t. He dreaded going through the same embarrassment again.

Doug washed up and put on his pajamas. He sat down next to Grace in the den and put his arm around her. He let several minutes go by before telling her he wasn’t feeling well, that it must be the apples. “I was tossing and turning the whole time,” he said, “and sweating a little. I took a couple of aspirins and think I’d better try to get a good night’s sleep.” He kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’ll take a rain check and promise to use it tomorrow or Tuesday.”

Grace nodded, without looking away from the TV. “Okay,” was all she said.

He got up and started to leave the room. Turning around for a moment, he told her, “I sure as hell don’t want to look sick for the photographers at Richie’s funeral tomorrow.”