O GOD, HOW IN the name of krist can this be true? It must be a dream. Please, let it be a dream. Let the alarm ring and I/ll get up and go to work. And Harry tried to wake himself, as he looked into the closed eyes of the woman under him, and felt her moving in response to his movements, and her excitement. Krist, he could hear her moan. You dont hear people moan in dreams, do you? And he felt her warm flesh under his and he moved and rolled and thrust and felt the roundness of her ass against the palms of his hands and she moaned louder and louder and he wanted to just get up and run but he could not and he seemed to be a spectator as he fucked the broad and the brightness of the light coming through the shades shoved the idea of a dream out the window and he could no longer attempt to deny the truth and he moved along with himself as he fucked her and suddenly there were spasms through both their bodies and then the sudden silence and immobility and he closed his eyes and shook his head and felt a warm nausea roiling around inside him, and he rolled off her and quickly closed himself up in the shower stall, and jerked the faucets on and stood immobile as the water pelted him. At least he wasnt going to vomit. He knew that. But he also knew that he felt like he was going to any minute. What was he going to do? Who was she? O, krist, how did it happen? He/d have to hurry and get dressed while she was in the shower. He had to get back to the office. O, shit!
He left the shower and dried himself and wrapped a towel around him and went back into the room. She was still in the bed with the sheet under her neck. He was afraid to look at her—he knew he would not recognize her—but faced her with his eyes moving in other directions. She smiled, Turn your back so I can get up. O krist, would he. Gladly. Gladly. He turned and as soon as he heard the water running, he dressed and quietly left the room and the hotel. He trotted across the street and went through a department store in case she was watching somehow and wanted to know where he worked. He walked as rapidly as possible through the store and out the other side, seeking the sanctuary of his office.
How could it have happened? He was not thinking of picking up a broad. It was crazy. Nuts. Nothing made sense. He had left the office early so he could have lunch alone, for some reason not wanting to be with Walt and the others. And then he was screwing some broad in the hotel. It did not make any sense. What the hell happened? He just went down in the elevator and went out into the street and turned a corner and brushed someone and reached out to grab them so they would not fall, and then apologized and smiled, and she smiled, and then hes grinding on top of her as she moans. It cant happen again. It just cant. I have to control it. Control! Thats the answer. I just have to control myself.
The control lasted a week, the resolve even less. For a couple of days he ate lunch in his office, telling Walt and the others that he was in the middle of something and did not want to stop, but with the passing of each day the desire to leave the office increased, growing to the point where it was interfering with his work. He had to exert a strong effort to concentrate, and then he would suddenly get up from his desk and go to the window and look out, feeling imprisoned. After a couple of days he went out to lunch with Walt and Simmons. He could not find any reason to fight the urge. But he was careful and stayed close to the others and after lunch went directly back to the office with them.
But then he found himself thinking about women; or standing in the doorway of his office looking around and suddenly becoming very aware of the womens legs and the length of their skirts. He could not remember ever having done this before. It seemed like he had never thought about them. Even before he was married. The action seemed always to have preceded the thought. He had walked with them, talked with them, danced with them, been in bed with them, but he could never remember thinking about them. He went back into his office and tried to dismiss the whole stupid mess from his mind, and for a while his work was the only thing he was conscious of, but soon he would become aware of the fact that he was thinking of some unidentifiable broad. He tried to replace the thoughts with thoughts of Linda, but somehow that repulsed him and he went back to his work and the conflict.
A week was all he could take. He could not tolerate another day of inner turmoil and conflict that was so bad it interfered with his work—and that frightened him. He could not, would not, allow anything to threaten his position.
This time he knew what he was going to do, and so there was no trouble in consciously reactivating an old routine. Actually, the ease with which he could reach down inside himself for the ability to just stroll into the nearest cafeteria and pick up a broad and take her to a hotel and bang her sent a cold stabbing pain between his eyes as he sat at his desk thinking about it.
That night at home was awkward and tedious. He was conscious of all his actions and was constantly wondering if he was acting the way he usually did. He tried to act and to talk as usual; yet he knew he was stiff. And indifferent. Especially in bed. A couple of hours before retiring he started to complain about a headache and a stiffness in the back of his neck from overwork. Soon, but not too soon, they were in bed and the light was out and he was lying on his side and the day was almost over and eventually he stumbled into a restless sleep.
A week was still as long as he could go without picking up a woman. And now the frightening thing was the fact that he had accepted this, and on Friday afternoon he made some sort of excuse to the others and went to lunch alone. There was no attempt to fight it. He just scheduled his work around an extended lunch hour on Fridays. As soon as he had made the decision, he found that he was able to concentrate on his work.
Of course he did not get laid every Friday, but that was not important. The important thing was the routine, the game, which allowed him to be free from that constant conflict so he could concentrate on his work and maintain his position and responsibilities.
And soon he was able to accept this as a part of his life, but a part that was separate from the rest of his life. He no longer felt awkward at home on Friday nights, or any other night. It seemed to him that he was able to go home and act just as he always had. And why shouldnt he? He wasnt doing anything that every other married man didnt do, especially those in his circle. And, as far as he knew, all the women he picked up were married too. He didnt recall ever promising himself that he would be faithful to Linda, but if he had, hed been silly and immature….
Well, maybe sometimes he did feel a little twinge of something, especially when he had to beg off having lunch with the others. It was not that they questioned him or objected, and he certainly was not afraid that they would ask him to resign because he took a little extra time on Fridays—his days of being a junior executive whose time is accountable were over—but he felt as if he was stealing the time from the firm.
Whatever that twinge was, it could be ignored. But the conflict that twisted him in half, and threatened his ability to work, could not be ignored. So Harry rationalized himself into accepting a new phase of his life. And with the passing of time he became comfortable with this new schedule, this new phase, and soon it had become integrated into his life to the point where he took it for granted, and his life, at the office and at home, flowed along comfortably.
And then one Wednesday afternoon he found himself following a woman into a department store. He watched her looking at bras and bikini panties and suddenly realized what he was doing and turned abruptly and went back to the office. He seemed to be running a foot race as he sat perfectly still at his desk. The panic stayed with him the rest of the day and he was unable to concentrate on his work. The only thing he was aware of was the intensity of his feelings, and his inability to identify the feelings increased his panic.
Halfway through dinner that evening Linda asked him if something was wrong.
Wrong?
Well, I dont mean like trouble. You just seem sort of preoccupied, and quiet. I dont know, leaning back and laughing, if youre really acting any different tonight or if its just that the baby is quiet and we/re getting to spend a little time together … quietly.
Harry could feel himself struggling into a smile. Well, Ive been thinking that maybe we should buy a house.
Isnt this rather sudden?
Not really. Ive been sort of turning it over in my head for a while.
Gee, Harry, youve caught me unawares, smiling, I dont know what to say.
It seems like a good idea to me.
O, Im not protesting or complaining, sweetheart, its just that it will take a few minutes for me to adjust to the idea.
I thought it might be nice if we had a yard … a garden or something where you could maybe putter around with some flowers and perhaps Harry Junior could just sort of romp around and you would not have to worry about him.
That does sound wonderful, her smile becoming broader, I would really love to have a little garden. Where were you thinking of looking?
Westchester. You dont have to go too far out of the city to find something nice.
The more we talk about it, wiggling around in her seat, the more I like the idea. Im really getting excited about it.
I/ll get in touch with a few brokers tomorrow and see whats available.
What type of house were you thinking of?
I dont know. I wasnt, I guess.
I hope we can find an English Tudor. I just love them. Especially with a few trees and rose bushes and a curving walk with lilies of the valley. O Harry, it sounds wonderful.
Well, it doesnt make any difference to me what kind of house it is. I dont know one from another, anyway.
Linda looked at him for a moment, You sure you want to buy a house?
Of course. I suggested it, didnt I?
I know, sweetheart, but you dont seem very enthusiastic.
I am, I am. I just have a lot on my mind, struggling to get that smile on his face again, thats all. And Im really happy that youre so excited about the idea.
I am sweetheart, I really am. But if you dont want to its perfectly all right with me. Really. I know how much you love this place and Central Park West.
I know, honey. Dont worry about it. I want to move. Believe me. I really do want to move.
Money was no object and so it did not take long for them to find exactly what they wanted, or to be more precise, exactly what Linda wanted, Harry not being too particular, being primarily interested in as complete a change of scene as possible.
It was almost an acre, with fruit trees, maples, a large willow, as well as shrubs and bushes. It did not have the path or winding stream, but it had more than Linda had dreamed, and the house itself was more than a dream. When she called her mother to tell her about it, her mother burst into laughter from time to time and told her to slow down, youre going as fast as a rabbit running from a dog.
O, but Mom, its so beautiful.
All right dear, I believe you. Its beautiful.
They both laughed and Linda continued to describe the house and grounds in minute detail.
Waiting for the paper work to be completed and for everything to clear escrow was probably the most anxious time of Lindas life. Each evening when Harry got home she asked him if he had heard anything further yet and he shook his head and told her to relax. It takes time. A few more weeks and everything will be cleared.
But I cant relax. I think blue curtains in Harry Juniors room would be nice, dont you? And gold ones in the living room to blend with the furniture, and maybe—
Hey, Wait a minute, laughing and putting his arms around her. You keep going around in circles, and the first thing you know you will end up behind yourself and you may never get right side out again.
O, Harry, you nut, wrapping her arms around his neck and rubbing her nose against his, Im so excited I could burst.
O really, I didnt notice.
Harry, in his own way, was just as excited as Linda, but for a different reason. And it manifested itself differently, which was, in fact, the reason for his excitement. Just being exposed to Lindas excitement was enough to excite him, but the real reason was that his recent pattern had been broken and he no longer went strolling the streets on Friday afternoon looking for a woman, but spent his lunch hours with Walt and the others.
And, more than that, his mind was clear of the thoughts, and terrible conflicts, and his body was free of those bewildering feelings. He felt free inside and was able to concentrate on his work as before, and did not feel awkward or self-conscious at home. Everything seemed to be completely normal.
When he finally heard from the broker that the house was officially theirs, he started to call Linda, but stopped halfway through dialing. He thought it would be better if he were there to tell her just in case she fainted or burst a blood vessel. He laughed to himself, and from time to time during the remainder of the afternoon he stopped working for a moment and closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair and thought of the evening coming and how Linda would jump and shriek when he told her the house was theirs, and he had the damndest feeling all through him as he watched his wifes excitement in his minds eye and felt her pleasure.
For almost a week, or maybe more—she wasnt sure just how long—Linda refrained from asking Harry if he had heard anything further about the house. She realized that if she did not stop thinking about it constantly her preoccupation with the house would become an obsession and she would go crazy whether or not they did get the house. And so, no mention was made of the matter, and they were eating dinner and chitchatting when Harry said en passant, O, by the way, I heard from Ralph today and the house is ours, and then he put another piece of potato in his mouth and asked her how her mother was.
Linda stared for a moment and almost said that her mother was fine, then suddenly stood up and ended up on Harrys lap all in one impossible movement. O Harry, thats wonderful, hugging him, kissing him, squeezing him, wonderful. It really went through. O, I can hardly believe it. Thats wonderful. Its ours. I cant believe it. I just cant believe that it is really ours.
And the bank. Dont forget the bank.
O, youll own the bank someday too. I must tell Mom and Dad. And Harry.
Getting the house ready and getting ready to move was as exciting, in a different way, of course, as the first days of marriage (my God, thats more than two years already). They were both excited and involved in what was happening in their lives together, and they fed each others excitement.
Finally the day came when the house was ready and they moved; Linda took care of that while Harry worked. When he got to the house that evening, there were cardboard boxes and barrels every which where, but enough had been unpacked so they could eat comfortably and sleep.
Harry realized that Linda would need a car, now that they were bona fide suburbanites, so the first thing he did was to buy a second Mercedes. The second thing he did was to join the Wooddale Country Club.
Although Linda had project after project to pursue in the house or gardens, Harry was soon settled in and was completely oriented to the new home and the ride to and from the city. For quite some time Lindas constant enthusiasm kept him involved with the newness of their situation, but soon it became routine to him and he vaguely and gradually became aware of disquieting feelings drifting through him. He could feel a vague knowledge tentatively reaching up from his gut to his head and he tried to ignore it, but it persisted and though he could not define it, neither could he ignore it, and it continually prodded him like some irresistible force cloaked in the vagueness of the ancient past.