Beside her elbow on the vanity table were the plastic case for her false eyelashes and a bowl of soggy breakfast cereal. She had been dieting again, and she felt a little crazy with hunger as she looked at her face in the mirror.
Whenever she looked at the make-up advice in Glamor magazine, as she had done that morning, it irritated her to be reminded that her face was "triangular". Girls with triangular faces, she thought, usually looked like weasels or saints, and she hoped she wasn't just rationalizing when she decided that neither description applied to her. She simply looked like a twenty-three-year-old woman who had, whether it showed in her face or not, recently separated from her equally young husband.
Valerie Davis was not beautiful, but men seldom realized this when caught by her charms, as Mike Duckworth was. Her milky-blue eyes were wide-set and clear below her full but well-tweezed smoke-brown brows. And it was probably her broad, high cheekbones that saved her triangular face from giving her the look of Saint Bernadette or a crafty mink. Her complexion, more so when she was not worried or dieting, was extremely fair, with just a hint of pink showing through the velvety skin of her cheekbones. But it was a flawed face, too. She took pains to cover up the defects, but in reality these were part of what made her so attractive to men. As a child she had worried that her nose was not pretty; she had wanted a button nose, like the kind her Irish father so admired. So she had developed a continual habit of pushing the end of her nose up with her finger; it had not given her a button nose, but now the tip of her nose had a slightly upturned effect to it, and there was a faint crease on the tip of it which she now took pains to disguise with powder. Her chin bore the slight trace of a cleft, but beyond that she also had a small scar Mom where she had, as a child, fallen from her first bicycle. This, too, she usually kept camouflaged with powder. Her hair, combed straight and slightly curled under at the ends, framed her face with a smoky brown.
Jim had always teased her about her favorite brand of cosmetics. "White Shoulders," he would say. "That fits you."
Valerie opened the round box of powder and looked down at her nearly naked body. She pursed her lips a little and blew at a piece of cigarette ash that had drifted into the hollow between her shoulder and collarbone. With mild disgust she snubbed out the filter-tipped Salem that lay smoldering in the ashtray on the vanity. Then, with the fluffy white puff, she began to smooth the velvety talc over her neck and collarbone, dipping down low enough to graze the upper curves of her heavy breasts. When she had been in high school, she had been a little ashamed of the huge, jouncing mounds. Now – and she smiled to herself at the realization – she was more than a little silly in the pride she took in them, the more so since her roommate, though her breasts were firmer, was still wearing falsies to make it look as if she were older than fourteen. And it was not particularly strange for Valerie to take such pride in her most obvious point of attraction. It was for this reason that she frequently dieted on the Spartan ration of one bowl of Grape Nuts per day and numerous cups of black coffee. In this way, she maintained her one-hundred-thirty-five-pound figure as an attractive showcase for her pleasantly large breasts.
She gently rubbed the talc over their curves, feeling slightly perverted as the tickle of the powder puff caused her hen's-egg-brown nipples to erect. The grapefruit-sized mounds were resilient beneath her fingertips as she slyly squeezed them, testing for any sign of fat. She was well satisfied that she was not really gaining weight; but to make doubly sure, she tossed the powder puff into its cardboard box and forced herself to take another spoonful of the cold, mushy breakfast food.
When she had swallowed, she curled her upper lip and stuck her tongue out at her image in the mirror.
"Yuck!" she cried to the reflection. Then she put the spoon down in the bowl and stood up.
As she turned away from the mirror, the pert hillocks of her blue-nylon-covered buttocks reflected in the glass. She looked back over her shoulder and rubbed softly at her thighs, where a slight red mark had been made by the edge of the vanity stool. The flesh of her big breasts quivered as she walked across the bedroom carpet to her closet. When she opened the closet door, once again she was greeted by a full-length-mirror image of herself. She glanced at it thoughtfully, posing a little as she had seen Jeanne, her roommate, do in fashion shows.
I could be a model if I wanted to, she thought. And anyway, Jeanne isn't exactly a model, she added. She only does that when she can get away from the bar-girl bit. Then, feeling guilty for having been envious of her girl friend, she tucked a few stray pubic hairs into the legband of her blue panties and reached for her housecoat.
It was Saturday morning, and she felt wonderful at not having to go to work at her job as a secretary for a plumbing company. Later that afternoon she had a date with Mike Duckworth, the music teacher who had been her boss when she and Jim were both teachers' aides a year before. In the meantime, she planned to enjoy the first morning of her weekend. First, she would make herself another cup of coffee and settle down with Glamor to discover what they had decided she was doing wrong with her make-up for this month. Later on, when she became disgusted with the magazine, she might get around to doing the few dishes in the kitchen; or, better yet, she would tackle the thick John O'Hara novel she had been reading for two weeks now.
That's what I'll do, she thought. I'll take a bath and read John O'Hara. She had long ago developed the habit of reading while she took her bath. Sometimes, when the book was good as she found this one, she forgot about the bath and stayed in the water until it was quite cool. Then she would have to refill the tub to get her bathing over. Half the books she owned were blurred from the water of the bathtub, and their covers were corrugated like tin from the effect of the steam on their covers.
She slipped her arms into the quilted satin fabric of the knee-length pink housecoat, shivering a bit, her big breasts bouncing, at the first coldness of the material against her skin. Then she padded back across the room to the vanity table. She ignored the soggy bowl of breakfast food, but snatched the magazine from the powder-glazed glass top, making a face at her image in the mirror as though her reflection had caught her preparing to read a sexy book. Then, barefoot and adjusting the neckline of her housecoat over her bare breasts, she swished out of the bedroom with its unmade bed and into the morning light streaming through the big living room windows.
Her creamy breasts floated like life preservers on the surface of the tepid bath water. She turned a page with her wet fingers, then started, for she realized that for some moments she had been listening to the ringing of the doorbell without realizing it.
"Oh, shit!" she cried, standing up in the tub, the water streaming down through her matted pubic hair. She grabbed a towel and made three hasty swipes at her dripping body, then hopped out of the tub.
Quickly throwing on the pink housecoat, she ran through the bedroom and into the living room. Her feet left wet tracks on the stairs down to the front door. Through the frosted glass of the door, she could see the outline of a man.
If that's Mike this early, she thought, I'll kill him!
But when she threw open the door, she saw that it wasn't Mike.
"Mr. Davis!" she gasped.
"Hi, Val," Richard said, swallowing hard. "I bet you're surprised to see me."
Valerie pulled her wet hair away from her face. "Surprised isn't the word," she said. She wondered what he was doing there.
He was dressed in his work uniform – dark-blue trousers stained with oil, and a blue denim workshirt. But he was also wearing a service station black bow tie, which she hadn't remembered him ever wearing before. And in his hands he gripped the neck of a bottle wrapped in a brown paper sack. She stared at him for several seconds, wondering why he had come. She didn't want to be rude to him – he was her father-in-law, and she was fond of him even if she had separated from his son – but she wished he had picked a better time to visit her.
"I was taking a bath," she said.
"So I see," he said, grinning, and nodding at the cleavage showing where she gripped the housecoat shut.
Valerie adjusted her grip on the collar of the robe. "Well," she said, "I guess you'd better come in. I'll put something on." She stood aside to let him pass her on the stairs, then took a quick glance outside to see if anyone had been watching. As she closed the door she said, trying to be casual, "I thought you worked on Saturdays."
Richard looked down at her from the top of the stairs. "Only half a day most of the time. If there's a lot of work, I stay. But there wasn't anything today, so I got the hell out of there. Thought I'd drop in and see you," he said. He held up the bottle and the brown paper bag. "Maybe have a little drink together. You know I haven't seen you for quite a while. Not since you and…"
"I'll just put on some…"
"No, no," he insisted. "I can only stay a few minutes anyway. Besides, I've seen you in your bathrobe before."
Valerie couldn't help grinning at him. In many ways she pitied him, because his wife kept such a tight rein on his drinking habits.
"Okay," she said. "The glasses are over there on the shelf by the window. You get to work, and I'll be back in just a minute. I've got to dry off or I'll freeze to death!"
She watched him as he went to fetch the glasses, thinking how awkward and out of place he looked in a modernly furnished apartment. He didn't particularly like Mrs. Davis' early American furniture, but she was used to seeing him sitting in the big overstuffed chairs, so he looked strange among her brightly colored, low-rise furniture. Then she hurried into the bathroom again to dry herself.
What does he want? she wondered. Probably to try to talk me into going back to Jim, I guess. Well, poor soul, that's a lost cause. He probably got the address from Jim's mother.
When she came back to the living room she saw that he had poured her a healthy portion of a purplish brown fluid. "Well," he said, picking up the glass. "What is it?" she asked sniffing.
"Blackberry brandy," he said. "I don't much care for it, but Jim likes it and I thought that if…"
"We never drank anything but cheap red wine," she said. She took a quick sip of the brandy, but made a face. "Kind of strong, isn't it?" she asked.
"It'll put hair on your chest," he joked.
Valerie glanced down at the thrust of her breasts beneath the housecoat. "I'd rather not have any hair on my chest," she said. "But I'll drink it anyway." She took another sip and sat down in the bright yellow chair opposite the couch where he was sitting. "If you want to talk about Jim and me?" she said, taking a deep breath, "I'd rather not. I'm sorry about it and all, but it's just a closed case, that's all. I can't go back to him."
"But I don't understand what…"
"I'd really rather not talk about it. How's Mrs. Davis?"
"She's worried about you two," he told her. "But, other than that, just as feisty as ever."
"Did she ever finish that pantsuit we were working on?"
"I suppose so. Listen, Val, if it's a problem with…"
"Really, Dad, I'd rather not talk about Jim right now. As a matter of fact, I have a… Well, I have a date this afternoon, and…"
"A date? With who?"
"Well," she said, "I'm not living with Jim any more. It's not like I was cheating on him or anything like that." She was amused to see him so surprised that she was going out. "And anyway, this is just with Mike Duckworth, my old boss. It's hardly…"
"But you're married to Jim!" Richard protested.
"I'm sure," she said, rolling the glass in her palms, "that Jim is going out, too."
"The hell he is! Listen, if you two split up just to shack…"
"We separated because we can't get along together," she told him. "People do it all the time. They make a mistake, and when they realize it, they do whatever they think best to make up for it. Jim and I…"
"I don't always get along with Frances, either," he insisted. "But you don't see us separating, or whatever you want to call it."
"Well," she said simply, "I'm not Frances. And Jim's not you. Things are different with us." She thought it extremely curious that he could be chastising her and examining her legs with such obvious interest. Casually, she pulled the hem of her housecoat down around her knees. "Please," she said. "I'd really just rather not talk about it, please."
"So you're already going to bed with someone else then," he said.
"Mr. Davis!" she said, setting down her drink on the glass and chrome coffee table. "How much have you had to drink?" She pushed down the paper on the liquor bottle and saw that it was full.
"I had a few beers at work," he confessed. "Fuckworth? Is that his name?"
Valerie giggled despite herself. "Duckworth," she said. "Mike Duckworth. He was at the wedding. You remember him. My old boss? The music teacher?"
"Kind of a fairy-looking red-headed dude?"
Valerie didn't like the description, but she had to admit that Richard had remembered him, which surprised her, since her mother had invited nearly four hundred guests to the reception.
"What do you want to fuck around with him for?" Richard demanded. "He's old enough to be your father, isn't he?"
"I'm not 'fucking around' with him," she said beginning to get a little angry. "And he's only thirty-two, and…"
"Christ, he's practically as old as I am!"
Valerie picked up her drink. "Don't you ever 'fuck around'?" she asked him. She had decided that the best thing to do was to fight fire with fire; if he wanted to embarrass her into a position where he could question her about Jim, she wasn't going to let him.
"You shouldn't talk like that," he said, looking into his glass.
"Well," she said, feeling a little smug, "you started it."
"That's different," he said. "You're a girl."
"Girls are different now," she said, sipping on her drink.
"I don't want to talk about it, either," he said. He poured himself another drink from the bottle, then leaned back on the couch. "You able to do all right?" he asked. "I mean, about money and all."
Valerie smiled at him. He really didn't know much. "I do all right," she said. "As a matter of fact, I was a little worried about Jim. I make more money than he does being a teaching assistant, you know."
"No," he said, "I didn't know. Jim doesn't talk to me much. He's doing all right, though, I guess."
"And how are you doing?" she asked, feeling impish. "Financially, I mean."
Richard looked up at her in surprise. "I'm doing all right, too, I guess."
"Well, I guess we're all doing all right then."
"Why don't you come sit over here?" he asked, patting the couch beside him. "I can't see you very well for the light in my eyes." He made a gesture as if to ward off the light.
He had jokingly used that ploy to tease her often enough before. "You can see me fine," she said, "just where I am." But she got up and walked over to the window shade. "There," she said, dropping the yellow bamboo sun screen. "Is that better?" She sat down in the bright green love seat, nearer to him, but not yet in touching distance.
"I guess so," he said, looking sadly at his glass.
They sat in silence for several minutes, Richard studying his fingers on the rim of the glass, his daughter-in-law studying him. He's so pitiful, she thought.
"Look," she said, startling him a little as she slipped over beside him on the couch. She put her hands on his shoulders and made him look at her. "You're a sweetheart for wanting to help me and Jim out, but there's just nothing anyone can do now." She gave him a little kiss on the cheek. "That's for being so sweet," she said.
But Richard threw his arms around her and, before she knew quite what was happening, her father-in-law had thrown her over backward and pressed himself over her, his bristly beard scratching her face as he tried to kiss her.
"Mr. Davis!" she gasped, trying to push him away.
"Don't fight me, please!" he gasped, his mouth hot against the delicate skin of her throat. His hands kneaded and squeezed at her breasts through the housecoat.
"Mr. Davis!" she cried, once again trying to rise. "What do you…"
But he cut her off with a kiss. She tried to keep her mouth closed, but his hot tongue speared through her lips and pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She could smell the car oil in his matted hair.
She pushed up at his chest, but he had caught her by surprise and she couldn't get enough leverage to force him away. Her bare ankle kicked against the chrome edge of the coffee table.
"Mmmfff!" she moaned against his bristly lips.
"You're putting out for everyone else," he growled, only inches from her face. "You can damn well throw a little of that cunt in my direction!"
"No!" she cried. "No! Mr. Davis! No!"
But already he had ripped off the top button to her pink housecoat, his coarse hands diving to embrace the white flesh of her nearly crushed breasts.
"You've got beautiful tits, honey," he said gutturally. "I've always wanted to get a little taste of them!"
He was trying to nuzzle his mouth into her cleavage, but her struggles effectively prevented him from mouthing her breasts in any but the most cursory manner. But she could feel the bristles of his beard scraping over her nipples, a sensation which was not quite like either a tickle or an itch.
"Stop!" she implored him. "This is ridiculous! A joke's a joke, but this has gone far enough!"
"I'm going to fuck you, honey," he said. "Don't say anything. If what you said about that music teacher is true, and you haven't been fucking around, then you must be just as hot for it as I am."
"No! Mr. Davis, no!"
"I'll make it good for you, sweetheart! I promise I will. I'll make you come like you've never had it before. Shit, I know Jim ain't no good when it comes to sex, but…"
Valerie's hand slipped off his shoulder, her fist striking him square on the jaw. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh, please let me up. This is wrong! It's crazy!"
"I don't want to hurt you," he said, pinning her arms down on the couch. "But I'm going to fuck you, whether you want it or not. I don't care about the consequences."
"I'll call the police!" she threatened, looking up at his hard blue eyes. "I'll…"
"Yeah, maybe. Only first you're going to get fucked." He licked his lips, his meaty red tongue flicking the corners of his mouth. "Take your pick. Lay back and enjoy it, or fight me and wind up tied up to this pretty little coffee table."
"You're really crazy!" she spat at him. "You know that, don't you? You think you can get away with this? You can't."
"Maybe not," he said, rubbing his chin over her breasts, "but it's going to be a lot of fun trying."
He caught the edge of her housecoat with one hand, holding her wrists with the other. When he had jerked the buttons away, her thighs lay exposed to his animalistic gaze, the dark wedge of her cunt ineffectively concealed by her partially crossed thighs.
"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't look at me like that! Please! I won't say anything to anyone, only let me go!"
"Not on your life," he said.
And she felt the thickness of his coarse fingers gently part the hair of her cunt as he gazed over his shoulder at the sensitive, pomegranate-colored outer folds of her cunt.