Cindy was lying in the darkened bedroom, staring at the ceiling and trying to blank her mind against the recurring images of what had happened in the home of Steve Samuels, when the telephone rang at four o'clock the next afternoon.
She lay there, stiffly listening to the incessant ringing sound, not wanting to answer it, not wanting to talk to anyone. But then, with the ingrained instinct of all humans to answer the doorbell or the telephone when it rings finally overcoming her apathy, she swung out of bed and listlessly shrugged into her robe. She moved slowly into the living room, her body aching from bruises in a half-dozen places, her vagina and anal passage still sore and rubbed raw from the merciless drubbing of the lust-hardened penises of Steve Samuels and Ralph Taylor and that impossible German Shepherd.
The soul-sick young wife lifted the receiver, cutting the bell off in mid-ring, and said lifelessly, "Hello?"
"Cindy? Honey, is that you?"
Howard. I don't want to talk to him, she thought. I don't want to ever see or talk to him again, I hate him, I hate him for what he's done to me, what he's made me become. But instead of slamming the receiver down, she pressed it tightly to her ear, as if her physical being was acting in direct disobedience to the demands of her brain. She said, "Yes, Howie, it's me."
"You sound funny," Howard's voice came over the wire. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, just fine," she replied. "Where are you, Howie?"
"Still in Monterey." His tone lost its momentary concern, and became edged with excitement and eagerness. "Honey, are you sitting down? I've got some news that's going to shock the pants right off of you." He laughed with boyish verve.
I've got some news that will do the same for you, Howie, Cindy thought. But I'll never tell it to you. I hate you, and yet I still love you, too… I love you too much to tell you about your boss Ralph Taylor, and about Steve Samuels, and about that dog…
She said only, "What is it, Howie? What news do you have?"
"Well, hang onto the telephone," said Howard enthusiastically, his words jumbling together in his excitement. "I met a man here in Monterey, at this meeting I attended. His name is Charley Dawes, and he owns a large auto dealership up in San Francisco. Well, we got to talking and then got to be pretty good friends, and I outlined some ideas I've got for a promotional deal. He liked them, honey; he thought they were really great! He's offered me a job, Cindy, and not just any job either! He wants me to manage his main lot, in South San Francisco, for almost double what I'm making at Auto Circus! What do you think of that!"
Cindy was momentarily taken aback. A new job? In San Francisco? But that meant…
Howard was talking again, bubbling happily. "Of course, this means we'll have to move up there, leave all our friends down here. And we'll have to go immediately, too, because Charley wants me to start as soon as possible. I hate to have to give such short notice to Ralph and Buddy Lathrop – they've been damned decent to me – but if I want the job I don't have any choice. And it's just too good an opportunity to pass up. What do you think, honey? You don't mind moving up to San Francisco, do you?"
Cindy wanted to laugh, to scream hysterically at him that my God, no, she didn't mind! It was an out, an escape from Ralph and Norma Taylor, from her mailing indiscretions with the postal department, from the evil, depraved Steve Samuels and his monstrous dog! She was going to have another chance, a chance to start over, to blot these terrible past few weeks from her mind… and yes, a chance to pick up the shattered pieces of her marriage to Howard. She still loved him – there was such a fine line between love and hate – loved him desperately, in spite of what he had done to her. She would never tell him what had happened, that she had learned he was unfaithful to her and that he had willfully given her flesh and her gift of oral love to his boss, Ralph Taylor. They would begin anew in San Francisco, loving only each other, away from the evil influence of the Taylors; all was not lost for her, after all!
Cindy felt stirrings of life inside her body once again, where there had been only deadness since she had awakened that morning. She was not happy – no, it would take a long time before that emotion would be a part of her again – but she was alive and she had hope. She had hope…
"I don't mind it at all, Howie. I think it's a wonderful idea, a marvelous idea. I want to move to San Francisco, I want to very much. I agree that it's a wonderful opportunity for us."
"Fine isn't the word for it!" enthused Howard. "Imagine, baby, your old man a Lot Manager! And that's only the beginning. Why, in a couple of years I could get to be General Manager, and then, if things work out, I might have enough pull and prestige to be able to branch out and open up my own agency…"
"Howie," Cindy interrupted softly, "Howie, when will you be home? I want to see you, Howie. I want to talk to you face to face."
"I'll be leaving here about seven; have to meet Charley for drinks at five to talk contracts and iron out the details. But I wanted to call you before I went, to see if it was all right."
"Then you'll be home around nine?"
"Should be, uh-huh."
"Hurry, won't you?"
"You bet I will," Howard said. "I love you."
"Yes, Howie," said Cindy, and gently broke the connection.
She walked with her head up now, back into the bedroom, and sat down on the edge of the bed. A new life… a return to some semblance of the kind of existence they had had before that awful anniversary gift of the Taylors, the Polaroid camera… a new life, and everything was going to be all right for her and Howard in San Francisco…
And then Cindy Jamison's eyes moved inadvertently to the other side of the darkened bedroom, and fell upon the black-cased Polaroid camera which lay on Howard's dresser. She stared at it for a long moment, and as she did, a tingling sensation began in her loins and in her mind there flashed the images of photographs, full-color snapshots of her nude and making love to Howard, to Ralph Taylor, to Steve Samuels, to the dog, Ringo… sharp in detail, these photos in her mind, clear and vivid and exciting, setting her afire, building her desires…
Suddenly, Cindy Jamison was afraid again. A new life? Yes, that much was true… but what kind of new life? Was it to be as she had pictured talking to Howie on the telephone, a return to their blissful existence of before? Or was it to be something else, an entirely different kind of new life, one which was founded on emancipation and the fulfillment of sexual desire no matter how depraved and the total abandonment of self to the pleasures of the flesh? A life of photographs, and exchange clubs, of wife swapping and worse? Which one would it be?
The first one, the young housewife thought fervently. The first one, just Howie and I together, no dirty pictures and no evil swapping, nothing except each other rebuilding our love and our trust in one another. Yes, that's the one it will be, I know it.
And yet, in spite of her resolve, Cindy Jamison could not seem to take her eyes off the Polaroid camera laying ominously on the dresser across the room… as though… as though, it too, in time to come, might have something to say about the matter…