22 JUNE 1942
Barbara Ward (Mrs. Howard P.) Hawthorne, Jr., slid the frosted glass door open and stepped out of her shower. She took a towel from the rack and started to dry her hair. Then she stopped and wiped the condensation from the mirror over the wash basin.
She resumed drying her hair as she examined herself in the mirror.
It's not at all bad looking, she thought, they're not pendulous, and the tummy is still firm, but ye old body is thirty-six years old. Nearly thirty-seven, not thirty-two, as you told John.
When he is thirty-seven-she did the arithmetic-you will be fifty-one. Fifty-one! My God, you 're insane, Barbara!
She finished drying herself, put the towel in the hamper, and went into the bedroom. There she took a spray bottle of eau de cologne and sprayed it on herself, and then she took a bottle of perfume, which she dabbed behind her ears and in the valley between her breasts. She pulled on her robe, walked back to the bathroom, and began to brush her hair, looking into the reflection of her eyes in the mirror.
Why did you put perfume on? There will be no one to smell it. Specifically, John has probably nuzzled you between the breasts for the last time. He is at this very moment ten thousand feet in the air over Western Pennsylvania, or Ohio, or someplace, on his way to the war. Even if he survives that, the chances of his coming back to you are very slim.
What he got was what he wanted, a willing playmate in bed for four days. But when he comes back, what he is going to want is a quote nice unquote girl his own age, not some middle-aged woman who he picked up-or vice versa-in a bar.
He says he loves you...
And he probably really thinks he does, because he would not say something like that unless he meant it. But what he is really doing is mistaking lust, and a little tenderness, for love.
He's not much used to love, that's for sure. From everything he told me, his father is really a despicable human being. He got no love from him. Or anything like tenderness, either, for that matter. Nor from his mother, either, I don't think. I got the idea that, in the Moore house, hugging and kissing were unseemly.
And while I am not all that experienced in the bed department myself, it was perfectly obvious that he can count his previous partners on the fingers of one hand. He had an enthusiasm factor of ten and an experience factor of one. Maybe minus one.
I am absolutely convinced that no one ever did to him some of the things...
So why did you do them?
He probably can hardly wait to get back to the boys.
"So how was your leave?"
"Great I met this older woman. Not bad looking. But talk about hot pants! Talk about blow jobs! I'm telling you, she couldn't get enough, wouldn't let me alone. Once she did it while I was sleeping."
I did do it to him while he was sleeping, and I loved it Which goes to show, therefore, that beneath your respectable facade, you are an oversexed bitch.
Or, more kindly, just your normal, run-of-the-mill unsatisfied housewife, whose husband has been off gamboling with a sweet young thing for the past five months. Or maybe longer. Only he and the sweet young thing know for sure.
After she finished brushing her hair and rubbing moisturizer into her face, she took a paper towel and wiped the mirror clean of vestigial condensation, and then went into the bedroom. She lay on the bedspread and turned on the radio; then she turned it off and went into the living room and took the bottle of scotch-from where John had left it-from the mantelpiece and carried it into the kitchen and poured two inches of it into a glass.
She took a sip, and then a second, larger sip, and then she exhaled audibly.
God, I wish he was here/
The door bell went off. It was one of the old-fashioned, mechanical kind, that you "rang" by turning a knob.
She looked at the clock on the wall. It was quarter to nine.
Who the hell can that be?
Did that damned fool somehow not go? Did the airplane turn back for some reason and land at Newark again? If that happened, he would just have time to come back here now.
She went to the door, just reaching it as the bell rang again.
She opened the door to the length of the chain and peered through the crack and saw the last person in the world she expected to see, Howard P. Hawthorne, Jr.
"It's me, Barbara," Howard said, quite unnecessarily.
"So I see," she said, instantly hearing the inanity in her voice.
"May I come in, or... have you guests?"
She closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it fully.
"Come in, Howard."
"Thank you," he said.
"I'm having a drink," she said. "Would you like one? What do you want?"
"Scotch would be fine, thank you."
"You're welcome to a scotch, but that's not what I meant to ask."
"Oh. Yes, I see. I wanted to talk to you."
"Well, come in the kitchen while I make your drink. We can talk there."
"Thank you," Howard said, and then asked, "I'm not interrupting anything am I? Interfering with your plans?"
"My plans are to go to bed," she said. "I've had a busy day."
She poured whiskey in a glass and handed it to him. With the familiarity of a husband, he turned to the refrigerator, found ice, and then squatted looking for the little bottles of Canada Dry soda habitually stored on the lower shelf.
His bald spot is getting bigger.
He opened the soda bottle, mixed his drink, and stirred it with his index finger. Then he raised his eyes to hers.
"I know," he said. "I was here earlier."
"Cutesy-poo think of something else of mine she wanted from the house?"
"I was worried about you," he said.
"I'm touched, but there is no cause for concern. I was visiting friends in Jersey."
"I know about him, Barbara," Howard said evenly.