The Woman Aroused

146 Pages·2016·0.66 MB·Russian

by  Lacy Ed

The Woman Aroused
Ed Lacy
This page formatted 2007 Munsey's.
http://www.munseys.com
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Principal Characters
GEORGE JACKSON
Since splitting up with his wife, he had seen her occasionally but then he
met Lee—and no other woman would do!
HENRY CONLEY
He came to George with $7,000. When he died George didn't know what
to do with the money—or Henry's wife either!
LEE CONLEY
Tall, voluptuous. Next to her Lady Godiva looked like the winner of a
baby contest. But no man could unlock the secret she kept from the world!
FRANCIS F. HENDERSON
George's retired neighbor. He played poker to win money and loved to
look into his neighbor's windows. He gave his age as reason enough for both
forms of indulgence.
JOE COLLINS
Worked for same company as George. A middle-aged Romeo, he got
quite a shock when his son came home from overseas and acted just like him!
WALT COLLINS
Joe's son. His father had planned for him to
go
to college when he was discharged but the Army had taught Walt a lot, and
he was changed now, changed into a wise guy—with angles!
FLO JACKSON
George's estranged wife. She saw him every now and then and they tried
to start over, but when Lee came into the picture, her chances sank to a new low!
Chapter 1
I'M GEORGE JACKSON.
And this began about the time when you could still remember getting on
the subway for a nickel, people were just starting to worry about the water
shortage, and the current expression making the rounds was, “How corny can
you get?” “How great can one be?” and the like. I know it sounds insane now,
but I remember it because I found the answer to: How smart can you get? The
answer to that one is easy: Too smart, brother, much too smart for your own
good.
I knew it was a Sunday morning when Flo walked out on me, and it
must have been near the first of the month, because we only got together when I
gave her the rent from the house. Flo was (and is) my ex-wife, and we were as
much in love with each other as we could be—but that wasn't enough. It wasn't
nearly enough—we once split up arguing as to whether a certain brand of
Haitian rum was dark brown or yellow. But don't think we weren't in love.
That Saturday night we started fighting over a cup of coffee and a couple
of bucks. It was after midnight and we'd seen two crummy pictures at some 86th
Street theatre, if one can call a neighborhood movie house a theatre. Flo and I
were “trying it again”—for a few days we had been enjoying one of our periodic
reunions, complete with much kissing, tears, and a good deal of genuine love.
It was early Spring, about March, and I remember it was cold and brisk
as we walked down Lexington Avenue. I was trying to remember which
newsstands were open late, so I could buy a Sunday paper. Flo was dressed in an
ankle-length red coat with a high collar that almost went over her head. She was
wearing gold ballerina slippers, and I think she was hiding her upper lip that
night. Flo had nice full lips but she used lipstick as a disguise, shaping her lips
the way she thought they should be. Sometimes she tried making her mouth
larger or smaller, or blandly forgot her lower lip. That night she was attempting
to make a thin line of her full upper lip. As I was doing my strategic figuring
about the best way home to pass an open newsstand, Flo said, “I'm hungry and
cold. Let's stop for coffee.”
“We'll make coffee at home.”
“Too much bother,” she said, pointing to a coffee pot that didn't look too
clean. “Let's duck in here.”
“You're certainly wearing the correct outfit for a greasy spoon.”
She gave me a mock bow. “Knew you'd finally appreciate this coat—
took me two days of begging before I could even buy it. If you like, we can go
back to one of the better places on 86th.”
We were at 80th Street and I was damned if I'd walk back in all that cold
—not to mention the fact I only had about twenty dollars to last the week. I said,
“I'm broke.”
“For a character making a hundred and twenty-five per, not to mention
what you win on the horses, you're always broke. Very odd.”
I could have said something nasty about the scatter pins she was
wearing, my “make-up gift,” being half a week's salary, but I walked on. When I
looked back, Flo had gone into the dingy coffee pot. I went in, too.
There was the usual smell of many foods, and the short, swarthy
counterman with tired eyes behind the cash register, reading a morning paper. At
the other end of the counter a shabby old drunk was sipping coffee. There were
no tables so we sat on stools, and Flo's shoes and horrible coat which she thought
were the latest style (and probably were) looked so out of place, I felt irritated as
hell. We ordered two light coffees and Flo took some cake. She took out
cigarettes and gave me one. We sat there and smoked and she tried to make
conversation by saying what a waste of time movies were these days, but I was
too annoyed to chatter.
The cup looked clean but the coffee was crummy. The drunk suddenly
put a nickel in the juke box—which surprised me as he didn't look as if he could
afford a nickel—and played Old Black Magic—one of Flo's favorites. She
smiled, said, “See, almost like a night club. That's a terrific number—hope
they're reviving that song.”
I sipped the bad coffee and kept still. It was a good song, I often danced
to it, pirouetting on that “down and down we go...” part. I went back to figuring
how we'd walk to the house on 74th Street so that if one newsstand was closed,
we'd pass another. General George mapping his campaign. I love reading in bed
Sunday mornings; sometimes I can even read through the entire Sunday Times
before I get up.
When Flo finished her coffee I stood up and the counterman said,
“Twenty cents.” I only had twelve cents in change, so I took out my wallet, gave
him a bill as Flo said, “Georgie, play Old Black Magic before we go.”
“It's late,” I told her.
“But the number does things to me,” she said, taking a nickel from the
change in my hand, walking over to the gaudy juke box, a coy sway to her slim
hips.
The counterman gave me eighty cents in change as she came dancing
back, holding out her arms, both of us watching her. “Want to dance?”
“Oh, stop it.”
She turned to the counterman, “Dance this one with me, handsome?”
He laughed and the drunk at the end of the counter turned his back on
us. Flo began spinning about, her long coat billowing out to show her good legs,
even the lace garters on her thighs. She was too much of an exhibitionist to
dance well. She's always been like that, thinking more of showing off than the
rhythm. When the record was over, she blew a kiss at the counterman—who had
been taking in her legs—said, “Sweet dreams, honeyboy,” and made a grand exit
onto Lexington Avenue.
Following her, I said, “Damn it, Flo, why don't you stop being cute,
Bohemian, or whatever you think you are? Dancing around in the great tent you
call a coat, showing your legs like a seventeen-year-old brat.” I was punching a
bit low—Flo was hitting 34 and starting to get sensitive about her years.
“George, don't be such a stupid snob,” she said, reaching up and
pinching my cheek. “The crack about my coat I'll skip, you have absolutely no
sense of what's smart. But where's your romance?”
“Not in a coffee pot!” I said, as she thumbed her nose at me. I was so
furious we walked straight home and all the newsstands we passed were closed.
When we reached our house—that had been the garage at one time where we
kept the Pierce-Arrow and which was now her house—she quickly undressed
and lay across the bed, naked, leafing through an issue of Harper's Bazaar. Flo
had a long bony, small-breasted figure, ideal for a clothes horse. Her hand-and
toe-nails were painted an odd shade of deep red; little islands of color against the
whiteness of her smooth skin. For a woman so concerned with clothes, she could
shed them with amazing speed.
I undressed, then stopped abruptly. I took out my wallet, went through
my pockets. Flo asked, “What's wrong?” I kept going through my pockets and
she said, “Stop screwing up your face. Now what?”
“Goddamn it, I gave that guy a ten dollar bill and he only gave me
eighty cents in change. The bastard!”
She rested the magazine on her flat stomach. “You sure?”
“Of course I'm sure. All I had was two tens. Had a feeling in the back of
my mind all the time something was wrong, but I was so upset about you making
a damn fool of yourself....”
“No, you don't—you were the dope—don't put it on me. Dress and go
back there. He'll remember you.”
“He'll welcome me with open arms I I'd look like a sap. It's late, he must
have plenty of tens in the till. Mark it down as nine bucks lost.”
“At least call him.”
“No,” I said, glad she was annoyed now.
“God, you're always yelling about money—call him!” Flo snapped.
“Call whom? You remember the name or store number? Let's forget it,” I
said, putting on my pajamas.
“At least try calling. I'll phone,” she said, sitting up.
“Go to sleep. If you hadn't acted the fool this never...”
She exploded, her voice shrill as she yelled, “Oh, now it's my fault
you're a dummy! Why I!...
I saw the bust-up coming. I sat on the bed beside her, said gently, “Let's
forget it, Flo. It was my fault.”
“Forget it? It's okay for you to call me a fool, shoot your refined mouth
off. But me, if I open.... My God, we argue over everything, even a lousy cup of
coffee. Why if we had had a baby, he'd be neurotic with your constant nagging
and...”
“Don't start that baby routine. Wasn't my fault we never had a child.”
“I suppose it was mine!!! she said, her sharp face contorted as the tears
came.
I put my arms around her. “Look, darling, forget it. We're trying to make
a go of...”
She broke out of my arms, jumped off the bed, screamed, “Some chance
of making a go of anything, if a lousy five-cent cup of coffee, if nine bucks, can
start this!”
“Let me tell you something,” I said, my voice rising. “If you'd only stop
being the big career woman, if we had a real home, regular meals, we wouldn't
be drinking coffee in some dive. If you could forget trying to be the center of
attraction for a few minutes, I could keep my mind on my change. Or if you
hadn't showed your legs to the counterman he would...”
“I like that! Oh I really love that!” Flo yelled, tears making her make-up
a mess. “Because you're so smart you can't tell a ten from a one, you place the
onus on me! If...”
“That's the wrong word, you mean blame.”
“You damn tightwad! If you weren't so cheap, we could have gone to...”
“Sure I'm tight with money,” I said coldly. “I have to be, you and your
big ideas. Flo, the walking Vogue. If you'd only come off your cloud and
realize....”
“You... you writer!”
I stood up but she moved away from me. I pulled her into my arms, held
her while she struggled. “Flo, please, let's cut it, I'm sorry. Please Flo.... I've
looked forward so much to having you again.”
She rested her head on my shoulder, began to bawl. “I didn't want to
fight, Georgie, and yesterday was so very good. But we always battle over
money—or something. Nine crummy dollars. My mother always said you...”
“Now wait, this is just between us. I don't care what your mother said
or...”
Flo pushed me away. Her face was a wet mess. “Well, George Jackson,
the high-society lad! My mother... and you, the smug son of the toilet-seat king!”
I couldn't resist saying, “Sure, a plumber who made an honest living.
Which is something nobody in your four-flushing family ever did. There isn't a
one of them worth a damn except your brother Eddie and...”
“That's right, stick up for that... that... bum!” Flo sobbed. “You
encourage him in his crazy ideas.”
“For God's sake stop talking about the kid like that, wounded and...'
She fell on the bed, sobbing hysterically. I stood there, waiting for her to
quiet down. She stuffed the top of my blue satin sheet in her mouth, making
pitiful muffled sounds—and smearing lipstick on the sheet. I said, “I'm sorry,
Flo. I swear I'm sorry.” I don't think she even heard me. I always ended up
saying I was sorry.
I stood there for a few minutes, looking down at her, sorry the way
things were going, and even more sorry in a vague sort of way I was mixed up in
somebody else's troubles and complexes. But when Flo got up and began to
dress, I felt sick. She said in a normal voice, “Georgie, what's wrong with us?
We always battle over something, something petty. Nine bucks... guess our
marriage is only worth nine bucks, and no bargain at that.”
“Look, Flo honey, it's only been two days. Give us more time...”
“No use, we both know it. This time we're really through.”
“We've been really through so many times,” I said.
She shook her head sadly. “This time I mean it.”
She went to the bathroom, washed her face, repainted it, and within a
few minutes she was gone and the place was full of a haunting empty silence.
It was exactly twenty after two a.m. and we had been “together” since
Friday night. I poured myself a drink, tuned in one of the all-night disc jockeys,
and sat down. It was the first few minutes after she left me that I always missed
Flo most.
We had been married almost a dozen years before, when she was 22 and
I 35. We spent six years together, then the divorce and our frequent reunions. We
loved each other, as the saying goes, but I suppose it was a case of neither of us
being built for marriage. In our own way we worked things out fairly well. Our