Slam the Big Door

Four

At the key club at the southern end of Riley Key, Sunday night was known, in the Club bulletins, as Family Night. The Club was housed in an old rambling roomy frame structure that had originally been a hunting and fishing lodge built by a Cleveland industrialist. He had owned six hundred feet of land from Gulf to bay, and had built the lodge on the bay side, close to a natural lagoon that cut into the Key from the bay side. When the Cleveland man had died in 1923 a group of his friends who had often been guests at the lodge, remembering the freedom of their annual visits, and the good times they had enjoyed, had banded together and purchased the lodge from the estate and, after establishing ground rules and installing a Bahamian couple to operate it, had incorporated it as the ultra-private Key Club.

In 1932, after most of the members had died physically or financially, the Club would have folded had not one of the original members, who had retired to Florida at precisely the right time, been determined to save it as a club. He opened the membership list to suitable applicants in Ravenna, fourteen miles to the north, and in the much smaller town of Gulfway, five miles to the south. At that time there were also a few wealthy retireds, a very few, who had settled on Riley Key and were potential members.

The Club did not thrive, but it did continue to exist. It had been so solidly constructed of black cypress and hard pine that there were few maintenance problems.

By 1959, though the original structure was largely unchanged, the Key Club was fashionable, expensive, exclusive and beautifully operated. There were rental cabañas on the Gulf side for landlocked members and the guests of waterfront members lacking guest facilities. The entire structure was air-conditioned. Kitchen facilities were entirely modern. Lighting effects were dramatic and professional. The lagoon had been widened and deepened, the channel dredged and marked. There were dockage facilities for a considerable number of sizable watercraft.

Though it took a staff of sixteen to operate the Club and facilities, and monthly bills were prepared on the most modern of accounting equipment, and the initiation fee made the new member think thrice, the membership still insisted upon calling the Club homey and quaint, pointing out as evidences of quaintness the dark-beamed cathedral ceilings, the dusty throngs of stuffed fish mounted high on the walls, the enormous stone fireplaces.

The shrewd and well-paid young manager of the Club, a graduate of the Cornell Hotel School, was called Gus by the membership, and, during his few years of tenure, had managed to establish a public personality which led the uninformed to guess that he had been born among the mangroves and had been yanked off a shrimp boat and charged with the confusing chore of running the Club. Gus was particularly adept in selecting and hiring bartenders and waitresses who were sufficiently casual with the members to be known and loved as characters, but never overstepped that invisible line of protocol and gave offense. Gus and the help never gossiped about a member to a member, never permitted an emotional relationship with a member to become established, ranged confidently back and forth within that narrow area between obsequiousness and rudeness — and knocked down every dime they could.

On the occasion of Mike Rodenska’s first visit to the Key Club, the gathering was large and informal. April was more than half over. Most of the short-season winter visitors had left. House-guests were in short supply. Everybody told everybody else how wonderful it was to have the season over so you could relax and have fun with your friends. The night air was balmy. Tinted spotlights on palm boles dimmed the circus of stars overhead. Cruisers were arriving, and there were private cocktail parties on the cruisers and in some of the beach cabañas. The main bar was three deep. There was a constant roar of conversation, and rumble of the gentle surf, and the car doors chunking in the parking lot, and squealing of sunbaked children and incomprehensible cawings of teenagers, and clatter of crockery from the early diners, and swift swoopings of waitresses, and drinks held high and handed back. Polite hootings of dowager laughter, and hearty splashings in the lighted pool — and here and there the careful walk and wooden grimace of the alcoholic. It was Family Night.

If, during the day, you’d had a few knocks and a swim and some sun and a nap, you were ready. You cavorted under the dusty glass eyes of the fish who had lost battles long ago.

Mike, dizzied by the surge and noise in the bar, where the air-conditioning labored vainly against animal heat, made his way slowly to a side door and went out onto a broad porch. He looked in through a window. Shorts, halters, dinner dresses, cocktail dresses, swim suits. Gleams and glints of teeth, eyes and jewels. Skin of scarlet, pink, brown, taffy — in a shifting, laughing turmoil of shoulders and throats and thighs.

Voices came to him, blurred by the closed window: “... never had such a wonderful... went to Miami to... haven’t seen you, darling, since... on the third flight to Havana... when she’s looking sick... talk about new engines... for the silly girl he met in... menopause she doesn’t... cracked up the car over in... that motel where Ruthie caught... good marks last year but... cold war doesn’t mean we... remember that tarpon you... finished the marriage when she... sold it for two hundred a foot... in the hospital again with... backhand is weak... with strep throat only fourteen years old Tuesday... with a third martini is all... you should stop telling me what I should... give a stock dividend... before Betty’s party...”

“Here he is!” a voice said, close and gay, and he turned his back on the window and saw, in the light from the window, Debbie Ann with a particularly handsome brunette with bangs and furry black brows and a look of insolence, and a broad compulsive mouth. “Watching the snake pit, Mike?”

“Nobody gave me a scorecard. I can’t tell the players.”

Both girls were in tailored slacks and seagoing blouses. They were the same height, both carrying drinks, both a little tight, but under control.

“Shirley, this is Mike Rodenska, our house-guest. Mike, Shirley McGuire. Mike and I... I was about to say we’re roommates, but that doesn’t sound right. Wingmates. We’re both in the guest wing. We share a bath. That makes us intimate, doesn’t it?”

“You leave it like a swamp. It’s like living in a sorority house. Perfume, steam, hair in the sink. Soap.”

“So I’m clean, but I’m not neat. I told you, Shirley. This may be an honest man.”

“Nice to know there is such a thing,” the McGuire girl said. She was almost a baritone. The contrast with Debbie Ann’s little-girl voice was startling.

Rob Raines suddenly appeared out of the darkness. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Debbie Ann. Good evening, Mr. Rodenska.”

“Hello, lover,” Debbie Ann said acidly. “Shirley, I’m not particularly interested in having you meet Rob Raines, but I guess it can’t be helped. Shirley McGuire. Now why don’t you go swimming or something, Robert? Go tweak girls.”

Raines looked nobly pained. “Please, Debbie Ann. I’d like to talk to you a minute.”

Debbie Ann turned to Shirley. “I’ll have to humor him, dearie. Take Mike to the Devans’ cabaña. I’ll join you there.”

Mike left the porch with Shirley McGuire. As they walked toward the Gulf he said, “What’s this cabaña deal?”

“Sort of a cocktail party. I’m staying with the Tennysons. She’s my aunt. So I got drug to the Devans’ party. You know the Devans or the Tennysons?”

“I’m new here.”

“So am I, Mike. Let’s not go back there. It’s a herd of antiques. They keep talking about people I don’t know.”

“Suits me.”

“Let’s just walk on the beach.” She stopped and emptied her glass. His was empty. She took his from him and put the two glasses on a bench, and they walked down the slant of the beach, angling away from the cabañas, toward the water.

“Hold it a minute,” she said, and put one hand on his shoulder to brace herself, and took off her shoes. She slapped the sand off them and said, “Got a big pocket? Good. Here. Thanks.”

“You known Debbie Ann long?”

“Ten days, I guess. Since I got down. I’m a project of hers. Sometimes it’s fine. Other times, frankly, she gets on my nerves.”

They were walking slowly at the edge of the gentle surf. “A project?”

“I guess we do have a hell of a lot in common, Mike. We both had a horrible marriage. We trade grim anecdotes. I’m two years older than she is, and mine lasted five years. She didn’t have any kids. I’ve got a little boy three. Living with my mother in Richmond. The big difference is she got her divorce. I’m just beginning the route. So I’m a project.”

“A new member of the club?”

“Something like that, I guess. I think you’d have to be a woman to understand.”

“Is it a... kind of loneliness?”

She stopped so abruptly he walked two paces beyond her, turned back and looked at her, starlight meager on her face. “What’s the matter?”

“I was warned about you.”

“I’m harmless, Shirley.”

“Are you? Debbie Ann said you’re too damn easy to talk to.”

“People have to talk.”

“How many ever listen to you though? Got any cigarettes?”

“Cigars.”

“Then smoke one, and give me a drag. I’ve been smoking too damn much since I got down here.” She walked a little way from the water and sat down, digging her bare heels into the moist sand. He lit a cigar, sat heavily beside her, offered it to her.

She dragged deeply, coughed, inhaled again and handed it back. “Debbie Ann understands part of it. Loneliness isn’t exact, Mike. It’s something else. I tried to make it work. I honestly tried, long after my friends had started advising me to give up. Can you believe that?”

“Sure.”

“So finally you make up your mind and leave the bastard, and set the wheels in motion. You’re supposed, I guess, to feel free as birds. I came down here. I didn’t know how rough it would be. It’s very rough, Mike. You try to be yourself all your life. All of a sudden you’re typecast. You know? Young woman getting unhitched. Ready for adventure, or something. Nobody really sees you. As a person. They see a kind of symbol. And it gets you to wondering who you really are. It makes you feel lost and reckless. It’s scary, because you have the feeling you might do some really stupid thing.”

“A case of no controls,” Mike said.

“What do you mean?”

“When you lived with your parents there were rules. When you were in school there were rules. After school, before you got married, there were things you could and couldn’t do. Pressure of society. Acceptable behavior of the junior miss. Now all of a sudden, no rules. There’s even the reverse. A sort of pressure to make you let go of personal standards.”

“That’s exactly it! It’s like... nothing to lean on. Nothing to really feel guilty about. Men make the automatic pass. I was part of a duet for five years and now I’m playing a single. And I just — don’t know what to do with myself. Debbie Ann felt the same thing in a different way, so it helps to have somebody about your own age who understands the picture. But I can’t be as go-to-hell as she is. I guess she’s part of the pressure. You’re pretty smart. I’m boring you.”

“I’ll let you know when you start to.”

“A deal. I think I can look at myself pretty objectively. I’m not terribly bright, but I think I’m a warm person. And, let’s face it, I’ve got a sort of sexpot look. Men are always getting the wrong impression. Women not so often. I can’t walk without a wiggle, and I look like I’m pouting, which is supposed to be provocative, they tell me, and I’ve got this whisky-tenor voice and coloring the cosmetic people call exotic. But it’s a big fake. Inside I’m a pretty prim gal, Mike. That’s not to say my responses aren’t wholehearted. They’re — thorough. But there has to be love. Anything without love would make me feel squeamish. But there’s this... pressure. No rules. And maybe I’m the sort of person who needs rules and depends on them. It’s a six-month deal now, a Florida divorce, and six months seems a very long time, and I don’t want to turn into somebody I don’t want to be, just because I feel forlorn and alone.”

“If you’re aware of the problem, you probably won’t.”

“I have the feeling I should stay clear of Debbie Ann.”

“So?”

“Well, it might be a pretty good trick. She roped me into a beach picnic last night. I was too gutless to say no. And too bored. So I went and got too drunk, and so my day has been full of little remorses, and thank God no big remorses because my escort got even drunker. But you see?”

“I do indeed.”

After long and curiously comfortable minutes of silence she said, “Debbie Ann briefed me. About you.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. I was just thinking about it. Now I feel ashamed of spilling my problems. You must think they’re pretty trivial.”

“I don’t, Shirley.”

“There’s something else you ought to know. You better keep your door locked, Mike. I wouldn’t say that if I thought you would — welcome the attention.”

“Oh, come now!” he said irritably. “For God’s sake, Shirley. I’ve gone through a hell of a lot of years without having to drive off women with a club. I’m bald, fat and forty and—”

“And you were all sewed up so completely you wouldn’t have even been aware of a pass. But now you’re... available, Mike. And I think it’s very sweet that you don’t have any idea how attractive you are to women. Most men your age are totally convinced they’re irresistible.”

“The movies are after me every minute.”

“A woman is always aware of strength and gentleness and honesty, Mike. I guess it’s a kind of... emotional reliability. That’s why people talk to you. We’re desperate young women, Mike.”

They walked back up to the Club. They found Mary Jamison and she bought them a drink, signed the chit. Troy had reserved a table for six, for the four of them and a pleasant couple named Murner. They looked for Troy and could not find him. Mary decided they should eat. It was a fine meal. Throughout the dinner Mary looked strained, and Troy’s chair was conspicuously empty. Debbie Ann filled the silences with empty chatter. She carried on a mock flirtation with Mike. Rob Raines joined the table after dinner. Mike noticed that Raines and Debbie Ann seemed to have arrived at a peaceable understanding. After dinner they went to the bar. Debbie Ann disappeared. The Murners said good night. Mary became involved in a conversation with the Laybournes. Rob Raines talked idly with Mike for a while and then said, “Let’s take these out on the porch. I’d like to ask you something, Mike.”

“Sure.”

They went out onto the big unscreened porch and sat on the railing. The pool was closed, the pool lights out.

“Mike, I wanted to talk to you about something that may be none of my business. But I know you’re a good friend of Troy’s. And I think you’re fond of Mary.”

“Yes.”

“Mary is a fine woman. Very loyal.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I don’t think Troy would tell you. I guess it would be a matter of pride with him. And a matter of loyalty for Mary not to tell you their troubles. But Troy is in trouble, Mike. Bad financial trouble.”

“With Horseshoe Pass Estates?”

“Yes. He went into it too fast, without adequate capitalization. He wouldn’t listen to his friends down here, people who know the local picture. He did pretty well as a small builder. But this is just too big for him. If he keeps going on the way he has, he may lose the whole thing, and Mary’s money along with it.”

“Have you told him this?”

“I’ve tried to, Mike. But he’s a stubborn man.”

“What do you think I can do?”

“I don’t really know. I thought you should know about it, though. Troy has been trying desperately to line up additional financing. He’s even tried to get hold of Debbie Ann’s money. But she’s scared of that project. Rightly. Troy has the idea a few more hundred thousand dollars will get it over the hump.”

“That much!”

“It will take much more than that, Mike. He could throw two or three hundred thousand more in the pot right now and all it would do would be delay the inevitable. And whoever goes in with him will take a fat loss. But I don’t think he’s going to find anybody.”

“What can he do?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible that if he was willing to give the whole thing up, he might come out of it with a loss, a substantial one but not a crippling one. I’ve thought that, as a good friend of his, you might find a chance to talk sense to him. Has he talked to you about investing in it?”

“No.”

“He might, Mike. And he’ll talk about the tremendous potential. If and when he does, you might say that you’d like to look into it. You get in touch with me and I’ll introduce you to a man named Corey Haas. He’s put money into it, mostly because he was a close friend of Mary’s father. The loss won’t hurt Corey. But he can give you the true picture of how deep Troy has gone. Then that will give you something to go back to Troy with — questions to ask that he can’t answer. And if you wake him up, you may be doing him and Mary a great favor. I’d hate to see them lose everything.”

“Troy showed me around the area over there, Rob. I know they had to stop the development work because they ran out of working capital, but I can’t see why it would take such an enormous amount to...”

“Mike, when you start with eight hundred acres of bay frontage swamp, and you have to fill it up to grade, dig canals, dredge, sea-wall, put in roads, curbs, street lighting, sewage, drainage, landscaping, you run into a staggering expense.”

“Couldn’t he complete one small section at a time?”

“It’s too late for that. I thought you should know the picture, Mike. It’s a mess, frankly. He’s licked and he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. I suppose there’s an emotional angle.”

“How do you mean?”

“Nearly all of it is Mary’s money. He could have plunged into this thing to make so much more that he wouldn’t have any... feeling of dependence. And that could be why he can’t look at it rationally. And why he’s... perhaps drinking a little heavier than he should.”

Mike looked at Robert Raines, at this sincere, competent, cordial, helpful, courteous young man — blocky, brush-cut and photogenically weathered — who lounged in the rectangle of light that came from the nearby window, one Dak-clad haunch on the cypress railing, raw silk jacket sitting neatly on husky shoulders.

“Come down for a rest, Mike boy,” Mike said wearily. “Just slop around in the sun.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are talking to me of course because I am gentle and honest and strong, and very attractive to young women. They are dazzled by the gleam of my very high forehead. It goes way back. And my athletic structure — just like Alfred Hitchcock’s. I’m a father image.”

“What?” Raines said blankly.

“I’m touched the way people up and tell me things. All my life people up and tell me things. Along comes some flack to my desk on the paper and tells me very confidential that Miss Bumpy Grind is staying at the West Hudson Hotel with a cheetah. With a gold collar. So I am very impressed, of course, and I am about to send over a throng of legmen, like covering an execution, when all of a sudden it begins to look to me like maybe he is talking to me because he has an angle.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Robert, one chugs along through life and maybe picks up one or two survival ideas here and there. I’ve got one. The bastards come at you from all directions, and there’s no wall to put your back against. There is a footnote to this one, at the bottom of the page, in six-point Caslon, saying everybody keeps his powder dry.”

“Mr. Rodenska, you sound as if you think I was trying to work... some kind of an angle. I’ve told you all this... I’ve been frank with you because—”

“I’m easy to talk to?”

“Because Troy is in a jam and—”

“You’d hate to see me lose my money because I’m such a nice guy. Naïve, but nice. Thanks, Rob. Thanks a lot.”

“Are you a little tight, Mike?”

“I’m just down here for a rest.”

Rob stood up. He looked uncertain. “Well... I better see if I can find Debbie Ann.”

“You’re a lawyer. Lawyers have to maneuver people. I’ll give you a message. When anybody looks directly at me, right into my eyes, which isn’t normal, and doesn’t do any fidgeting, which again isn’t normal, and drops their voice level about a half octave and gets real grammatical, I just lay back and wait for them to bring out the three walnut shells and the rubber pea.”

“Mr. Rodenska, you don’t...”

“You go find Debbie Ann, and when you get a chance, you play poker. Play every night. Better stick to small stakes at first. They ought to teach it in every law school. You had a deuce down and an ace up, and you were convincing me you had aces back to back. Go find your girl.”

Raines hesitated, and then left quickly. He looked back once. His leaving had the flavor of flight. Mike spat the tip of a cigar over the railing and lit it. He wondered how many cigars he had gone through during this long day. He felt vaguely guilty, and out of that guilt came the great seventh wave again, rolling his heart among the stones. There was no one to chide him about the cigars. No one to give a damn how many he smoked. Nobody to keep count and lecture him.

When Mary appeared below him and looked up at the porch and said, “Is that you, Mike?” he had to wait two long seconds before he could trust his voice and answer her.

She came up the steps and said, her voice too casual, “I just found out Troy was on Tim Gosnell’s boat for a long time. Tim says he was a little more sober when he left, so maybe he got home somehow. We might as well leave, if you’re ready. There’s always the chance he’s taking a nap in a dark corner somewhere, but I’m through looking. If so, he’ll wake up at daylight and walk home up the beach. It’s nearly five miles, but it won’t hurt him any.”

“I’m ready. How about your daughter?”

“She just left with Rob. There’s some sort of party down in Gulfway.”

They walked to the parking lot. She gave him the keys, a spare set she carried. He drove the Chrysler north, through the area near the public beach where the cars sat dark in starlight outside the silent motels, and where a few neoned beer joints were close to their midnight closing, and north past a place where on the beach he saw the silhouettes of people around the red coals of a driftwood fire, and north past the big dark beach houses.

When he drove into the triple carport, parking between Mary’s station wagon and Debbie Ann’s little white Porsche Speedster, Mary said, “Will you come in for a nightcap?”

“I guess I better just...”

“Please, Mike. Just for a minute or two.”

Her voice was still casual, but the appeal was clear. He went into the kitchen with her. She made the drinks and they carried them out onto the patio. Stars were reflected, motionless in the black surface of the small swimming pool. He sat in one of the big redwood chairs and she sat ten feet away on a hassock.

“Did you like the Club, Mike?”

“It’s a gay place.”

“Bernard and I used to belong. But living up on Ravenna Key, we didn’t get down very often. It’s much handier, living here. We get a lot of use out of it.”

“The food is fine.”

“How about the people, Mike? How about the people?” She laughed. “You told me you are a qualified people-watcher.”

“I can’t say much without sounding pretentious. I got this out of it. They seem anxious. I don’t know why. It’s as if they had the correct scoop that tomorrow a hurricane washes the Club out to sea. Or Prohibition is coming back. Or sex is going to be outlawed. I don’t know. They seem to try too hard. They press. And it isn’t that a lot of them are retired, maybe a little too young. Most of them work. It’s the same all over the country, I guess. But it seems concentrated here, somehow. Like they have to do everything there is to do right now. It gave me the jumps. It’s contagious. I emptied two drinks faster than I like to drink, and I had to say whoa boy.”

“I feel that too, Mike. It’s... undignified.”

“That’s a word I was hunting for.”

“But there were lots of nice ones there.”

“Nice ones everywhere. I met one nice one. Shirley McGuire. She flattered me, laid it on with a trowel, butter from head to foot. I respond fine to flattery.”

“Oh, she’s Martha Tennyson’s niece. A new friend of Debbie Ann’s. I’ve met her, but I don’t really know her. She’s getting a divorce, you know.”

“She told me.”

“She’s an... interesting-looking girl.”

“She talked to me, and that Rob Raines talked to me.”

“What did Rob talk about?”

Mike crossed his fingers in the darkness. “Sailboats.”

“He’s very high on sailing. Debbie Ann crewed for him in Yacht Club races when she was practically a child. She has a silver cup they won. He seems very interested now, but I can’t feel he’s right for Debbie Ann. There’s a sort of... heaviness about him. He doesn’t seem to have the light touch.”

There was a silence. He heard the ice rattle in the bottom of her glass as she finished the weak drink she had made herself.

“Mike?”

“Yes, Mary.”

“About what you said this morning. I wanted you to come in because I thought I wanted to talk. But I don’t. Not yet.”

“Anytime.”

“I have to do some more thinking. And even then, I don’t want to... drop my troubles in your lap. When I do talk, I won’t be asking you to do anything. It will be just... to get my own emotions straightened out. And even that isn’t fair to you. To have you come down here and then—”

“Knock it off, Mary. I’m your friend. I’m Troy’s friend. I’ll listen because I want to. Okay?”

“Okay, Mike.”

He said good night to her and went out the kitchen door toward the private guest-wing entrance. The night was very still. The richness of jasmine hung in the air, almost too strong. He felt no desire for sleep, so he changed to swim trunks and slippers, took a towel and went over to the beach. After he was in he realized it made him uneasy to swim at night. The water seemed to have an oily texture. He could imagine monsters sleekly stalking this blundering thrashing chunk of live bait. When he stood up to walk out with courageous dignity, something brushed against his leg, and almost instantaneously he was fifteen feet from the water’s edge, breathing hard.

Face of a hero, he said to himself. Race of a hero. They need you in the Olympics, Rodenska. New event. Fifty-yard dash in three feet of water. Symbolic, anyway. You get scared of the things you can’t see. Comedy routine. Minnow nibbles fat man. Fat man roars out of water and then, with enormous nonchalance, peers up and down deserted beach to see if anybody was looking. Like Troy in Melbourne that time, when a lorry tire let go and made that prolonged and significant whistling, and when he came so damn close to dropping flat on the sidewalk, and then pretended he had stumbled.

Mike walked back and showered and went to bed, but his brain was a gaudy tin top, spinning and whining, his eyes glued wide open, his hearing acute. He guessed it was an hour later when he heard the car drift in with due consideration for those asleep. He walked over to the window, the terrazzo pleasantly cool against his bare feet. They sat there in the MGA, the parking lights on, talking in low tones. They got out of the car, met on her side of the car and kissed. Her back was toward him. He saw Rob’s hands slide slowly down from the small of her back to cup her haunches and pull her tightly against him. She acquiesced for a few seconds, then wriggled free, made a mock gesture of slapping him, giggled in a high tinkling way, and spun toward the door.

“Tomorrow?” he called.

“Phone and find out,” she said.

Mike went back to bed. He heard her stirring about in her room, with a quick tick-tack of heels which ended when she took her shoes off. He heard nothing for a long time, and then the soft closing of the other door to the bath they shared. A little while later the whispery roaring of the shower began.

He lay in darkness, moving closer to sleep, hearing her hum tunelessly above the shower sound, building pink and soapy and explicit visions of her, remembering what the McGuire girl had told him, and pretending in that drifting area of half sleep that when she had showered she would come sweetly, moistly, silently into his room and...

Sleep was suddenly rolled back by his sudden contemptuous realization that he had imagined himself right into a state of acute physiological readiness for her — the shallow breathing and the sweatiness and the ponderous gallop of his heart and the knotted loins.

He rolled and thumped his pillow and said to himself, Maybe you should go back into high school. Maybe start a nice collection of dirty pictures. An adolescent old man. It’s a fleshy trap. The mind is entirely satisfied with continence. But it’s the old ape body which strains with unreasoned desire. It knows how much time has passed. So it rests here, hairy, heavy, with all the scars and marks and saggings of forty years, all the blemishes and erosions of its ape maturity, waiting with a massive arrogance for the glands to force the mind into some sort of pretty rationalization which will clear the way so that it can again exercise its plunging primordial function, its mute declaration concerning the continuance of the race. It’s an ape thing, squatting on its hairy haunches behind a screen of brush, slack-jawed, picking lice off its belly, watching the young females of the tribe, and making plaintive rumblings in its chest.

You know all the rationalizations it’s trying to force on you. Health. Quiet the nerves. Natural function. And that most devious rationalization of all, entitled: What Harm Would It Do? No objective harm, of course. She’s no hesitant virgin. She’d be incapable of attaching any emotional significance to it.

It’s the subjective harm, Michael. To be desperately old-fashioned, the loss of honor. It would be just a switch on the salesman and the farmer’s daughter. You were asked down to relax and mend. The services of the daughter of the household were not included in the facilities available. And, because you have years to live, and nobody cares deeply how you live them, and sons to raise, let’s beware of the sophistry that nobody gives a damn what you do. Because you do give a damn. When there’s nothing left but your own image of yourself, it somehow becomes a more grievous sin to smear it.

Okay. You’re noble. Go to sleep.

The shower stopped. He heard, at the limit of audibility, the tiny rusty sound of prolonged toothbrushing. The other door to the bath closed quietly. And in the great emptiness of the tropic night he found sleep.