The Institute

15

At last the nightmare of an afternoon came to an end and I was left alone with my pamphlets and a boy the head bellhop had lent me, who helped gather the stuff together, pack it into the suitcases, and carry it to the car. I drove to the Royal Arms where Irene gave me dinner, and then on home. I went in the front way to pick up any messages, but there hadn’t been any. Then, when I opened the apartment door I caught the smell of perfume. I set the suitcases down, closed the door, and went to the living room. There in the dark, on one of the sofas, was Hortense, her eyes black and big as saucers.

“Well!” I said. “Hello. Didn’t expect you so soon.”

She jumped up, raced to the door, yanked it open, and peered out into the hall. “Where is she?” she snarled.

“Where is who?”

“That girl. That floozy.”

“If you mean Teddy, your husband took her home — or at least, I hope he did. That’s what he said he was going to do. She’s a sweet girl who wants to get laid.”

“And you laid her, didn’t you?”

“So happens, I didn’t.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes, I do, and I’ll prove it.”

“You mean you’ll make her tell me, and that will—”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

I took hold of her, lifted her, and carried her into the bedroom. When I had dumped her on the bed, I started taking her clothes off. Her dress, the one she’d had on at the hotel, was no problem, but the pantyhose were. She kept fighting me off when I tried to peel them down. I’d spank her on the tail and in between make a grab for the pantyhose, and at last I had them off. Then I raped her, if you can call it that when you get full cooperation. When it was over I said: “Okay, that proves it, I think. Even a studhorse has only one of them in him per day. If Teddy had got it, I couldn’t have given it to you.”

She didn’t answer. Then, after a moment, she asked: “Lloyd, what do we do now? That crazy girl spilled it.”

“You spilled it, Hortense.”

“I was furious. I could smell her on your clothes.”

“And what you spilled can’t be poured back in the bottle. As you’ve said so often, ‘He may be many things, but he’s not dumb.’ ”

“What did he say after I left?”

“He said, We’d better be getting ready’ ”

“That was all?”

“Yeah, that was all.”

We talked about it awhile, then the phone rang. It was Mr. Garrett. After asking if anything had happened after he left that he should know about and after I had said no, he said: “Lloyd, I finally persuaded Teddy that if you had a blonde reason for making her wait downstairs, that reason wasn’t my wife. So that source of gossip is under control — or so I hope. But what I don’t understand is why you brought her in the first place. My wife, I assume, is no vainer than the next woman. Just the same, women hate it when other women muscle in on their act, whether romance is involved or not, especially pretty ones like Teddy who do handstands for the cameras. Didn’t you have any more sense?”

“Sir, I never gave it a thought, I wasn’t guilty of anything with her, and since romance wasn’t involved—”

“You mean with my wife?”

“Yes, of course that’s what I mean.”

He harangued me for another minute or two — about Hortense, about women in general, about using good judgment — but all I could think of was that at last I had lied to him — head on, direct. It always seemed that I couldn’t have any more reason for feeling like a rat, but then it turned out that I could. He switched back to Teddy. “All I can say is, I envy you your willpower, giving her a brush — if you actually did. If it had been me, I’ll freely admit, I would have been tempted.”

“I was tempted.”

“What a sweet kid.”

“Yes, Mr. Garrett, she’s all of that.”

I had no sooner hung up than a wallop hit my cheek, and the hot venom poured in my ear. “So! ‘I was tempted’! Then take that! And that! And that!”

The wallops kept coming, but I had had enough. I whipped the cover off and let her have it on her bare bottom. Of course she screamed bloody murder. The next morning she was snoozing away in my arms when all of a sudden, she woke up and, leaning on one elbow, said: “Lloyd, when was my last period?”

“I haven’t been keeping track.”

“Neither have I.”

“But aren’t you on the pill?”

“Some kind of way, I guess. I hate it.”