Community of Women

9

Roz Barclay didn’t have to ask the question

There were times when you did not have to ask certain questions. When your husband walked in the side door with his shoulders slumped, with his beard drooping and his eyes vacant, you did not ask him how it had gone at the sweet old typewriter. You knew damned well that it had gone horribly, so there was very little point in asking.

Even so, she said: “A bad day?”

He nodded.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all. A page, one goddamned page to show for six goddamned hours staring at the keyboard of the goddamned typewriter. It’s not even a good page, Roz. I’ll look at it in the morning and tear it to ribbons. It’s a lousy page.”

“It’s one less page to write.”

“Not if I tear it up.” He shrugged. “Oh, hell. Maybe I’ll write another one tomorrow. At that rate it’ll take three months to finish the lousy book. Unless I shoot myself first.”

She thought it might be a good time to change the subject. “Hungry? I can fix you something to eat.”

“You have dinner already?”

“I took a sandwich. I didn’t want to interrupt you.

What can I get you?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Positive?”

“Positive. I’m not hungry. Let’s make love, Roz.”

Her heart quickened. “Do you... do you want to?

“I’d love to.”

She went to him, her eyes shining, her heart full of love for him. She pressed close to him, looking up into his face, hoping that it would happen, that they would be able to make love, that her body could bring him satisfaction and permit him to relax and come out of his shell.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They went upstairs. Her heart stayed full of hope, an almost desperate hope. She needed him. They went into the bedroom, closed the door. She went into his arms and their mouths met in a kiss. She gripped him tight, held onto him, clinging to him like a barnacle to the side of an ocean liner. Her tongue stabbed into his mouth and her hips ground against his with verve which a burlesque dancer would have been proud of and which a prostitute would have envied.

They undressed quickly. They stood nude and kissed, and her blood began to pound through veins and arteries. She felt his hairy chest against her bare breasts, felt his hands stroking her back and backside. She needed him with a blind and aching need.

It had to work. It had to — she needed him and he needed her and it had to work now, had to break right for him. Maybe one could cure the other, maybe if they made love it would shake the slump loose, maybe sex could release creative energy and he could get back to work on the book.

She was not certain. She knew now only that she needed him, that it had to work.

Period.

They groped their way to the bed. He tore off the blankets and they stretched out on the bed, their bodies together, their arms around each other. His tongue stabbed into her mouth and his hands were on her breasts, holding them, squeezing them. He was hurting her and the pain was a delight to her, an ache that was delicious. He squeezed once more and she writhed in passion.

“I love you, Roz—”

“Linc—”

“I love you, Roz baby. Oh, Christ, I love you. I love you so damned much.”

“God, Linc—”

“So beautiful. Such beautiful breasts. You could make a fortune with them. Roz. You could model with them for paperback covers.”

“Kiss them, Linc—”

He did not need to be coaxed. He moved lower on the bed and his lips found the valley between the two breasts. Her skin was very soft there, very sensitive, and his tongue reached out to tease the tender skin. She squirmed, needing him, and he kissed her, moving from the valley to the mountains themselves.

He kissed first one breast and then the other. She was alive with Just now, alive with need, and she put her hands on the back of his head and pressed his face into her breasts, loving the tricks he performed so perfectly with lips and tongue.

His hands dropped to her thighs. He squeezed her and a tiny moan escaped her lips.

“Linc—”

His hands were clever. God, how she needed him! She loved him and needed him and she had to have him or die.

“Linc—”

And then suddenly, too suddenly, he was moving away from her. His eyes were pools of terror and his face was white. His shoulders sagged and his chin fell.

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t,” he snapped. “I can’t, that’s all. That’s what’s the goddamned matter.”

“Oh, darling—”

“I’m a first class son of a bitch,” he said. “I managed to get you all worked up and now I can’t finish the job. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, honey. Maybe I ought to go blow my brains out. Maybe that’s the answer.”

“Don’t talk like that!”

He shrugged, impatient with himself. “I’m a son of a bitch,” he said again. “I didn’t think this could happen, Roz. I... I really wanted you. I needed you. I thought it would work.”

“I understand.”

“I thought it would work, that everything would be all right, that I would be able to. It didn’t work.”

“You’re all tied up in knots,” she said. “You’re in a stinking slump and it’s a vicious circle. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“No?”

“No, Linc. It’s all right.”

He turned away. “Look,” he said, “I have to get out of the house, have to be by myself for awhile.”

“I understand.”

“I’m going into town,” he said. “I’ll head over to the tavern, have a few drinks. I’ve got to straighten myself out.”

“All right.”

“Don’t wait up for me.”

She waited in bed while he dressed, left the bedroom. She listened for the slam of the door, then heard him start the car’s engine and drive off into the night. She hoped he’d be all right — he had a tendency to drink too much when he was depressed, and he was about as depressed now as she had ever seen him.

But he held his liquor well. He would be home all right. She did not have to worry about him.

She lay for a few minutes in the darkness.

Alone, she cried.