The Woman Aroused Read online

  The Woman Aroused

  Ed Lacy

  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 an
d 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 reunions stopped me from getting a little frantic about sex and companionship, and I guess it worked that way for Flo too. The first years hadn't been bad, but Flo is the efficient type that must go in for smart conversation all the time, dress like something out of the latest fashion magazines. Unfortunately, the magazines are usually six months ahead of the latest styles, so seeing Flo was a constant shock. This may sound like a hell of a lot of small reasons why our marriage didn't last, but it was all pretty important to me. Somehow, her extreme styles kept me at a distance. Of course there were other things; like her dancing in the coffee pot in those gold shoes and the new-look coat to end all new looks. It may have been I was too old and set for Flo.

  We hit it off well in bed, but when we decided to have a kid (and never did) she even spoiled that by a sort of efficient mechanical approach, asking me, “Darling, will this be it? Oh dearest be sure and do everything right. Make this the one. Are you doing everything right? Darling, will we make a boy or a girl?”

  Our days became a series of fights and we separated and she got a job as a bookkeeper for a smart dress house. It was the ideal job for Flo: it pleased her efficiency to handle a thousand and more details, and she was right in with the very newest styles. Her analyst thought it was the right job for her, and I suppose he really did her a world of good, although it was on his advice she got the divorce. In the settlement, she took the house, which only had one other tenant beside myself—the upstairs apartment that had once been the chauffeur's apartment (although we never had one; my father loved to drive the big car himself) was rented to a quiet old retired man named Francis F. Henderson. He'd been living there for years and paid eighty a month for his three rooms. I gave her the rent money, and took care of the house and paid the taxes for my rent.

  For about a year after she finished her analysis I didn't see Flo—she was busy analyzing all her friends. Then we
began having tearful and wonderfully tender reunions—and just as tearful partings. Our reunions always seemed to come when I was fed up with being lonely, began to think about girls too much, glance at the bra ads in the subway with more than admiration for the copy and layout. I had to see her every month anyway to give her the rent, so spending a few days together every other month seemed to do us both nicely.

  When the disc jockey said it was three o'clock I decided I'd better call the coffee pot after all—I needed the nine dollars. I dialed the operator, told her I wanted a coffee pot—a restaurant—on the West side of Lexington Avenue, near 80th Street No, I had no idea of the name or street number. After a moment she gave me two phone numbers and the first one I dialed turned out to be the right one.

  The counterman said, “One of my partners comes on now, so I was counting the cash. Soon as I saw I was nine bucks over, I says, 'I short-changed some guy.' Then I remember you because that redheaded ba—your wife—was dancing in the red coat and the drunk said...”