had been drilled into him for so long that its sanctions had the force of religious dictum. Isabel’s sly insinuations, however, had planted the idea, and in the weeks that followed he found himself frequently looking at Marilyn Hamilton in a way he would not have considered before.
His relationship with the girl passed through all the normal stages-coffee dates in the Student Union, a movie or two, the first kiss, and the first tentative gropings in the front seat of a car parked in a secluded spot. They walked together in the rain; they held hands and they talked together endlessly and very seriously about things that were not particularly significant. They studied together in the dim library, and they touched each other often. They also drove frequently to a special spot they had found outside town where they parked, and in the steamy interior of Raphael’s car with the radio playing softly and the misted windows curtaining them from the outside, they partially undressed each other and clung and groped and moaned in a frenzy of desire and frustration as they approached but never quite consummated the act that was becoming more and more inevitable.
Flood, of course, watched, one eyebrow cocked quizzically, gauging the progress of the affair by Raphael’s increasing irritability and the lateness of his return to their room. “No score yet, I see,” he’d observe. dryly upon Raphael’s return on such nights.
“Why don’t you mind your own damned business?” Raphael would snap, and Flood would chuckle, roll over in his bed, and go back to sleep.
In those weeks Isabel became a virtual necessity to Raphael. With her he found a release for the tensions that had built up to an almost unbearable pitch during the course of the week. She gloated over the passion he brought to her, and sent him back to Portland on Sunday nights sufficiently exhausted to keep him short of the point of no return with the girl. The knowledge that Isabel was there served as a kind of safety valve for him, making it possible for him to draw back at that last crucial instant each time.
And so autumn ground drearily on with dripping skies and the now-bare trees glistening wet and black in the rain. Isabel grew increasingly waspish, and finally announced that she was leaving for a few weeks. “I’ve got to get some sun,” she said. “This rain’s driving me up the wall.”
“Where are you going?” Raphael asked her.
“Phoenix maybe. Vegas-I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. I’ve got to get away from the rain for a while.”
There was nothing he could say. He knew he had no real hold on her, and he even welcomed the idea in a way. His visits had become almost a duty, and he had begun to resent her unspoken demands upon him.
After he had seen her off at the airport outside Portland, he walked back to his car almost with the sense of having been liberated.
On his first weekend date with Marilyn he felt vaguely guilty-almost like an unfaithful husband. The weekends had always belonged to Isabel. He had not been entirely honest with Marilyn about those weekends. It was not that he had lied, exactly; rather, he had let her believe that Isabel was elderly, an old friend of his family, and that his weekly visits were in the nature of an obligation.
After the movie they drove to their special spot in the country and began the customary grappling. Perhaps because the weekends had always been denied to her and this evening was somehow stolen and therefore illicit, Marilyn responded to his caresses with unusual passion, shuddering and writhing under his hands. Finally she pulled free of him for an instant, looked at him, and spoke quite simply. “Let’s,” she said, her voice thick and vibrant.
And so they did.
It was awkward, since they were both quite tall, and the steering wheel was horribly in the way, but they managed.
And afterward she cried. He comforted her as best he could and later drove her home, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself. There had been some fairly convincing evidence that, until that night, Marilyn had been one of the girls one would normally take to a school dance.
The next time they used the backseat. It was more satisfactory, and this time she did not cry. Raphael, however, was still a bit ashamed and wished they had not done it. Something rather special seemed to have been lost, and he regretted it.
After several weeks Isabel returned, her fair skin slightly tanned and her temper improved.
Flood accompanied Raphael to the lake on the first weekend, his eyes bright and a knowing smile on his face.
Raphael was moody and stalked around the house, stopping now and then to stare out at the rain, and drinking more than was usual for him. It was time, he decided, to break off the affair with Isabel. She was too wise for him, too experienced, and in a way he blamed her for having planted that evil seed that had grown to its full flower that night in the front seat of his car. If it had not been for her insinuating suggestions, his relationship with Marilyn might still be relatively innocent. Beyond that, she repelled him now. Her overripe figure seemed to have taken on a faint tinge of rottenness, and the smooth sophistication that had attracted him at first seemed instead to be depravity now-even degeneracy. He continued to drink, hoping to incapacitate himself and thus avoid that inevitable and now-disgusting conclusion of the evening.
“Our Angel has fallen, I’m afraid,” Flood said after dinner when they were all sitting in front of the crackling fireplace.
“Why don’t you mind your own business, Damon?” Raphael said, his words slurring.
“Has he been naughty?” Isabel asked, amused.
“Repeatedly. He’s been coming in with claw marks on his back from shoulder to hip.”
“Why don’t you keep your goddamn mouth shut?” Raphael snapped.
“Be nice, dear,” Isabel chided him, “and don’t try to get muscular. My furniture’s too expensive for that sort of foolishness.”
“I just want him to keep his mouth shut, that’s all.” Raphael’s words sounded mushy even to him.
“All right then. You tell me. Was it that girl?”
He glared sulkily into the fireplace.
“This won’t be much of a conversation if you won’t talk to me. Did she really scratch you, Angel? Let me see.” She came across the room to him and tugged at his ‘shirt.
“Lay off, ‘Bel,” he warned; pushing her hands away. “I’m not in the mood for any of that.”
“Oh”-she laughed-“it’s true then. I’ve never liked scratching. It’s unladylike.”
“How the hell would you know?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and her voice took on an edge. “All the usual things, I suppose? Parked car, clumsy little gropings in the dark, the steering wheel?”
Raphael’s face flamed. She saw the flush and laughed, a deep, throaty sound that made him flush even more. “You did!” she exulted. “In a car seat! My poor Angel, I thought I’d taught you better. Are motels so expensive now? Or couldn’t you wait? Was she a virgin?”
“Why don’t we just drop this?”
“I think the boy’s in love, junior,” she said to Flood.
“Here’s to love.” Flood toasted, raising his glass. “And to steering wheels, of course.”
“Oh, that’s cute, Flood,” Raphael said sarcastically. It sounded silly even to him, but he didn’t care.
“Don’t be nasty, dear.” Isabel’s tone was motherly. “It doesn’t become you.”
It was that note in her voice more than anything-that tolerant, amused, superior tone that finally infuriated him. “Don’t patronize me, ‘Bel,” he told her, getting up clumsily. “I won’t take that-not from you.”
“I don’t think I like your tone, Raphael.”
“Good. At least I managed to insult you. I wasn’t really sure I could.”
“I’ve had about enough of this.”
“I had enough a long time ago.” He picked up his jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“Someplace where the air’s a little cleaner.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re drunk.”
“What if I am?” He started
“Stop him, junior.”
Raphael stopped and turned toward Flood, his jaw thrust forward pugnaciously.
“Not me,” Flood said, raising both hands, palms out. “If you want to go, go ahead.” His eyes, however, were savage.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Raphael turned and stumbled out the door into the rain.
“Raphael!” Isabel called to him from the porch as he fumbled with his car keys. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come back into the house.”
“No thanks, ‘Bel,” he replied. “You cost too much for me. I can’t afford you anymore.” He got the door open and climbed into the car.
“Raphael,” she called again.
He started the car and spun away, the rear end fishtailing and wet gravel spraying out behind him.
Because he knew that Flood might try to follow him, he avoided the freeway, sticking instead to the narrow, two-lane country roads that paralleled it. He was still angry and more than a little drunk. He drove too fast on the unfamiliar roads and skidded often-heart-stopping little drifts as he rounded curves, and wrenching, side-to-side slides as he fought to bring the car back under control.