After having been separated from her husband for almost two years, she
wanted to spend the first night of the reunion in a theatre!
* * * * *
Because I was unable to finish my medical course due to the sudden
death of my mother, I am not a doctor; neither am I a psychoanalyst or
a physiologist; but I am of the opinion that the sexual appetite of a
person is the thermometer by which the degree of his or her love can
be measured. By this I do not mean to infer that love is mere animal
lust; certainly not. I do believe, though, that if a person is in love,
sex follows naturally and continues to fire both parties only just so
long as mutual adoration remains.
All this, of course, is but a prelude to my telling you that Anita had
to be coaxed.
I write of this in embarrassment for I cannot conquer the feeling that
I am revealing secrets rightfully belonging not to me alone, but to a
sacred partnership. As a matter of fact, this entire tale is difficult
to tell since the greater part of it concerns a woman now dead and
unable to admit or deny its implications.
This self-consciousness comes not from reviewing events which cannot
be confirmed by concrete evidence, but because I realize that I am, in
part, admitting the charges against me as set forth in the indictment.
My attorney has pleaded with me to discontinue the writing of this
manuscript, warning me that should it find its way into unfriendly
hands it might be used against me. Despite everything he says, I have
decided to ignore this potential danger. It is far more important to me
that I be understood. Blame this on the newspapers which labelled me an
insane killer and deliberately misquoted and misconstrued everything I
said to reporters.
Perhaps my digressions confuse; if they do it is unintentional.
Remember that I am only a druggist, temporarily borrowing the pen.
If this work is ever completed, I am sure that the desire to write
anything else will never infect me. As it is, I don't feel at all at
home writing and, were it not for the fact that I wish to offer my side
of the story, I would remain silent.
I have said that Anita had to be coaxed; and while some of you will
disdainfully make the observation that I am hardly a person to arouse
in any woman the warm efflux of genuine passion, at least I can lay
claim that if this is so, I have always been the same. If Anita had
been in love with me once--and she must have been to have married
me--there was no plausible reason why she should suddenly change.
Be this as it may, when we returned to the hotel from the theatre that
night, she manifested an obvious disinclination to retire to our room.
She hung back in the lobby.
"Let's not go up yet," she begged. "I don't want to go to bed. We're in
New York so seldom, you know."
"But we have a very long train ride tomorrow, Anita. We'll be all worn
out...."
"Let's not, Peter. We can doze on the train."
I looked at my watch. "But Anita darling! Don't you realize it's almost
one o'clock! Where would you want to go at this hour of the morning?"
She hesitated and bit her lower lip. "You had a nap this afternoon so
you shouldn't be tired. We might," she suggested after a brief moment
of thought, "try one of those funny little cabarets below Fourteenth."
Even with the nap I was feeling rather spent and I firmly objected to
this whim, trying to laugh her out of the notion. Moreover, having been
deprived of my wife for so long a time, I had eagerly anticipated the
moment when I might once more have her to myself. I do not think that
it was unreasonable of me to suppose that she shared this feeling. If
she loved me, as I was sure she did, she, too was thirsting for me.
"But I _do_ want to see the Village, Peter!"
"You will," I promised. "We'll come down here soon again, you and I.
And when we do," I added with forced gaiety, "we'll do New York up
brown." I took her elbow and gently urged her away from the revolving
door. "But not tonight, dear."
"Is that a promise?" she asked skeptically.
"Cross my heart!"
Anita seemed to come along reluctantly and she was pouting as we
entered the elevator and shot up to our floor. I put the key into the
lock and kicked the door open with a bang. Happy that we were at last
by ourselves for the remainder of the night, I became jubilant as a
schoolboy. I lifted her slim body, kicking, in my arms and staggered
with her over the threshold. Still weak from my long convalescence in
France, I am afraid that I was breathing heavily as I deposited her on
the double bed. She sprang to her feet as though rebounding from the
bed-springs.
"Peter!" she protested testily. "What under the sun has gotten into
you? You know better than to try that! You're certainly in no condition
to...."
But I stopped the rapid flow of her words by covering her mouth with
kisses. With my mouth pressed hard against hers, I forced her back onto
the bed. Our feet in dusty shoes soiled the pillows. So tightly were we
together that I could feel her pelvis bones against me and her teeth
behind her closed mouth and her full, hard breasts.... With one hand I
felt for the snaps at the side of her dress.
"I love you, Anita," I groaned.
"You're hurting me," she answered.
Some time later, as we lay on our backs and stared up at the dim
expanse of the ceiling, Anita touched my arm. "Peter dear," she
whispered softly.
I thrilled at the affection in her tone. It at once brought to me a
sense of contentment which complemented the delightful tranquil state
that was now my body's. "Yes, sweetheart? What is it? Can I get you
anything?"
Her voice came back to me, wistfully out of the shadows. "Can we live
in New York after the store is sold? You know how much I love it here
and ... well, Ithaca has never seemed like home to me."
I sat up in bed with a start. Anita was taking it for granted that
I intended to sell out! Such, you may be sure, was not my plan. The
thought of disposing of the thing I had dreamed about and worked for
since its humble beginning four years before had not once merited my
consideration. My store was now the largest of its kind in Ithaca and,
since receiving Anita's letter informing me of Great Eastern's offer, I
had been playing with the idea of opening a branch. Maybe I, too, would
someday operate a chain of drugstores!
Something cautioned me, however, and I held my tongue. Everything was
peaceful now; why spoil it? "We'll talk about it tomorrow," I said and
pounding my pillow with a fist, I dropped back and closed my eyes.
"You're a darling, Peter," Anita went on and I felt cool fingers pass
over my face in a soothing caress. "I just know you will. We can have
a much better time here. Did you know that most of your friends have
moved away since you left? Mrs. Burtleson and the Crespis and Walt
Mandeville have all gone. Joe Crespi has a job selling Packards down
here. Doing very well, too, I understand. And Myra Parsons got married
to a Brooklyn man. He manages a factory or something. And she has a
baby almost a year old, too. What do you think of that! Somehow I never
thought of _her_ becoming a mother! Always liked to gad about when I
knew her. And oh, yes. Harvey Bond--you remember him, don't you? Tall,
funny-looking fellow with glasses and red hair? Sure you do. He used to
live right next door to the Carpenter place on the Heights...."
She stopped short. I could almost hear her teeth snap shut. I am
positive that she had not meant to mention that name. But though I
opened my eyes in the darkness, I made sure not to move a muscle. I was
certain that if I showed any sign that I had noticed the slip, she
would be embarrassed or uncomfortable.
In a second, to cover up, she went on with a show of defiance. "Yes,
and by the way, I hear that Leo Carpenter is down here somewhere.
Somebody--I think it was Tom Murphy--said that he plans to go to Vienna
soon to study. Lucky dog! His father left him a mint of money. He's
about the only thing I've got against New York and he won't be here
long, thank God." She paused for a few minutes until I thought that she
had gone to sleep. Just as I was congratulating myself that such was
the case, she recommenced the one-sided debate. "So you see. Peter,
about the only people left in Ithaca whom we know at all well are Mrs.
Michaelson and that awful Turnbull person. And you couldn't call them
friends very well, now could you?"