She and Paul shared a decent two-bedroom apartment off Spa Road. It was nice, not too expensive, and all they needed. Paul used the second bedroom for an office, to write. They’d accepted the commonplace nuisances of apartment living—occasionally squalling babies, footsteps on the ceiling, and the explosive wee-hour arguments from the neighbors—as part of the deal. Soon they’d move to a townhouse, or maybe even a small home when they’d banked enough money for a decent down payment. Like most else in life, a relationship could only proceed one step at a time.
Vera parked. The lot stretched on coldly with dark cars. It wasn’t even midnight yet; she was home earlier than usual, which was a good thing, considering the crush of diners they’d had tonight. She felt seduced by the idea of a good night’s sleep.
The moon rose so brightly she squinted; her high heels tapped along the frigid sidewalk. She whisked herself up the steps, fleeing the bitter cold like muggers, and sighed at the gush of heat when she let herself in.
The living room was dark. Paul must be asleep. Despite her fatigue, the excitement still ticked: she couldn’t wait to tell Paul about the offer, but now it looked as if she’d have to wait till morning.
What will he say? she wondered again, more intensely this time. The question, now, seemed to shimmer, like the cold night, the moonlit bay, and Feldspar’s squat, jeweled hand and silky suit. She stood, suddenly stiff in the dark living room. Why was she thinking these things now? Maybe Paul would want her to take the job. Maybe he wants to move. He often mentioned a desire to write books someday. He could pretty much do that anywhere, couldn’t he? Vera’s new salary, plus the free room and board, would give Paul all the time he needed to write.
Why didn’t I think of that before?
Was she being selfish? Vera wanted the job—just not at the expense of her relationship. She was prejudging the situation. Perhaps Paul would be as enthusiastic about it as she was.
There was only one way to find out.
She went down the warm, dark hall, not even yet having taken off her coat. This was important, and the only way she’d know how he felt was to ask him. She’d wake him up and ask him.
But only a few steps showed her she wouldn’t need to. The bedroom light glowed in the door’s gap; he wasn’t asleep after all. Must still be up, reading. Paul read a lot of books, lots of philosophical fiction like Kafka and Drieser and Seymore, and a lot of sociology texts. Vera’s excitement carried her to the door, and when she opened it—
What the…
The scene divided her perceptions. Wrong apartment! she squealed at herself, forgetting that her key had unlocked the front door. She did not consider logic at this precise moment, she couldn’t. She’d walked into the middle of an orgy.
Her hands fell limp at her sides. At once her senses collided with the lewdest scents, sounds, and glimpses. Wrong apartment, she thought again, only now it was the limpest thought that had ever occurred to her, and the palest lie.
This was not the wrong apartment. It was her apartment—hers and Paul’s—theirs. This was their bedroom, their furniture, their carpet and their pictures on the wall.
This was their bed—
—on which now the most perverse scene unfolded.
Vera’s eyelids felt held open by hooks. Three nude figures crowded the bed. A skinny lank-haired blonde, whose wrists had been lashed to the bedposts, lay on her back with her legs splayed. Her eyes looked glazed; she was grinning stupidly. A man stood between her legs on hands and knees, his head lowered in steady cunnilingus. He looked like someone trying to push a peanut with his nose. Though his face was busily buried, Vera knew at once that the man was Paul.
A second woman, much more beautiful than the blonde, knelt aside. She grinned down fixedly, as if in supervision, stroking Paul’s back. She had perfectly straight, light-red hair that shimmered like satin, and large, erect breasts.
“Baby want some more?” she asked.
The skinny blonde wagged her head. On the night stand sat a small jar of some mauve powder. The redhead leaned across, stuck a tiny coke spook in the jar, then brought it to the blonde’s nostril, into which the small amount of powder instantly disappeared. The blonde went limp against her wristbonds, her grin widening. “Aw, God,” she moaned and lolled her head.
“That good, baby?”
“Aw, God…”
“How about you, Paulie?”
Paul’s head raised between the blonde’s canted thighs. He took the spoon, indulged himself of the whitish powder three or four times, then reburied his face into the blonde’s great spread of tawny pubic hair.
Vera watched all this as if watching a traffic accident—in remote horror. They hadn’t even noticed her standing there. The bright light felt raw in her eyes. Past the scene, on the dresser, sat a framed photograph of Paul and Vera arm in arm on the City Dock last Valentine’s Day.
Vera couldn’t even begin to speak. She felt encased in a block of concrete with only two holes through which to peer. Her impulse was to scream, to lunge forward—to react. But her body would not respond to the commands of her brain. All she could do was stand there, immobile as a post, and bear witness…
The blonde looked pallid, the deep lines of her ribs highlighting her malnutrition. A tiny tatoo showed at the center of her throat, a diminutive southern cross. Her bare feet churned in the sheets; her hips subtlely rose and fell against the dutiful attentions of Paul’s mouth. “I’m gonna come again, I’m gonna come again,” she kept murmuring through her stupor. Her wrists strained against the stocking bonds, tendons flexing.
Next the redhead walked around the bed to fetch something. Midstep she stopped and turned. She grinned at Vera.
“Hey, gang. We have a guest.”
The blonde glared. Her breasts looked like nippled pancakes. “Get lost, cunt, unless you want your face rearranged. Find your own blow—four’s a crowd.”
“Now, now,” the redhead toyed. “We can be more polite than that, can’t we? Besides, she’s kind of cute, and I could go for some fresh pussy.” Her blue eyes sparkled at Vera. “Come on, sweetheart. Get out of those clothes. Let’s see how you taste.”
Vera stared back in the sickest shock. Paul’s head came up again, his mouth shiny. He looked at Vera for perhaps a second, seemed to make no recognition at all, then returned again to his oral duties. His tongue churned furiously.
“Don’t be shy. We’re all friends here, we’re good friends. Paul picked us up at Kaggie’s, he even paid for our drinks.” The redhead traipsed to the nightstand opposite, took something up in her pretty shiny-nailed hands. “Or maybe you’d just like to watch first. That’s okay. I like to watch too, like to get real wet and boned up, you know?” Her breasts stuck out like skin-covered glass orbs. She looked healthy, robust; lean but very shapely. Paul continued to maneuver his tongue against the blonde’s unruly thatch. Vera’s stomach roiled at the wet smacking sounds; it sounded like someone eating a sloppy meal, which, in a sense, it was. Vera dizzied at the zeal with which Paul devoured his seedy slat-ribbed companion. “Your boyfriend likes to be fucked,” the redhead proclaimed. “Did you know that?”
The comment seemed cavernous, echoed down from a high, rocky palisade. What did the woman mean? The lewd noises went on, enlaced with the blonde’s loud, slow moans. Then came a sliding, sucking sound, like opening a can of peanut butter, then an even worse slick clicking.