Talmage Powell
Uncle Charlie’s Wife
It was part of my plan to gamble everything on the action — and reaction — of a single moment.
Responding to my summons, Madeline, my uncle Charlie’s young wife, came to my apartment alone. I greeted her cheerily and stepped behind her to lift the mink stole from her slender shoulders.
With her blonde hair piled atop her head, her neck was slim and inviting. I kissed her warmly on the nape, my hands tensile and strong on her shoulders, the mink sliding to the carpet.
I felt her stiffen slightly. “Freddy, really!” A faint shiver of pleasure coursed through her. Then she pulled herself from my grip and turned to face me, attempting to bring a spark of outrage to her wide blue eyes. “What’s come over you, Freddy?”
“This,” I said. I pulled her close to me and kissed her on the lips. My plan, I might say, was proving to have its pleasurable aspects.
When I released her, her face was warmed with color. She tried to portray shock, but her slap across my cheek was half-hearted.
“Let me out of here this instant, Freddy!”
I smiled, lighted a cigarette, offered it to her lips, and lighted a second for myself.
I was really making no move to stop her, but she didn’t leave.
Instead, she said, “Are you drunk, Freddy?”
“Delightfully,” I said. “Drunk, soaring, reeling from the sight of you, the perfume you wear, the touch of your lips.”
“You mustn’t say such things. I believe you’re crazy!”
“Driven to distraction,” I said, “by the thought of you. From the moment I met you, Maddy, the day he brought you to his home, a surprise bride, I’ve been able to think of nothing else”
“And your phone call, asking me here to discuss a matter of business, was just a hoax?”
“I had to see you, darling. I couldn’t—”
With adoration in my young and handsome (I speak modestly) face, I drew her to me and kissed her again. She made feeble struggles as a show of propriety. Then she was limp and unresisting against me. And then her arms stole about my neck and the kiss was being returned, with feeling.
Embracing her, I was briefly tempted to throw out my plan and devise a substitute.
She was breathing quickly when we emerged for air.
She took a deeper breath, held it. As she disengaged herself, she managed, “For the sake of family harmony, I’ll not mention this to Charlie. But it mustn’t happen again, Freddy.”
“All right, Maddy,” I said in a broken, miserable tone. “I’ll struggle with myself as best as I can. And I’ll try not to think of the cruel wasting away of your youth and loveliness, shut up in that dreary house with a dull, boring, old man. The nights are so long and empty — but maybe we can manage somehow.”
Biting her lips, she fled toward my apartment door, as if it were now or never.
“Wait,” I said. “You’re forgetting this—”
I scooped the mink stole from the carpet, crossed to her, and put the wrap about her shoulders. Then the stole slithered to the floor again as my arms remained about her.
Each kiss was becoming more interesting. This time, when we murmured with our faces close together there was no more talk of Charlie.
“You’ve only seen me in his house, his presence,” I said. “But the discovery of the real me, I promise you, will be exciting.”
“I’ve been deprived of excitement for so long, Freddy, I’ll probably die of it.”
“That sounds as if a tall, cool drink is in order,” I suggested.
My apartment was small, but tastefully maintained even on my earnings as a not-too-successful real estate salesman. While I mixed the drinks, Madeline explored, looking over the comfortable furnishings, the heavy window draperies, the books and prints of good paintings. I clicked a switch behind the bar and my stereo tape recorder went into action, filling the room with the soft sound of good music.
The music seemed to come from somewhere, out of the softly lighted air itself.
Madeline tilted her head and studied me as I carried her drink to her.
“Like the music?”
“Very much,” she said.
“I glommed it off an FM radio broadcast. I’ve got miles of tapes. I’m a bug on tape recording, fortunately, since I don’t have the money to buy the albums I’d like.”
“You’re not at all like your uncle Charlie, Freddy.”
“And aren’t we glad of that?” I suggested.
Later, in a crowded nightspot, we danced until we were bone-weary. I was able to show her a couple of the very latest dances.
“I used to know them all,” she said as we returned to our table. “But married to Charlie — his idea of real boss music is Lawrence Welk playing a foxtrot.”
“Charlie?” I said. “Who is Charlie?”
She squeezed my hand and laughed. “You’re so right, Freddy. For tonight, at least, there is no old man named Charlie!”
Our next stop was a dim spot which featured a cool jazz trio, vibes, bass, and piano. The drinks were good, the late snack tasty.
“He’ll only be gone a week, Freddy,” she said, a pensive moment coming to her. “Just a week, while he sees that specialist in New York about his arthritis. Then that tomb of a house, that — that nothingness.”
I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and kissed each fingertip.
“Don’t think beyond a week,” I said. “Think of now.”
She looked about her, was in her element, and she thought of now.
“I didn’t know how... how starved I was, Freddy.”
“I did,” I said. “I suspected, at first. Then I knew.”
“What’ll we do tomorrow, Freddy?”
“How about some water skiing in the afternoon, after breakfast, as a starter?”
“You, Freddy? On water skis? Well, of course! It’s perfect for this Freddy I’m beginning to glimpse. But wouldn’t water skiing be a bit public? After all, if Charlie finds out—”
“Who is Charlie?” I reminded. “Anyway, I have a friend up at the lake who has a boat. No one up there knows either of us.”
We glided over the water. We returned to the city, had a dinner, saw a racy show at a nightclub, returned to my apartment for a nightcap.
There were no hors d’oeuvres with the drinks, just kisses.
As we nestled together on the couch, she sighed softly. “If only Charlie wasn’t coming back in a week—”
“Or a month,” I said.
In the silence, a late night rain began beating against the apartment windows. It made the room even warmer and cosier.
“Or ever,” I said.
She stirred slightly. “What, Freddy? What was that you said?”
“I said, wouldn’t it be nice if Charlie were gone forever?”
“Freddy, you mustn’t say such a thing!”
“Why not? You’re thinking the same thing.”
“No I’m not,” she said. “It’s a dreadful thought.” She pondered for a moment. Then, “But he is sick and old, isn’t he, Freddy?”
“And ever so rich,” I said.
“He suffers. The poor dear does suffer.”
“But he might linger for years,” I said. “Until we’re standing on shore and watching the young people water ski.”
“It really isn’t fair, Freddy, that our youth should be wasted when we could be enjoying it.”
“Oh, well,” I said, “someday you’ll be his widow. You’ll have the money.”
She raised slightly to look into my face. “You think I married him only for his money, Freddy?”
“Why else?”
“Well, perhaps I did. But I was keeping my part of the bargain. I was trying to make him happy. But his only happiness seems to be in practically keeping me under lock and key, watching me with those insanely jealous eyes. It’s been— It hasn’t turned out like I thought it would, Freddy. It’s pretty horrible!”