Caveat Emptor and Other Stories (3 page)

Bitsy slipped in next to Sylvia and glared at the rowdier elements of the crowd. “
Cheerful
is hardly the adjective, Sylvia. Nasty and foulmouthed might be closer to the truth. Where do all these women come from? I've never seen so many women about to burst out of their jeans or pop buttons off their blouses.” She shifted her eyes to Sylvia's ample chest, which was distorting a field of silk flowers.

“This isn't a Sunday prayer meeting,” Sylvia said, grinning. “Now you and Marjorie could sneak in the back door of the church if you wanted to, but Anne and I came to have fun. Isn't that right, Anne?”

“Oh, yes,” Anne murmured. Oh, no, she added to herself as she once again held in a smile. She had come to put the plan in motion. Sylvia needed to know where Paul was, and how lonely he might be for his cooperative slut. She decided to reiterate the information once again, just in case Sylvia had missed it. “You should have convinced Hank to go fishing with Paul, Marjorie. The poor baby's out at the cabin all by himself for the entire weekend, with no one to entertain him. And he's been acting very odd these last three or four months; I'm worried he might be on the edge of a nervous breakdown.”

“So worried that you felt obliged to come to this horrid show instead of bothering to be with him?” Bitsy said coolly.

Anne winced as she struggled to hide a flicker of irritation. It was, she lectured herself, an opening to produce her alibi, even if it had been provided in a self-righteous tone of voice. “He told me he preferred to be alone, Bitsy, and I can't go to the cabin this weekend, in any case. I'm going to spend the next two days locked in the library with Bev to do the semester inventory. We agreed we'd work until midnight Saturday and Sunday if we had to, and send out for sandwiches. Paul will enjoy a chance for relaxation and total solitude.”

“Total solitude?” Sylvia echoed, laughing. “Maybe he's having an affair with some nubile specimen of wildlife.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say,” Bitsy said. “Just because your husband chased every skirt in town doesn't mean that—”

“Paul's banging a raccoon? My ex would have; he banged everything that breathed.” Sylvia laughed again, then finished her beer and lit another cigarette from the smoldering butt in her hand. Next to her, Bitsy coughed in complaint and pointedly fanned the air with her hand. Anne covertly studied Sylvia's face, searching for some sign that the blonde's thoughts were centered on the poor lonely husband in the conveniently remote cabin.

Marjorie had managed to mention her impending demise three more times before the music abruptly stopped. A middle-aged man in a pale blue tuxedo bounded onto the stage, a microphone in one hand. The crowd quieted in expectation, as did the four women at the table next to the stage.

“Are you ready?” the man demanded.

“Yes!” the women squealed.

“Are you ready?” he again demanded, leering into what must have resembled a murky aquarium of multicolored faces.

The crowd responded with increased enthusiasm. The ritual continued for several minutes as the emcee warmed up the audience. Anne could not bring herself to join the frenzied promises that she was indeed ready, even though, at a more essential level, the decision had been reached and the plan already set in motion. This man seemed too manipulative to merit response, too crassly chauvinistic—too much like Paul. Sylvia had no such reservations, of course. Marjorie was mouthing the sentiments of the crowd and clapping; Bitsy stared at the tabletop as if she were judging kindergarten finger paintings for potential van Goghs.

“Do you want to meet the men?” the emcee howled. The crowd howled that they most definitely did. The emcee mopped his forehead, assured them that they would in one teeny minute, but first they were going to have the opportunity to order one more round of drinks. Waving good-bye, he bounded off the stage and the music rose to fill the void.

Sylvia began to dig through her purse. “Damn it, I just had that prescription refilled last week,” she said as she piled the contents on the table. “Tranquilizers aren't cheap.”

But the gaunt blonde divorcée was, Anne thought. Too bad she couldn't find her pills, but they had been removed earlier in the week, when Sylvia had negligently left her purse in the lounge. They were a part of the plan, a major part of the plan that would end with a wonderfully melodramatic climax. The other climaxes would occur earlier—in the bed, under the kitchen table, wherever the two opted to indulge their carnal drives.

She really didn't care anymore. Her marriage was a farce, as silly and shallow as the night's entertainment. It would be over by Sunday, and she would be free from Paul's overbearing hypocrisy and Sylvia's treacherous avowals of friendship. A colleague had told her about seeing the two of them at a restaurant. Although the news had initially paralyzed her, she had begun within a matter of days to devise the plan. It had taken several weeks to perfect it; the invitation from Sylvia to the male revue had seemed such a lovely, ironic time for the countdown to begin.

“You really shouldn't mix barbiturates with alcohol. The combination can be lethal,” she said, hoping she sounded properly concerned. The advice was based on many hours of research, after all, done while sipping coffee from her thermos. An elementary school library held so many fascinating books and magazines. From both sides of the table, Bitsy and Marjorie nodded their agreement.

Sylvia shrugged and began to cram things back in her purse. “It'd take a handful of the things to do any damage. I must have left them in the bathroom at home, or in another purse. Damnation, I feel a really ghastly tension headache coming on; I'll have to drown it in beer.”

Just wait, Anne added under her breath. By Sunday night, Sylvia and Paul were going to be far past the point of feeling anything. The bottle was in the liquor cabinet at the cabin, a brand she knew Paul always kept well stocked. The drifting sediment at the bottom would not prevent the contents from being savored, and the effects would take several hours to be felt. By then, it would be much too late.

Sunday night, or perhaps Monday morning, she would telephone the sheriff's department and in a worried, wifely voice ask them to check the cabin. The suicide note she had typed on Paul's typewriter would be found in her bedside drawer, his illegible signature scrawled across the bottom. It was really quite nicely written, with pained admissions that he could no longer bear a life without Sylvia, that he had taken her pills earlier in the week so they could gently pass away in each other's arms. A bittersweet postscript to his wife, begging her forgiveness. She suspected she would shed a few tears when the police showed it to her. Her friends would all assure her that he had had a nervous breakdown, that he hadn't known what he was writing. They would be right, but she wouldn't tell them that.

“Oh, my lord,” whispered Marjorie. “Hank really is going to kill me if I have to call him for bail.”

Anne yanked her thoughts to the present moment and turned to the stage. A young man had appeared, dressed in a police uniform. His face was stern as he slapped a billy club across his palm. She felt as if it were slamming against her abdomen. Had Paul found the note and realized what she had arranged for the lovebirds?

“I should arrest all of you,” he said, scowling as his eyes flitted around the room. “Run you in, book you, and take you to a cold, dark cell. Fling you across the cot and interrogate you until you beg for mercy. Is that what you want me to do?”

“No,” screamed a voice from the crowd. “Take it off!”

His mouth softened; dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Is that what you want me to do?” he demanded of the crowd.

“Take it off!”

Like a prairie dog, the emcee popped up on the platform at the back of the stage. “Do you want Policeman Dick to take it off? You'll have to tell him what you want!”

“Take it off!” the crowd howled in unified frenzy.

The music began to pulsate as the young man toyed with the top button of his shirt, his hips synchronized with the beat. The crowd roared their approval. Sylvia leaned forward and said, “You turned absolutely white, Anne. Did you think he was a real cop?”

Anne kept her eyes on the man in the middle of the stage. “Don't be absurd, Sylvia. I don't have a guilty conscience,” she said distractedly. The first button was undone, and the graceful fingers had moved down one tantalizing inch. A few curly chest hairs were visible now; she felt a sudden urge to dash onto the stage and brush her hand across them. “Is he going to take it all off?”

“I can't believe you said that,” Bitsy sniffed. “I think this is disgusting.”

Anne had expected to feel the same way, but now, with the darling young blond man who looked so wholesome, so boyish and innocent and pleased with the response from the crowd—it wasn't disgusting. It was very, very interesting.

Marjorie put her cup down, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape. “I don't think it's disgusting,” she said in a hollow voice.

Bitsy leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms. “The three of you are slobbering like dogs.”

Anne barely heard the condemnation from across the table. Policeman Dick was easing out of his shirt, letting each sleeve slide down his arm so slowly she could feel the ripple of his biceps, the hard turn of his elbows, the soft skin of his forearm, the mounded base of his hand, the long, delicate fingers. She heard herself exhale as the khaki shirt fell to the floor.

His hips still moving with the music, the man flexed his arms and turned slowly so the women could appreciate his flat stomach and broad shoulders. He swaggered across the stage to Anne's table and curled his hands behind Sylvia's neck.

“Unbuckle my belt or I'll run you in,” he said, smiling to take the menace from his facetious threat. He noticed Anne's stunned expression and winked at her, sharing the joke in an oddly private message.

“You can run me in anytime you want!” Sylvia smirked as she fumbled with the buckle of his belt. Beside her, Bitsy was almost invisible below the table. Her face was stony, and her mouth a pinched ring of scandalized disapproval.

When the buckle was freed, the man backed away to tease the crowd with his jutting pelvis and bare chest. His trousers began to slide down his hips. Again Anne could feel his skin, now so taut with smooth, muscular slopes. It's been such a long time, she thought, panicked by the intensity of her reaction. If only Paul hadn't lost interest when he began the affair with Sylvia … It was his fault she was responding like a silly, breathless, hormone-driven adolescent.

The uniform was off now; only a small triangle of khaki fabric acknowledged the limits of legality. The young man, Policeman Dick, she amended with a faint smile—began to dance with increased insistence, turning often so that all the women could have an equal opportunity to admire that which deserved admiration. The colored lights flashed across his body in silken hues, shadows to be stroked to find their depth.

As he moved toward the table, Sylvia creased a dollar bill and waved it over Anne's head. “Over here!” she called.

Perplexed, Anne frowned across the table. When Sylvia grinned and pointed, she turned back to see the young man dancing directly in front of her. Blue eyes crinkled in amusement. The dimples back again. And the wondrously unclad body, close enough that she could see the faint sheen of sweat. Feathery blond hair. Muscles that swooped like snow-covered hills. Hard thighs. The mysterious khaki bulge.

Despite the sudden grip of numbness, a wave of Novocain that flooded her chest and froze her lungs, she felt the dollar bill in her hand. The man slowly pulled her to her feet. All around them, women were bellowing in approval, their hands banging the tabletops and their feet pounding the floor. The music seemed to grow louder, a primitive command from a wild and unknown place. The young man curled a finger for Anne to move closer to him. Then, before she could consider her actions, she found herself sliding the bill under the narrow strap that supported his only item of clothing. Her fingers brushed his skin. A baby's skin.

He leaned down and caught her head in his hands. His deliberate kiss caught her by surprise, stunned her into acquiescence, and then, as his lips lingered, into unintentional cooperation. When she felt as if she were losing herself in a tunnel of heat, he eased away and met her eyes. After another disturbing wink, he danced away to collect the dollar bills that now waved like pennants all over the room.

“Sit down!” Bitsy snapped. “Everyone's staring at you. I want you to know that I am simply disgusted with you, Anne. And both of you too,” she added to Sylvia and Marjorie. “I've had more of this than I can bear. I'm going home.”

Anne wiggled her hand in farewell, but she could not unlock her eyes from the young blond dancer. Coals had been lit deep within her; they flamed and glowed, painfully. Her body ached for him. And he seemed to remain aware of her even as he accepted dollars and gave kisses to the screaming women crowding the edge of the stage.

Then, with a dimpled smile and a wink she felt was hers, he left the stage. The emcee introduced a dark-haired young man in a sequined cape, who began to produce gyrations with his hips as he paraded around the stage.

Anne looked at the dressing-room door in one corner of the room. “Will he be back?” she asked Sylvia.

“Probably. I could see you liked what you saw, Anne. You'd better not tell Paul too much about this when he gets home Sunday. He may not approve of his wife kissing a male stripper.”

Marjorie sighed. “What was it like, Anne?”

“Just a kiss.” But such a kiss. Soft lips and a faint hint of after-shave. A kiss more innocent than a high-school sweetheart's, but promising more than any boy could offer. A cherub without a robe. Every mother's son, every woman's lover. The ache increased until she felt as if she might slip into a fantasy of such erotic delight that she would never willingly return.