Florrie

File D9104141.ZEN

Sunday, May 14, 1972

She was an overly plump woman, dressed in faded jeans, standing on the curb holding two bags of groceries in her arms, obviously waiting for a ride I thought, if I thought about her at all, when I spotted the newspaper machine. That was this afternoon. I had left Daisy’s place after lunch and soon discovered to my dismay that the science fold-in hadn’t been folded into Sunday’s paper, more to the point that Bayer's astronomy column was missing. According to an indifferent yahoo at the newspaper office, whom I finally reached by phone, everyone else’s paper had the fold-in. Did I believe that special agents were preventing me from reading the atomic secrets disclosed this week? When I asked his name, he hung up. Sure, I ought to sue. Instead I went out to find a replacement.

The vending machine, located beside a closed liquor store, still had a paper even though it was past 16:00. Out of the car, I discovered that it wanted fifty cents for its rack to come down. A hell of a price, even for Sunday! — especially since I had three dimes and two pennies. The hardly noticed plump woman was standing ten feet to one side, ostentatiously staring at blue sky over the trees across the street.

Opened my wallet. You guessed it: two fives and a twenty. I looked at the woman without much hope. “Excuse me, ma’am. Is there any chance you have change for a five?”

She turned towards me, lips twisted crookedly, and laughed harshly. She had light brown hair, pulled back in a pony tail, and pale eyes. Her features were unpainted, small and symmetrical above the rounded chin. I realized two things: she was younger than the thirtyish first judgment, and with a little work her face could be beautiful.

My eyebrows rose. “Did I say something funny?”

She sobered and looked away. “No. I’m sorry. It’s just …”

“What?”

She glanced back. “I wouldn’t be standing here if I had change for a five.”

Her voice was bitter for no reason I could see unless she, like me, was another victim of the denomination game. Too bad we can’t write checks for everything! What was her problem — nothing smaller than a C-note?

I said, “I can change a ten for you, if that’s what you need.”

“Oh, god!” She shook her head from side to side. “I want to laugh again but it’s rude, isn’t it?”

I smiled politely. “Your sense of humor is better than mine.”

She turned her left side more toward me. “Will you take the purse off my arm?”

I stared at her. Was she implying that I would steal her purse? I asked, “You want me to take your purse?”

“Off my arm, and open it for me.”

Did she want to verify how much silver she had? I suggested, “Suppose I hold your groceries instead?”

She looked at the sidewalk. “I could set them down, I guess.”

“They might fall over. Let me hold them.”

“Would you?”

I drew close and she pressed the bags against me. Someone looking from the side would have guessed we meant to kiss. As my arms encircled the bags she warned, “Hold this one underneath. It has the milk bottles.”

So I maneuvered one arm beneath hers. Transferring large paper bags in this manner, taking care not to rip them, entails a surprising amount of body contact. My forearms were all over her breasts, enough to suspect she wore no bra under her man’s white shirt with rolled up sleeves. I detected no perfume, just woman, a faintly meaty odor like distant frying bacon.

She stepped back, eyes staring into mine. She was blushing, which I understood to mean she had noticed my arms on her.

I said, “I’m sorry for … jostling you.”

She took a breath. “You couldn’t help it.”

The bags were heavy, jammed with cereal boxes, flour, cookie packages, gurgling bottles. As she opened her purse I looked around. Where did she get the groceries? The only store in this whole block was the liquor store behind the vending machines, its windows barred over the sign, “Closed on Sunday.”

Her fist came out of her purse and opened towards me. A quarter and a nickel lay on the palm. She said, “Take it if it’ll help you.”

“That’s all your change?”

“It’s all my money.”

“Oh, I couldn’t take —”

She interrupted me by leaning towards me and slipping the two coins into my right-hand pants pocket. “It can’t do me any good anyway,” she explained.

“But — Maybe there’s a pay phone around the corner.”

“A pay phone?”

“To call your husband.”

She grunted. “No husband.”

“Well, whoever.”

She shook her head. “There’s nobody to call.”

I stood gaping at her, holding her groceries. She chuckled slightly. “Here!” she said, extending her arms.

Again we came together. She pressed herself firmly against my arms while hers slipped between me and the bags. I’m afraid I gasped.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered quickly. “Did a nail get you?”

“It’s all right. Your knuckle tickled my ribs.”

She grinned crookedly. “You’d never guess what yours did to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She held the groceries. I stepped back, withdrew all the silver from my pocket again: 62 cents. I turned away and fed the vending machine, pulled down the rack and drew out the bulky paper, which was the last one. Tucking it under my arm, I returned to the woman, my hand extended toward her. She let me open the purse and throw in the remaining dime.

“Thank you,” she said with a sniff.

“There must be someone you can call!”

“I wish there was.”

I realized I couldn’t just leave her. Expressed as a percentage of her available funds, I believed she’d given me more than anyone in my experience. I said, “Look here … My name is Harry Stone.”

Her eyes showed a bit of interest. “Pleased to meet you, Harry Stone.”

“And you are?”

She studied me. At last she said, “Florrie.”

I nodded. “Florrie. I know that it’s totally none of my business, but would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

“On Planet Earth?” she asked, her crooked smile again in evidence.

“Huh?”

“That’s what I was wondering just before you drove up.”

“Florrie, it can’t be as bad as that.”

She nodded. “I said that, too.” Her eyes were suddenly very bright.

“Who’re you waiting for?”

“No one.” She took a breath. “Any one.”

“Well, who are these groceries for? Not just you, I’d guess.”

She shook her head. “For nobody now. You want them?”

I rested hand on hip and studied her. “Did you have a fight?”

Her mouth worked. Finally she said, “The last one.” A tear suddenly spilled over her eyelid.

“How did you get here on this street corner, Florrie?”

“I told him if he didn’t let me out of the car, I’d dump all these groceries on him.”

“You were angry?”

“That was part of it. I was bawling.”

“So he let you out. He’ll give you time to cool off and come back for you.”

“No, he won’t.” A tear appeared on the other cheek. “This really was the last fight. He’s getting married tomorrow.”

Apparently to someone else. I took out my handkerchief, leaned in between the bags and dabbed her cheeks. “Th-thank you,” she murmured, more tears welling.

I turned to my car and held the rear passenger door open for her. “Florrie, put your groceries on the floorboards.”

She took a deep, trembling breath, and obeyed me without the argument I expected. When she stood back I slammed that door and opened the front one. “Get in,” I told her.

She stared at me, biting her lip. I saw a curious mixture of fear, resignation and hope pass over her features. Again she sighed but she plopped into the car.

She looked around as I cranked the engine. “Nice car,” she admitted.

I don’t keep it very clean, but it’s only a year old. “Thank you. Which way, Florrie.”

She shrugged, heaved another breath, then smiled. “Oh, it’s good to sit down.”

“How long had you been standing there?”

“I don’t know. We left Greenfields at two o’clock.” I glanced at my wristwatch. It showed 16:33.

I pulled slowly away from the curb. “You’ve been standing there two hours?”

She eyed the clock on the dash, about five minutes slow. Why do car clocks always run slow? “I guess. It feels like it.”

I shook my head. “Whatever for, Florrie? What did you expect?”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two. Where are you going?”

“We’re going to your place.”

“It’s his place.” She choked back a sob. “It’s n-not mine any m-more.”

“At least we’ll get your things.”

“And th-then what?”

“Where do your parents live?”

“They don’t.”

“Pardon?”

When she didn’t answer I pressed her gently. “Are your parents dead, Florrie?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

She compressed her lips and looked out the window.

When she kept silent I tried another tact. “Well, tell me this. Why were you buying groceries for a man who’s marrying someone else tomorrow?”

“We were in Greenfields when he admitted it.”

“I see. I’m sorry.”

“Th-thank you. Turn right up here, I think. Is that the bridge down there?”

“Those are the suspension towers, yes.”

She looked around as if fixing landmarks. “Why?” I asked.

“It may be the place we have to go.”

“His place is across the river?”

“No. Not you. I mean me and my baby.”

“You have a child, Florrie?”

“In about six months.”

When we had rounded the corner, she nodded. “I recognize this street. Go two more lights and turn left.”

“Does he know you’re pregnant, Florrie?”

“He does now.”

Christ! I could imagine that argument in Greenfields Market and on the ride back. I asked, “How long have you been with him.”

“Seven months.”

“Where did you live before that?”

She named a city 300 miles from here.

“Do you know anybody there?”

“They’re all doing time.”

That kind of people? I studied her surreptitiously. She wore scuffed penny loafers. Her jeans were frayed but clean. They were not particularly tight on her; apparently she was not, as the women say, “showing” much yet. The man’s white shirt with the tails out was also clean and appeared to have all its buttons. It was too big for her. I could see none of the ridges or shadows that a brassiere might produce, though on the right side, without shirt pocket, I had failed also to see evidence of a nipple. I had already noticed well-padded breasts despite a lack of prominence. But she was not exactly fat. I pegged her height at five-foot-four and her weight at 150. I had called her “overplump” but now that she had engaged my sympathy, I was willing to strike the “over.”

“What do you mean, the bridge is the place you have to go?”

“Not the bridge. The river.”

“The river as ‘jump in?’”

“And drown.”

“If you mean what it sounds like you mean, I have to say don’t be ridiculous, Florrie!”

She grunted but held her peace.

I argued, “This isn’t the Fifties, you know. A girl in your shoes has many options.”

She looked out the window and said, so softly that I could barely understand her above the car sounds, “If I can’t keep my baby, we’re better off dead.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Don’t worry; I’m sure!”

She would say no more except to give directions. We arrived at a large dilapidated house on a street of huge trees and similar houses. A sign in the weed-filled yard offered rooms for rent by the night, week or month. When Florrie got out of the car, she stopped in the rear and drew out her bags.

“You’re taking him these groceries?” I asked, surprised.

She nodded. “He paid for them.”

I had to grin, thinking of the final words that must have been exchanged before he stopped the car and let her out with his food.

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re coming with me?”

“Unless you’d prefer otherwise.”

“Why?”

“To let him know you have a friend.”

“Oh, Harry! I won’t forget this.”

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

I offered to carry either or both bags of groceries. She ignored it and marched stolidly up the walk. I followed her to the second floor and down a creaking hall to a door standing open at the end. It was a warm day. I could feel a slight draft along the hallway. She paused beside the door.

“Marshall, are you decent?” she called.

“Yeah,” a masculine voice replied. “Florrie, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I brought your groceries.”

“You did what?” I heard a bed creaking followed by the thumps of feet striking the floor. “Jesus Christ, did you walk all the way here?”

“No, Marshall, I didn’t walk. Can I come in?”

“You didn’t walk?” The voice changed. “Who’s with you?”

“Can I put the groceries on the table? I c-came for my things.”

“Oh, yeah? How’re you gonna get ’em out of here?”

She looked appealingly back at me. I spoke up. “She has help, Marshall.”

That produced more activity. A very young man appeared in front of the woman, wearing a stained T-shirt and a gaping pair of jockey shorts. He may not have been aware that pubic hair was visible through the gap. Head hair was nearly shoulder length, greasy and tangled. He was skinny, about five-ten and barefooted, and his toenails were dirty.

He demanded, “Who’re you?”

“The name is Stone,” I reported, stepping into the room behind Florrie.

“Stone,” he repeated. “Never heard of you.”

“Well, I’ve heard of you. I hear you’re getting married tomorrow.”

His face suddenly flushed. I studied the phenomenon curiously. It could hardly be embarrassment; surely he was past that. It must be anger, I decided.

I asked, “Now why should that make you mad, Marshall?”

“She told you!”

“She told me something else you’re responsible for, too, Marshall.”

“Not me!” His eyes narrowed. “Say, are you a cop?”

“No,” I responded. “If I were I’d arrest you for those seeds you have in that ash tray.”

“The seeds ain’t illegal.”

“That’s what you think! But I’m no cop. Go ahead, Florrie. Give him his groceries.”

But Florrie’s face had also reddened. She raised her voice. “You are too the father!”

“Not me,” he repeated. “I told you, it’s that little wop you were sweet on downstairs.” He looked at me. “Just wait till it’s born.”

That’s when Florrie gave him the groceries. She slammed one bag down on top of a dead TV set, causing it to rock, and now with both arms available threw the other bag at the back-pedaling man. He tried to catch it but it split. Cans and boxes bounced through the air. A bag of flour also split, spewing much of its contents into his face and hair. He fell backwards onto the bed, which promptly collapsed with a thunderous crash, dropping mattress and man onto the floor. Cans bounced higher. The tarnished brass headboard fell forward and struck him on top of the head. His flailing body subsided.

But the second bag was already on the way. It struck him squarely in the chest and split in the manner of its predecessor, cascading boxes and bottles to either side. The milk bottles had been in the bottom of the bag. They landed on his belly. With an explosion of air he raised up on the fallen mattress, eyes huge in his flour-white face. Both milk bottles rolled off onto the floor, but having such a short distance to fall, neither broke.

A female voice shouted from downstairs, “God damn it, cut out that horseplay up there!”

Florrie looked at me, eyes large. “That bed falls down every time we … we …” Her voice trailed off. She was blushing again. Marshall had doubled over. He coughed, producing a small white cloud.

That seemed a good time to return to the main objective. “Where are your things?”

“Mostly in there,” she said, pointing to a peeling chest of drawers.

“Better get them. Do you have a suitcase?”

“These boxes will work.”

She immediately turned up two cardboard boxes stacked beside the chest, dumping their contents, mostly magazines, onto the floor. One of the drawers appeared to contain her toiletries, another her underclothing, the third jeans, shirts and what might be a skirt or two, neatly folded. She pulled out drawers and distributed their contents among the two boxes. I glanced over her shoulder at the magazines. Scantily clad ladies — giving them the benefit of the doubt — stared seductively back at me from the covers. Several were opened upon full nudity. These were spotted. With Florrie around what was Marshall saving them for?

I thought about asking him but he stumbled to his feet, making retching sounds, and staggered out of the room. I presume he was heading for the communal bathroom.

Florrie straightened up with a well-stuffed box in her arms and looked at me beseechingly. “Will you carry one?”

“Of course. Does he owe you any money, Florrie?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “Forget it. He’ll never pay it.”

“Are you certain he’s the only one who could’ve put that in you?” I asked, pointing toward her belly.

Her eyes glinted at me. “I don’t care what he says; he’s the only one I’ve been with since I came here.”

“Then let’s get him back in here. He needs to understand about his responsibility.”

Her eyes dropped, then rose again to mine. “Harry, if he pays he’ll have the right to mess with it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“He’ll cause a lot of trouble. He always does. Harry, I don’t want to see him ever again and I sure don’t want him messing with my baby.”

Her face showed determination. I shook my head. “All right, but I hate to see him get away with it.”

“Thanks anyway.” She pushed past me toward the door, stepping carefully through the scattered groceries. I bent to pick up the second box when I heard her gasp. Marshall came through the door, pushing her back. He had washed his face incompletely. Behind him stood a larger fellow with broader shoulders and a sneering grin, dressed approximately the same as Marshall: shoeless in underclothes.

“I’ve got help, too,” Marshall announced with a smirk. “Where you going with my stuff?”

Gently I elbowed Florrie to one side. “You claim bras, panties, skirts and lipstick, do you?” I demanded, including a sneer of my own.

“You stay out of this!” he ordered. “This is between me and her.”

“And your brother here?”

The “brother” flicked his eyes over me and lost his sneer. “Wait a minute, Marsh,” he warned. “This guy a cop?”

Marshall opened his mouth but I spoke first. “No, I’m not, though you’re welcome to give them a call. Florrie is leaving and taking her property with her.”

“You related to her?”

“The same as you and Marshall.”

“In other words, you’re just butting in.”

I nodded. “The same as you. Now butt out or I’ll butt you out.”

He pushed up in front of me, chin thrust out, sneer recovered. “You and the fat broad and who else?”

The trouble with trained reflexes is that they have a will of their own, even after a few years of no practice. My left hand, fingers stiffly extended, had sunk into his unprotected belly while the right crossed between us, before I was fully aware of their intent. At least I was able to pull the punch with the heel of the right hand before it could quite crush the larynx under his extended chin. “Brother” came very close to dying this afternoon, but I doubt he feels grateful for my restraint.

He doubled up and collapsed to the floor, gagging, hands to his throat. Marshall fell back against the wall, eyes bulging. I pointed to him. “Stay there!”

I knelt beside “brother” and listened to his breathing, ragged at first but strengthening. A crushed larynx is invariably fatal unless someone nearby is willing to cut a hole in your throat below it. In this case the airway was still open though it would certainly be sore for a while.

Florrie’s knee touched my back. “Is he … Did you …”

“He’ll get over it,” I said, standing up. “Florrie, does everything in these boxes belong to you?”

She started to answer, then set her box on the floor, fumbled inside and removed a safety razor and tube of shaving cream, both of which she threw into the mess on the bed. “Now it does,” she declared, raising the box up again in her arms.

I fixed Marshall with a menacing stare. “That good enough for you?”

“Y-yes, sir,” he mumbled, pressing flatter against the wall.

From below rose the earlier female screech. “God damn it, will you please cut out that horseplay?”

Florrie took her box out into the hall. As I lifted mine I heard her call, “Ms. Kershey, I’m moving out.”

* * * *

On the drive away from the boarding house Florrie had nothing to say at first. She sat stolidly in her seat, staring straight ahead. Finally after a few blocks she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

I’d considered a motel but at this time of day on Sunday that might be a problem, now that those two hitch-hikers had ruined my welcome at the Bubble. So I said, “Home with me.”

Her gaze turned to me. “What’ll your wife say?”

“I’m not married, Florrie.”

“You aren’t?”

“No. So far all my prospects have reluctantly declined.” Strictly speaking, that’s not true. Daisy has never said no, exactly. The point is, she’s never said yes either.

“Then … you’re not one of those?”

“I prefer women, if that’s what you mean.”

“I thought so. One of that kind can’t fight like that. Sometimes I thought Marshall was one.”

I didn’t correct her, but I thought of Johnny Mills, team leader in the ranger company, queer as a four-dollar bill but ferocious in hand-to-hand.

“Where did you learn it?” she asked. The expression on her face was admiring.

“Vietnam.” Again not quite true. I learned it not so far from here. Where I practiced it was Vietnam.

“Oh.” A moment later she added, “I wish I could fight.”

I grinned. “Thought you did rather well, especially with those grocery bags.”

“I was just mad. I should tell him I’m sorry, shouldn’t I?”

“Are you asking for advice?”

“Please.”

“Do what you said you wanted. Make it a clean break.”

She took a deep breath. After awhile she sighed again. “What’ll become of me?”

“Whatever you want, Florrie. It’s your life, you know.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. I said sympathetically, “Tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“Your life. How did you end up crying in a stranger’s car?”

“A stranger!” she repeated. “You’re right. I even forgot your last name.”

“And I never knew yours.”

Her hand came forth tentatively and touched my arm. “I guess you have a right to hear it, if you want. Harry, you actually fought for me! Nobody ever did that before.”

“Presumably you were never in such a predicament.”

“Oh, yes, I was, almost. Except for the baby. How’ll I ever thank you?”

I almost told her we’d find a way, but if ever I saw a sitting duck… Instead I said, “What’s your full name?”

She sighed once more. “Florence Mary Jones.”

“Named for your two grandmothers?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I do.”

I didn’t pursue that. Instead I induced her to report where she was born, where her parents lived or used to live. She had been thrown out of their house at age 17, having turned up pregnant on the occasion of her first obstetrics examination, and had enjoyed no contact with them since. She didn’t know who did it. She’d sneaked out of the house four months earlier to attend a party where she got drunk and passed out. In the morning she was sore, hungover and bleeding.

Although abortion had just been legalized, she was too far along for the legitimate clinics. Some other girls told her about a place in Chicago that would take care of her if she had the money or if she would promise to do whatever they asked afterwards. Seemingly with nowhere else to turn, she had gone to Chicago and been delivered of her shameful burden. But the doctor, between slugs of bourbon, told her she’d never have another. That night she tried to kill herself. They pumped her stomach, but two days later she tried it again. He threw her out, too, before she even found out what she had promised to do for them.

She went from man to man, trading sexual favors for food and shelter, spending a year of the same, plus endless bullshit, in a commune in Indiana. Apparently the doctor was right; she took no precautions but caught only the common venereal diseases, cured by free-clinic penicillin. She’d learned to limit her attentions to one man at the time and had heard no report of disease in several years. She attended the clinics regularly, had been pronounced clean only last week. Clean but three months along.

She’d been despairing for as long as she could remember, though she never tried suicide again. “I can’t do anything right,” she admitted, tears dripping. By this time I had parked the car. She was sitting under my arm, her head on my shoulder, and I was making noises of sympathy. But I have yet to see a woman cry inconsolably.

She raised her wet eyes to me. “That’s it. Some life, huh?”

“It could be better,” I acknowledged, reaching a decision. “And by god, it will be!”

“For a fat broad?”

“Florrie, don’t accept the judgment of those louts. You’re a whole lot more than they can imagine.”

“Yeah. A pregnant fat broad!”

“How did that happen, by the way?”

No one had been more surprised than Florrie — and tickled to death, despite her fear for the baby’s prospects. Her voice took on determination when she declared, “I’ll try to find a way, but I’m not going to make a child live like that. We’ll go for a swim first.”

I grinned. “If you do, I’ll come along in a boat.”

“Won’t do any good. That bridge is 150 feet high. I’ll not mess it up this time.”

“You won’t have to, Florrie.”

She stifled a sob.

“You don’t believe me?”

She shook her head, flinging tears off her cheeks. “Harry, you don’t have to promise me anything. You know I’ll do anything you say, anything at all. I’ve already done it for all the others. But I’m no good, Harry. You’ll get tired of me, just like Marshall. Wait and see.”

I restarted the car and pulled away from the curb. “Well, Florrie, the proof as usual is in the pudding. You say you’ll obey me. Let’s see if you mean it.”

She heaved another sigh but said only, “I do,” curiously like a wedding oath of a bride knowingly submitting to humiliation and debasement.

* * * *

As I carried one of the boxes up the steps to my apartment, Mrs. Hollowell stepped out of the door that shares the landing with mine. She’s in her forties, I think, with the florid face of a drinker. I’ve reported the incident of the clogged drains in the open diary.

She said, “Moving out, Harry?”

“As you see, we’re taking the boxes in, Ms. Hollowell.”

“Why won’t you call me Eunice? Oh, you’re moving in, then?” Her regard had turned to Florrie, coming up the steps behind me.

“Mrs. Eunice Hollowell, this is Miss Florrie Jones. She’ll be staying here awhile.”

“Oh!” Her eyebrows rose sharply and she declared less ebulliently, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Jones.”

“No, you aren’t,” Florrie responded, her eyes narrowing.

The older woman stepped back with an expression of shock. Suppressing a grin, I said, “Excuse us, Ms. Hollowell. We’ll visit later. Come along, Florrie.”

The woman turned and fled into her apartment. When we had reached the privacy of mine, I led Florrie into the spare bedroom and bade her set her box on the bed as I was doing.

When she turned to face me, I said sternly, “Florrie, the next time I introduce you to someone, you say, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Do you understand?”

“Even if I’m not?”

“Especially if you’re not! Have you been out of polite society so long as that?”

“What’s the use of lying? Get the meanness out in the open.”

“Perhaps — but only at a time when it will do you some good. That’s almost never when you’ve just met someone and know nothing about her. I can think of circumstances where Ms. Hollowell’s good will could be valuable to you.”

“I can’t. She don’t like me. She wants you in her apartment.”

As a matter of fact, I’d gotten that impression on other occasions. I said, “She might come to like you.”

Florrie shrugged, then squared her shoulders. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want… That dresser is empty, mostly. You can put your stuff in it when we get back. Now we’ll go to dinner. Do you want to use the bathroom?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Do you want me to?”

I nodded with a twinkle of my own. “It’s right around that corner.”

* * * *

We ate in the dining room of a roadhouse I like, where most of the noise comes from patrons at the bar. Over dinner it was my turn on the grill. She asked question after question, mostly about my likes and dislikes, a few about my history. I answered better on the latter, admitting to seeing women, even at present, though I neglected to furnish particulars. And I failed to convey the fact that I see only one regularly.

She looked at me in wonder. “And all of them have refused to marry you?”

I chuckled. “If you’re about to ask ‘why,’ don’t ask me! I think I’m a marvelous catch.”

“I do, too. Are you rich, Harry?”

“Hardly!”

“You’re car is almost new.”

“Yes, but the last time I looked at my payment book, the bank owned more of it than I did.” I didn’t explain that the last time I looked at it was just before taking the profit on my Vision Systems’ holdings. By now that payment book is either incinerated or lies somewhere in the city dump.

Her table manners were excellent, probably better than mine, pleasantly surprising me after her unmannerly response to Mrs. Hollowell. I recalled my mother insisting that I should “pat” the lips, not scrub them with the napkin, though I’d consciously rejected that advice because the act seemed effeminate. It still does, and on Florrie it is also gracious.

And I recall learning that a comment on another’s manners exhibits the paucity of one’s own. I was on the point of complimenting her on the revealed quality of her parents when that thought saved me. And another: if they threw her out, she probably wouldn’t appreciate the remark.

Eventually I turned the discussion back to her. “What have you trained yourself to do, Florrie?”

Her eyes fell. She sighed and raised them again. “Nothing. Please men, I guess, though I’m not very good at it. I wish I could find one that deserves …”

Her voice trailed off. I said, “Deserves what?”

She blushed but held her eyes on mine. “Me.”

“That is well put, Florrie,” I said approvingly. “You’ve retained some self-esteem despite all the hard knocks. But did you never go back to any kind of school?”

“Three years ago I took a business course.”

“Good! Bookkeeping?”

“And typing. I got pretty good at typing.”

“Did you get a certificate?”

“Yes, but I don’t know where it is.”

“Did they get you a job?”

She nodded glumly. “As a receptionist. No typing and for sure no bookkeeping.”

“What happened to the job?”

“The boss wanted me to … please a customer.”

“And you refused.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll do anything my man wants, so long as it’s done for him!”

“No third party, is that it?”

“Certainly not one that … makes my skin crawl.”

“I see.”

Suddenly her hand shot out and clasped mine. Her face was strained. She asked, “You won’t make me do that, will you, Harry?”

I kept my eyes level. “I’m going to ask you to do several things, Florrie, but I want you to believe this: every one of them will be for your benefit and no one else’s.”

She searched my face, her lips twisting. “Oh, Harry! You mean it, don’t you?”

“I mean it, Florrie.”

She leaned back, sighing again. This girl sighs often and eloquently.

“What now?” I wondered.

“I wish there was a course that teaches how to keep a man from getting tired of you.”

“That defect, Florrie, may be in the man instead of you. What you need to learn is to choose better.”

“Sure!” She returned to her food. “A girl has to take what she can get.”

* * * *

After dinner I conducted her through the five rooms and two bathrooms of my apartment, plus a quick foray onto the balcony. She reacted as if it was the most spacious residence she’d seen in years, which it likely was. She goggled at the items of unmistakably feminine hygiene that Daisy had left in the master bathroom, as well as the female clothing spilling from the closet next to mine, but said nothing about them. I told her she could put her toiletries in the guest bathroom. She accepted everything I said, questioning nothing. In particular she didn’t ask how long she would stay, which surprised me when I realized it, though on reflection it shouldn’t have.

I stopped at the doorway of my office and gestured down the hall. “Make yourself at home, Florrie. There are snacks in the pantry, drinks in the refrigerator and a bar in the den. Help yourself. I suggest you unpack. Check if the guest bed has sheets. If not, you’ll find them in the linen closet in the bathroom. Watch television. If you read, take a look in the den bookcase. Go to bed when you feel like it.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I’ve got some technical reading. I’ll be in here with the door closed. Knock if you need me.”

“If it’s all right, I’d like to take a shower.”

“Certainly. Towels in the linen closet.”

“I hate old bathrooms with nothing but a cracked tub!”

“Is that what you had at Marshall’s?”

“And I had to share it with a bunch of men. They wouldn’t let me in it until ten o’clock.”

“Well, this one is all yours.”

She sighed heavily and looked away.

“What now?”

“I … don’t know what to say.”

I grinned. “Then say nothing.”

Her lips twisted indecisively. I closed the door gently, leaving her standing there.

I opened a VM programmer’s manual but sat waiting to hear the beginning of her shower. When the pipes groaned as they do in response to hot water, I dialed long distance information for her father’s number, which I wrote on my desk pad. A man answered on the third ring.

I asked, “Could I speak to Mr. Robert E. Jones?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Jones, do you have a daughter, Florence Mary Jones?”

“No.”

“You don’t?”

After a pause the voice snapped, “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Harrison Stone.”

“Who are you with, Mr. Stone? The police?”

“No, sir. This is a private call.”

Again a pause. “Well, what do you want?”

“I want to convey to you and your wife the information that your daughter is alive and well.”

“Where is she?”

“Just now she’s taking a shower.”

“Shacked up with you, is she?”

“Would that matter to you?”

“It would not.” He said that a bit too fiercely.

“I wonder if you’d care to speak to her.”

“We said all we had to say years ago.”

“Then may I tell her that you and her mother are in good health?”

“I don’t think she cares about that.”

“I assure you she does.”

“All right. We are.”

“Thank you. Do you have a pencil, Mr. Jones?”

“Why do I need a pencil?”

“To take down a telephone number.”

“Just a minute.”

When he was ready I dictated my number, adding, “She’ll be here full time for the next day or two. If you change your mind about talking to her, and I hope you do, please call.”

“Who are you, Mr. Stone? What do you do?”

“She’ll tell you all that. Good night, Mr. Jones.”

“Ah … well … good night.”

I read for a couple hours. Compared to some I know, I’m fortunate to have a talent at concentration, the ability to put other matters out of mind and concentrate on the material at hand. I had forgotten Florrie and her problems, and her gentle knock on my door at 22:00 startled me.

I told her to come in. She was wearing a somewhat tattered housecoat over bare legs and feet, holding it closed around her with hands gripping the edges. Her toenails were unpainted but close clipped and healthy. Her light hair was brushed loose from the ponytail to float around her shoulders. Her face shone in the light of my desk lamp, clean and pale from absent makeup and something else. Trepidation?

“All moved in?” I asked, smiling at her.

“Yes. Harry, excuse me for disturbing you but I wanted to find out …”

She seemed to run out of wind. “Ask me anything,” I directed.

She swallowed. “To find out h-how I can thank you.”

I shook my head. “Florrie, no thanks are necessary. And when —”

“Yes, they are,” she interrupted. “I think you saved my life.”

We stared at each other. Her face slowly reddened. She took a breath and separated her hands, pulling the housecoat fully open. She was nude behind it. She said, “This is all I have to thank you with.”

Overly plump? Not this woman! Some would call her fat, I suppose, but Rubens wouldn’t have. Her figure was classically voluptuous. Lush is the right word. The skin was pale cream, backed by a tracery of blue veins, especially in breasts and thighs. The nipples were large and pinkly unpigmented. The pubic hair was thick and light brown to match that of her head. From its unshaven state and her lack of tan, she obviously owned no bikini. Considering the grandeur of breast, hip and thigh, her waist was remarkably small. Three months pregnant? I knew nothing about the progress of pregnancy but it was still hard to believe her claim.

I stood up. “My god, Florrie!”

Her hands sagged and her hopeful look changed to one of anxiety. “Please don’t be mad at me!”

I pushed back the chair, closed the distance between us and took her hands in mine. “Florrie, believe me, I’m not mad! You just knocked my socks off, that’s all.”

The red tide was spreading down her chest. Her face fell. “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered.

“Well, I’m not,” I declared. “You’re magnificent, Florrie.”

Her face came up with a startled expression. “What?”

“Your body would make an artist’s mouth water. Rubens would’ve drooled all over you.”

Her eyes were wide. I couldn’t stop a fond chuckle. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“I’m a fat broad.” She said it anxiously, eyes pleading with me for something — whether to affirm it or deny it, I couldn’t decide.

“You are lush, Florrie! I’d love to have a statue of you, holding your housecoat open just as you did a moment ago … about half scale, mounted on a pedestal in the middle of my den.”

“A statue?”

“I’d call it ‘Gratitude.’ It’d be worth a million dollars.”

She chuckled slightly, eyes softening. “A million dollars!”

“Only after we’re all dead, of course.” I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. “Thank you, Florrie, for giving me a glimpse. You’re a vision.”

She freed herself and stepped back from me. The housecoat fell to the floor as she shrugged out of it. She spread her hands. “All of it’s yours, Harry.”

This was approximately what I’d intended to happen when I ordered her groceries into my car. Yet as I took her in my arms and kissed her, it felt like betrayal. Her lips parted readily for my tongue. That more than her words said she wanted me. The erection rising against her belly said I wanted her, so why the reluctance to proceed?

I brushed it aside and led her to the guest bedroom. Noticed in passing that the bed was already turned back, pillows fluffed. She sat on the bedside, watching silently as I threw my clothes on the floor. As I stepped out of my shorts, she reached under a pillow and drew out a crumpled tube of lubricating jelly.

She showed it to me and said, “I’ll put it on you,” which I took to mean she’d prefer to refrain from oral sex. So I let her. She used it sparingly but thoroughly, replaced cap on tube and tube under pillow, and lay back on the coverlet, opening her legs and looking at me expectantly.

I stood by the bed, staring at her in the yellow light from the table lamp. She made a beckoning gesture towards my dick. “Come on.”

“Florrie, is this what you’ve done with all your men?”

“Sure.” Her face showed surprise. “What else?”

I knelt between her legs and stroked her belly while cupping a breast. My hand was not large enough to enclose it fully. The hand on her belly descended to her furry slit.

She cocked her head at me. “You don’t need that. It’s hard already.”

A dick does not have to rule a man’s life, or so I told myself as I sank upon her to disprove it. She was tight despite the jelly. A rapist would need lots of it. And probably a new set of balls; this woman was no weakling. Her rotating hips lifted me effortlessly. When they had milked me dry she was not even breathing hard.

I felt shame. For perhaps the first time in my life I was glad of my rabbit-like response.

She smiled as I got off her. “That’s a down payment,” she said.

“Florrie, I … don’t know what to say.”

She grinned. “Who was it told me then to say nothing?” She looked down at my feet and pretended to be disappointed. “Thought you said I knocked your socks off.”

* * * *

She’s asleep in the guest bedroom as I finish these curlicues. I checked on her just now: curled like a child on her side, long hair spreading over the pillow, breath soft and even. Despite appearances, my rock-bottom reason for bringing her home was not to screw her — that is, not just to screw her. Which was why her discovery by Mrs. Hollowell failed to dismay me. I want Daisy to know that her continued dalliance bears a risk. Presumably she will learn it no later than next weekend, which she is scheduled to spend with me. Does this reflect a willingness to lose Daisy? Not really. I have a long list of her own arguments supporting infidelity, to bounce back. What it reflects is desperation.

But now … Miss Florence Mary Jones, as a sexual object, might be the greatest challenge I ever faced. Earth mother though she may be, above such petty humanity, she is going to come, god damn it, and soon!

Monday, May 15, 1972

I awoke to a knock on my bedroom door and the odor of frying bacon. At my acknowledgment Florrie opened the door in the housecoat from last night, still barefooted but hair up in the ponytail. She said, “Breakfast is ready.”

“Give me a minute.”

She nodded and gently closed the door. Having thrown a robe over my hairy nakedness, I appeared in the kitchen to find the table set with two plates, silverware, napkins, condiment shakers, my lone sugar bowl, tumblers of orange juice and coffee cups as yet empty of coffee. She was just ladling sunny side eggs from a frying pan onto the plates. A rasher of bacon sizzled beside a bowl of steaming hash browns.

“Good god!” I exclaimed in amazement. I cannot recall breakfast ever being cooked in this kitchen during my tenancy. As I’ve mentioned in the open diary, I seldom eat breakfast at all.

She grinned at me. “Surprised?”

“You bet I am! Where’d you find the bacon and eggs?”

“I went for a walk.”

The May sun was shining between the houses across the street. The corner market had been open 45 minutes.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Huh! Did you forget I’m out of money?”

“Then who did you flash?”

She looked puzzled but only for a moment. “Flash!” She actually laughed. “I found a ten dollar bill in the box marked ‘sugar.’ And I put on my jeans first. Did you think I went like this? I wouldn’t show myself to another man, Harry.”

Ironic! I recalled Daisy slipping the ten in the sugar box to remind me it needed refilling when she cooked a pie here last month.

“I’ll flash you,” she announced, jerking the housecoat open for a second before closing it up again. I had a peripheral glimpse of the remembered lushness, but her smile of little-girl delight was so attractive my eyes failed to scan.

“Thank you. You mean you came back and took the jeans off?”

“Bacon splatters so. This old housecoat is ruined anyway.” She blushed slightly and looked down. “Besides, I wanted to remind you.” Her eyes rose anxiously. “You did like me last night, didn’t you, Harry?”

“Oh, yes, Florrie. And I intend to make you like me!”

Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead. “Like you? Oh, god, Harry! I’ll do anything for you!”

“Is that the same thing?”

She looked puzzled. “Isn’t it?”

“We’ll see.” I regarded the eggs. “Can you cook?”

“As you said, the proof is in the pudding.”

I sat down. She immediately advanced with my coffee pot, bought for Daisy to use, steam rising from its spout. “Do you like cream and sugar?” she asked.

I put my hand over the cup. “None for me, Florrie.”

“None?” Her eyes went wide.

“I can’t stand the taste of coffee.” I got up, took a spare glass from the shelf and a coke from the back of the refrigerator. “This is my choice in caffeine,” I said to her.

“I would’ve got it,” she murmured, abashed, pouring coffee in her own cup.

In half a minute I knew she had cooked marvelously. “What did you put in the eggs?” I asked around the second mouthful.

“Some of your spices. Did it work?”

“It’s delicious, Florrie. Sit down and try it yourself.”

In her seat she observed, “That’s why you had so little coffee. I’m glad I didn’t buy more.”

“We’ll buy more. For you.”

When we had cleaned the plates, I rubbed my belly through the open robe and asked, “Where’d you learn to cook so well?”

“In that Indiana commune I mentioned.” She grinned sheepishly. “That’s where I put on most of this weight.”

“I meant to ask you about that. You don’t look three months pregnant.”

“Don’t I?”

“Well, I didn’t see you three months ago, but your belly doesn’t look out of proportion.”

“It’s because I’m fat.”

“Say ‘plump.’”

“Because I’m plump, then. The clinic says I am. My last period was in January.”

“January? Hmm. Wouldn’t that make four months?”

“Yes. I’m missing the fourth one right now.”

I nodded. “Florrie, anyone who can cook, let alone cook like a French chef, can get a job.”

“I know.” Her whole face sagged. “Do you want me to help pay the rent?”

“The rent? Huh! D’you mean to say, after fixing a meal like this, that you don’t enjoy cooking?”

“I hate it anywhere else.” She bit her bottom lip.

“Why, Florrie? It doesn’t make sense.” I gestured at our leavings.

“I hate to do personal things, Harry” — her ready blush appeared — “except for my man.”

“I see. Can you think of cooking as just a kind of chemistry? In fact that’s all it is, you know.”

She laughed indulgently but cocked an eyebrow. “Can you make good French fries, Harry?”

“Who, me?” I remembered an incident in high-school chemistry. “I can’t melt sugar without setting it afire.”

“Then why do you call it ‘just chemistry.’ It’s physics, too, and careful measurement and scheduling and a lot of things. But in the end it’s for people to eat. It’s personal service, Harry.”

“‘Physics, too,’” I repeated. “What kind of commune was that in Indiana?”

“I told you: free love. But they had a good library.”

“Then you have learned more than just what pleases a man!”

“Not really. Cooking pleases him best.”

An interesting point, considering what last night revealed about her preferences. I started to suggest that in fact it wasn’t true before realizing that I could hardly speak for all men. I knew only that it wasn’t true for me. I can appreciate good food, such as this, but it cloys quickly and the satiation can take days to dissipate. Lechery, on the other hand, is renewable in hours, often in minutes.

She asked, “Harry, do you clean up?”

“Clean up?”

She waved. “This place.”

“No. A maid comes every Friday.”

“She’s not been doing a good job for you.”

“Hasn’t she?”

“Especially on the bathroom.”

I shrugged. “No one has used the guest bathroom in months.”

“Still she ought to dust it.”

From the unbacked housecoat I surmised an expectation of further frolic in her bed. If so I disappointed her, though she concealed it well. I saw only a slight widening of the eyes when I stood up, complimented her for the tasty breakfast and told her I was getting dressed.

After my ablutions I called her into the bedroom while clothing myself. “Florrie, my business card is on the telephone stand. It has my extension and the lab extension at work. If you need me don’t hesitate to call.”

She stood near the door in her housecoat, watching me tie the necktie. “I can do that,” she announced.

“You know the difference between a full and a half Windsor, do you?”

“Huh?”

“And a four-in-hand?”

“Those are knots?”

“For neckties.”

“No.” She sounded subdued. “I never knew a man who wore one to work.” Eagerness returned. “But I can learn.”

“You don’t need it, Florrie. Did you understand about calling me?”

“Yes. When will you get home?”

For the first time in years that question was important to someone besides myself. It was an odd feeling. I said, “About six. If not I’ll call you.”

She waited beside the front doorway, leaning forward on the balls of her feet, as I approached with my briefcase. So of course I paused to kiss her. Her hands cradled my neck as she pulled our lips together. She tasted of toothpaste despite her hearty breakfast. Again I smelled distantly cooking meat. This woman’s natural odor could make a man hungry, though not necessarily for her. Did that contribute to her belief in the superior gratification of good food?

When I raised my head she said tentatively, “Harry …”

“What?”

She sighed, large pale eyes fixed on mine. “Have a nice day.”

I smiled politely. Again she reminded me of a doting daughter, as she had last night in far less appropriate circumstances.

* * * *

The signals analysis system is in the last phase of alpha test, the deadline is approaching fast and therefore the bugs are the ones farthest under the rock. According to military test rules, I, the coder, can’t look over the testers’ shoulders — how stupid! Do they think testers can record all the subtleties of a bug’s emergence? — so when the testers came on duty at 17:00 I had to go. I was home at 17:45. I had totally forgotten Florrie until I opened my front door.

There she stood in the same housecoat, barefooted, hair in a ponytail. But now her face was very pretty: eyebrows lined, eyelashes brushed, lipstick and rouge lightly applied, shineless nose, even a touch of mascara — and a smile of welcome.

This time she was not holding the housecoat closed. I set down my briefcase, slipped my hands into the garment under her arms and around her back, and squeezed her against me, covering her lips with my own. Her lips parted and her eyes closed. The skin of her back was velvet. I smelled soap with an overlay of cologne.

“What a great surprise!” I exclaimed when we broke.

She returned my smile. “I took a bath.”

“I can tell.”

She hesitated, beginning to blush. Her eyes fell. “If you wanted to … I’d be ready.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked.

“I can wait.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can! After that big breakfast I kept postponing lunch till finally the cafeteria closed.”

“You’ve had no lunch?”

“No. How fast can you get dressed?”

“I have a pizza ready to go in the oven and the oven’s hot. I can serve it in twelve minutes.”

“A pizza! Where’d you get it?”

“It’s my recipe. Five different cheeses. Oh! You mean — I spent the rest of the ten. Except for 37 cents.”

I chuckled slightly. “Florrie, what will you do next?”

She turned slightly sideways in my arms, pushing a large nipple into my palm. Her eyes danced. “How’s that?”

Of course I squeezed it, keeping in mind that this girl had exhibited no sign whatsoever of pleasure in our first and only sexual encounter. But she grinned hugely when I ostentatiously licked my lips.

“Let me go put the pizza in,” she requested. “Then I’ll help you undress.”

I shook my head, releasing her. “You don’t need to do that, Florrie.” But I said it to her back.

The den looked different somehow as I passed through on the way to my bedroom. The newspapers I’d left on the floor, including the double copy, less science fold-in, of yesterday, were stacked neatly on the bar. The magazines that had lain under them were missing, presumably returned to the rack. The hardback copy of Ringworld I’d left open, face down, on the end table was still there but closed with a bookmark protruding from its pages. Most remarkably the accent cushions Daisy threw at me a month ago, which had vanished behind the couch, were restored in their rightful spots at either end.

I braced myself before entering the bedroom. Indeed it was unrecognizable. The bed, never made except by the maid on Friday, was made neatly with my lone alternate bedspread, the one that matched the curtains. Friday, Saturday and Sunday’s clothing was missing from the floor. The mixture of Daisy’s bottles, my previous pocket change, business cards and old photographs were geometrically aligned atop dresser and chest of drawers. The headboard bookshelf was neatly stacked, again the previously open books closed and bookmarked. The closets were closed. I opened one. The clothing was ordered longest items to the left, shortest on the right. The coat hangers were untangled. The military had taught me to align them the same way, hooks pointing inward, presumably so that clothing could be snatched up with one sweep of the hand. Florrie seemed to have a different objective; all the hooks pointed out. To keep a tornado from sucking them away?

The carpet seemed to be a shade lighter. The stain of old spilled beer that had marred it near the door was gone. I knelt and felt of it; it was damp. Had she even scrubbed the carpet?

I looked into my adjoining bathroom. It has never been so spotless. Daisy’s bottles were ordered, tall and slim to short and fat, on one side of the sink. My utensil holder faced them on the other side, now actually holding utensils: toothbrush, comb and razor. The mirror reflected my wondering gaze without a blot, the bathtub gleamed, a box of tissues stood ready to be plucked atop the toilet, and an extra roll of paper waited beside it.

Florrie approached through the open doors behind me. As she drew near I pointed to the dangling end of the toilet paper, formed into an isosceles triangle. “Were you ever a maid in a motel, Florrie?”

“No. But I like that folding. It shows no one has used it since it was cleaned.”

I grunted. “Shows no woman has used it, maybe.”

“I mean, shows no one has sat on the toilet. Don’t you want to take off your tie, Harry?”

I turned to face her. She reached for my briefcase, still dangling from my hand. I let her have it.

“Don’t you want this in your office?” she asked over her shoulder, returning to the bedroom. She set it at the foot of the bed and faced me. “I’ll take it in there. Come on. I’ll put your clothes away.”

“Florrie, have you spent the day cleaning this apartment?”

“Oh, no. I’m fast when I get started.”

“You even scrubbed the carpet in there.”

“Just the bedroom. But it was filthy.”

“With what?”

“A scrub brush. I found your maid’s supplies in the front closet.”

“On hands and knees?”

“It only took an hour or so, Harry, nothing to it. I love to care for nice things. And you have nice things.”

Nice? I looked around and nodded. “Nicer now than this morning.”

As I undressed she took the outer clothing from me, emptied my pockets onto the dresser and hung jacket and pants on the same hanger. She folded the white shirt and deposited it in a yellow clothes basket in the same closet. I continued with T-shirts and shorts, which she took without remark and transferred to the same basket. While I sat down on the bed to remove my socks, she took a robe from the closet and a pair of slippers I’d worn once or twice. She arrayed the slippers before me and held the robe open when I arose.

“Thank you,” I said. “What about your pizza?”

“It’s not ready.”

“How do you know?”

“The bell hasn’t rung.” I’d forgot my oven had a timer.

“Florrie, this is very nice, a pleasant way to get comfortable, but it’s totally unnecessary.”

“But isn’t it easier than doing it yourself?” she asked with an expression of concern. “And isn’t it neater?”

She had a point. Had I been alone, all would now be on the floor. But I normally would’ve removed only jacket and tie. Still …

“I don’t want you to think you have to do this every day.”

“Okay,” she said, tossing her head. “Would you rather have beer or coke?”

“There’s beer left?”

“I found six bottles in the pantry this morning. They should be cold by now.”

“God knows how long they’ve been there.” I remarked.

The kitchen, as I was coming to expect, was immaculate though she had apparently built a pizza from scratch: no mixing bowl or stirring spoon was evident. The sink was empty. The table was already set, curiously with four plates though only two knives and forks. She had even found two cloth napkins. I dimly remembered buying four when I moved in here.

The bell went off and was silenced. A large pizza came bubbling and steaming from the oven, was sliced into wedges and distributed among all four plates, solving the mystery of the extra two. My mouth watered at the aroma.

She bade me sit while she decanted beer into pilsener glasses, again that I’d forgotten I had. I think “decanted” is the word for such gentle pouring. She raised no head in either glass. I sipped it and verified that beer keeps very well in a cool, dark place.

I raised my glass. “Here’s to a marvelous cook and housekeeper.”

She smiled while I took a swallow, then raised her own. “And here’s to a man who’s worth every bit of it.”

Of course I smiled, too, as she swallowed. She added, “Thank you, Harry. I wondered if you really noticed.”

“Oh, yes: den, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. I haven’t made it to the other rooms yet. What did you do in my office?”

“Just straightened it a little, and dusted.”

“Florrie, I hope you didn’t fool with those flowchart sheets. That’s a problem I’m working on.”

“I straightened them, that’s all. They’re in the same order.”

“I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but don’t do the office again unless I’m in there.”

She sighed. “All right, Harry. I’m sorry. It was so dusty. I guess you’d rather I stayed out of your safe, too.”

“My safe!”

“Yes. The nail had pulled loose on the picture it’s behind. I found it when I dusted.”

“Is the picture down?”

“Oh, no. I put in a larger nail.”

“Thank you. But don’t worry. You can’t get in the safe.”

Her eyes fell. “Harry …”

“What?”

She blushed. “I straightened it up, too.”

“You what?”

Her eyes rose to mine anxiously. “And I think you ought to know, you’ve got more cash in it than your ledger claims.”

“I do? How much more?”

“Your ledger claims $12,440 but you actually have $15,630.”

She was probably correct; I’d not recorded the proceeds of the last stock sale. Through my shock I demanded, “How did you get in it, Florrie? Don’t tell me I left it open.”

“No, you didn’t leave it open. But you or somebody wrote the combination on the back of the old folks’ picture on your desk. Are they your parents?”

I nodded dumbly. Good god!

“The jewels are pretty,” she observed, cutting the tip off a pizza slice. “But some of those yellow coins are tarnished, Harry. I thought of polishing them but decided I should ask first. I’m surprised. I didn’t think gold would tarnish.”

She tucked the bit of pizza into her mouth, chewed briefly and announced around it, “It’s cool enough now, if you want to try it.”

Did she know that private ownership of gold is illegal? A collection of coins is allowed, but only to a registered hobbyist, which I am not. And the stain on that gold is blood, not tarnish. I decided to say nothing about it. If she knew I was breaking the law, why would she even mention it?

She noticed my hesitation and frowned. “Harry, I’m not such a rube that I don’t know to stay out of safes. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I was so curious. That’s not true. The better I know my man, the better I can help him. But I won’t go in it again.”

The blood is Artie’s, of course. Sentiment is one thing, but that blood will surely get me in trouble yet. I said, “Florrie, I want you to go in it one more time. I want you to take out those coins and scrub them thoroughly.”

Her eyes widened. “Will brass polish work?”

“Soap and water will work. You’re right. Gold doesn’t tarnish. That stain is something else.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she promised, taking another large cut of pizza.

I followed her example. The food was delicious, its aroma filling my head as only good pizza can. But I didn’t appreciate it as well as I might have. What to do about this? Best to ignore it?

We ate in silence for a few minutes until she announced, “My father called here today.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I gave him the number last night. How did it go?”

She studied me. “Why’d you call him?”

I returned her gaze levelly. “My father threw me out, too.”

“He did?”

“A bit younger than you. For stealing beer in a supermarket.”

She stared at me. “What did you do?”

“Learned how much I needed him. But fathers can learn, too, Florrie. What did yours say?”

“He wants me to come home.”

“Good. What did you tell him?”

“That I’d think about it.”

“All right. Make sure you do.”

“I will. They … they apologized, Harry. He put Mom on the extension. They were both crying.”

“I don’t remember if you told me: do you have brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child. They wanted to know what happened to my baby.”

Her face was pensive. She took another pizza slice.

I asked, “Did you tell them you have another coming?”

“No, but I thought of it. They actually sounded disappointed that I had aborted the first one.”

“Maybe they’d like to be grandparents.”

She nodded. “I think they would.”

“Well, Florrie, I hope you’re as glad about this as you ought to be. You finally have a safety net under you.”

She smiled slightly. “Maybe I am. Harry, thanks for calling them. You’re an unusual man.”

I grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Babe.”

She shook her head. “I’ve seen a lot. That’s how I know you’re so unusual.”

We ate the whole pizza together; nothing is thin about this girl’s appetite, either. I sat and watched her clean up afterwards. Her efficiency was remarkable. I saw no waste motion. In fifteen minutes she had everything washed, dried and put in its proper place, with only the cloth napkins saved for the clothes hamper. Finally she brought scrub brush, soap solution and dishtowel to the table itself. I raised my elbows while she attacked the Formica top.

“What’re you doing, Florrie?”

She answered while scrubbing, “Table tops get very dirty. They can harbor more germs than any part of the kitchen.”

One of my aunts had been notorious for washing money before she would handle it. Was Florrie that kind? I understood that Aunt Nettie had been awfully hard to live with.

The room Florrie had shared with Marshall, while lined in faded wallpaper, veneer peeling from the furniture, had been spotlessly clean — aside from the large greasy spot that was Marshall himself. I was beginning to understand that Florrie did not tolerate dirt very well — in her surroundings, at least, though her man might get away with it. I wanted to find out what else she considered dirt.

She put her cleaning tools away then came and stood before me. “Are you going to work in your office tonight?”

“I don’t think so.” I took the edges of the housecoat and opened them slowly. She let her arms dangle at her sides while I studied her. The ready blush appeared on face and shoulders. “Unless you call this work.”

“Huh! Work!”

“But it is for you, isn’t it, Florrie?”

“Work?” she repeated in puzzlement.

“To you it’s just something that men have to do, isn’t it?” My hand had slipped between her thighs. I stroked the sweet flesh, allowing the web between thumb and forefinger to impact her tiny clitoris gently.

“It’s their nature,” she noted, watching me.

“It’s also yours, Florrie.”

“I know. It’s nature’s way to make babies. But we don’t have to worry about that just now.”

“Have you never gotten pleasure from this?”

“A few times I’ve thought if they’d just keep on …”

“What would’ve happened?”

“Other girls have told me that it’s … better than anything. I don’t know. It’s … like being scared, a little.”

“Like being scared?”

“Sort of the same feeling, in your chest and your stomach.”

“Hmm. I think that’s just the beginning of it.”

“Maybe. It’s as far as I ever got.”

I pushed back my chair and patted the table edge in front of me. “Sit here.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Sit on the table?”

I had to grin. “I didn’t ask you to spit on God, Florrie.”

“What god!” With obvious reluctance she lowered her buttocks onto the table edge, the robe between her and the Formica.

Excuse me Mr. Goldwater, but I couldn’t resist. “Atheism in the kitchen is no vice,” I intoned solemnly as my face parted her thighs.

“What do you —” She interrupted herself as her hand on my forehead stopped me. “Harry, that’s dirty.”

“You dirty, Florrie? Don’t be ridiculous!”

I removed her hand with mine.

She sighed, almost a groan. “You’ll hate me, Harry!”

“Why in the world would I do that?” I asked, my breath disturbing the hair.

She squirmed just the slightest. “You will. I know it.”

My tongue spread the lips and stroked upward, doing its best to imitate a feather.

“It’s where I … where …” She shuddered. “Oh, god, Harry!”

I realized I should’ve shaved. But I was committed now and she had ceased to protest. I tried to keep my chin away from her as I stroked in circles around the clitoris. When I touched it again, it had grown to the size of a pea, the first encouraging sign. I let the pressure on it increase but not too much. Daisy had warned me about the extreme sensitivity of the seldom touched organ, and if Florrie had told the truth, this one would likely take the left-alone prize.

I continued the same pattern: circles for many seconds, then a few flicks on the tip of the button. Very gradually I began to give it more attention, increasing duration first then pressure. She began to twitch, tiny random jerks of her hips. Her thighs closed on my head then suddenly parted in belated awareness. I put my arms under her legs, urging them onto my shoulders. Her angle of presentation changed as she leaned back, supporting herself on extended hands. I was aware of a compelling aroma, a mixture of the seashore and hot piney woods.

My tongue was tiring. I began to concentrate on the clitoris with brief excursions across the urethra to rest my tongue. Fluttering thighs muffled my ears; nevertheless I could hear her gasp for breath, synchronized with the twitching that had progressed from hips to belly. Then my tongue regained its strength because I knew she was about to come, by god! Or by Harry.

It lashed her mercilessly. Her gasps became shrieks as her heels drummed on my back. She struggled erect, wailing like a siren, enclosed my head in both hands and forced it away from her before falling backward onto the table, which her head struck with a dull thump.

Her hands gripped the table sides as her hips writhed. I wiped my mouth on my robe and rose up carefully, letting her thighs slide down my chest but retaining her ankles on my shoulders. The sopping vagina was just the right height. Perhaps because my dick had cooled, hanging out of an open robe, she felt hot as a furnace inside. What a difference! Dry and tight last night was now wet and loose. She cried out as the head bumped past the cervix. In this position a woman gets everything a man has to give.

Every slow, long thrust produced a soprano cry. I could feel her sphincters squeezing and was pleasantly surprised to endure even a dozen strokes. As I flooded her, shuddering at maximum penetration, she screamed, crossing and uncrossing her legs on my chest. Short as it was, god, what a fuck!

I stood quietly, remaining in her, until she had mostly calmed. Her hands were covering her face. Backing away I took one of them and pulled her up off the table and onto her feet. Her face was red and tears were streaming from her closed eyes.

I took her in my arms and held her wet cheek against mine with a hand behind her head. “What’s the matter, Florrie?”

Her arms went around my neck but she buried her face silently in the hollow of my shoulder. I could feel her uneven breathing. Indeed she was bawling, though silently.

What the hell? All I could imagine was that I had come too soon, the story of my life. Holding tight to her, I guided her out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. I knew we’d soil the bedspread, stretched tight in geometric perfection, but after all it was my property.

I took her under the knees and though I’ll admit here it was a bit of a strain, I lifted her onto the bed, threw off my robe, and let myself gently down upon her. As I believe I’ve mentioned, my dick is hard to defeat. It was still game. Back into the fray it went.

Her hips began to move immediately. Her legs came up and enwrapped my hips. And she continued to come, as indicated by grunts, groans, delirious moans and vaginal clipping. I’ve hardly ever known so passionate a display so long enduring, as if all the orgasms she’d been denied were visiting her at once, one after the other. God, it was great to know I was the instrument that drove her to these heights!

Eventually I began to feel concern. There was enough light in the room to see that her entire body, even the knees raised nearly to my shoulders, had reddened in a general flush. She was gasping for breath in time with my fast thrusts and I realized that she was trying to speak. I listened closely and heard, “If … you … don’t … stop … you’ll … kill … me!”

But my second was finally rising. I didn’t stop until it was empty. She felt even that weak one. The cervix must be as sensitive to ejaculation as the clitoris to a breath. Or perhaps it is the sudden increase in moisture. She screamed again, even louder than the first time, and suddenly relaxed entirely. Her clenched arms and legs fell away from me. I might’ve thought her dead, extremities limp, eyes closed, if a dead person could pant for breath.

Not that my own breath was so easy. I lay beside her, rubbing her heaving chest but avoiding the still-puckered nipples. After a bit she raised up, threw the robe off her shoulders and arms and lay back down with her back to me.

“You don’t have to rub me,” she said, her voice muffled by the tangled bedclothes. “I’m so hot and sweaty.”

Indeed her meaty odor was making me hungry again. I said, “I made you hot and sweaty. I love that.”

“Don’t play games, Harry. I know you hate me.”

I raised up to look at her face. Her eyes were closed. “Hate you, Florrie? Why in the world would you say that?”

“I know how it is when somebody comes in your mouth.”

I almost laughed. I said, “When did a woman come in your mouth?”

That got her attention. She turned slightly to look at me. “A woman?”

“A woman came in my mouth just now and believe me, Florrie, it was about as far from hateful as you can get.”

“It was?”

“Why’d you think I would hate it?” I suspected her reason but wanted to hear her say it.

She grunted. “You think I’m a fool, I guess. Didn’t it … stink?” Her eyes searched mine.

I chuckled. She had managed to surprise me again. I’d expected some reference to male emission, of course.

“You don’t stink, Florrie. Ever. Anywhere.”

“Yes, I do.” I saw a tiny smile. “But I’m glad you don’t think so.”

She got tiredly out of bed. Her body gleamed, a stirring sight. She turned to look at me. “I could do that for you, too,” she suggested.

“What?”

“Make you come in my mouth.”

“But you don’t like it, do you?”

She stood quietly for several seconds, looking at my remaining half-erection. “In the commune when they had too many pregnancies, they stopped allowing … regular sex.”

“In a free love commune? Ha! Babies are what you expect.”

“Not if men come in the mouth or … rectum.”

“And you didn’t care for that, am I right?”

“I never did the mouth. The other hurts.”

“It doesn’t have to. I don’t understand, Florrie.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You don’t? Well, it hurt me!”

“No. I mean, didn’t you just offer to take me in your mouth?”

She took a breath. “Yes.”

“Why, if you hate it so?”

“I … owe you.”

“No, Florrie.” I stood up beside her and put my arm around her back. “Never feel that way about it. Sex between you and me is for one reason only: fun — my fun, yes, but also your fun, just as much.”

Her eyes searched my face. “Then what we just did …”

“Was wonderful, Florrie. I can’t believe you don’t agree.”

“It was wonderful.”

“Can’t you say that with a little more enthusiasm?”

“It’s the way you always want it?”

“Of course.”

Her eyes fell. “It s-scared me, Harry.”

“Scared you?”

She sighed. “I … never felt anything like it. I was just … just a puppet and you were pulling all my strings.”

“‘Pulling all your strings,’” I repeated. “That’s cute.”

The look on her face was strange. It reminded me of a fawn I once saw in my headlights. She stepped away from my arm. “I need a shower, Harry.”

“Not really.” I hated to let her go.

“Yes, I do. May I?”

I had finally to acquiesce. So I took my robe and went to my office. After an hour of scribbling these curlicues, long after her shower had ceased to run, I went to check on her. She was in bed, apparently asleep, though it was only nine o’clock.

I am disappointed, of course, that her initiation into the joy of sex, magnificent in every way, should only have put her to sleep. What did I expect, a parade? The answer, I guess, is some show of gratitude. “You were pulling all my strings.” Is that all I get?

Though it’s actually quite an admission, one I never heard before. I guess I can live with it. For now.

Tuesday, May 16, 1972

Florrie woke me again this morning with breakfast: ham and cheese omelets, by gum! And past the gums is where they went. Delicious! This could become a very pleasant habit.

When she bent to fill my plate, I noticed a brassiere. So I pulled open one side of her housecoat. Panties. I said nothing, of course, but I’ll admit my disappointment. She seemed subdued, saying little. Again I was disappointed. I would’ve thought that after coming until she feared for her life, she’d be at least as exuberant this morning as I. Clearly that was not the case. She claimed to be missing her fourth period just now. I wondered if a woman gets gloomy when her period is due, whether she bleeds or not.

I kissed her at the door and went to work, but I didn’t forget her. Over a late lunch I put through a couple of phone calls and made an appointment for her. I left a bit early, having shot the bugs of my own the testers found last night and helped Tommy with one of his — worth mentioning because he coded X when he meant Y and thereafter corrected it in his mind, without realizing it, every time he scanned the listing. Only another reviewer can find such a well-hidden bug as that. Shades of The Purloined Letter!

She met me at the door again, smiled and turned her lips up for a kiss. But today she wore jeans and a blouse. My arms around her felt the straps of a bra. Before I could ask her why, she said, “I could find only two TV dinners. Will they do for supper?”

I snapped my fingers. “And you’re out of money. Why didn’t you take some from the safe?”

“Oh, no!” She drew back. “I took the coins out, as you said, and cleaned them.” Her eyes flashed at mine. I could just imagine the “tarnish” turning red as it was rehydrated. “But I wouldn’t touch that money.” She smiled slightly. “Money in the kitchen I figured was meant for the kitchen. Was I wrong?”

“You were absolutely right. We’ll sit down tonight and work out a household account for you.”

“I …” Her eyes dipped, then rose to mine again. “Do you want to go out?”

“What’s in the TV dinners?”

“Meat loaf.”

“I’m a bit tired, Florrie. How about just heating them up. Also, I’ve got some news for you.”

“I’ve already heated the oven, but they’re still frozen. They’ll take half an hour.”

“All right. I’m not in such a hurry tonight.”

I followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the door jamb, watching as she opened the boxes. “I’ll help you undress in just a minute,” she said without looking up.

“That was fun yesterday, but I don’t really need help, Florrie. Tell me: how fast can you type?”

She looked at me inquiringly. “I could do sixty words per minute when I finished the bookkeeping class.”

“I’ve got an electric typewriter you can use for practice.”

“Why? Do you have something you want me to type?”

“Not me. Clanson Associates does. And Harvey Clanson was in the army with me. He needs an assistant bookkeeper who can also type up engineering reports.”

Her eyes widened in a smile. I added, “They’ll pay two eighty to start and train you on the job. They want to see you tomorrow morning at oh-eight hundred.”

“Two eighty!” she breathed. “Just to start?”

“That’s what he said, but I bet they’ll go for two ninety. You can afford a small apartment on that, Florrie.”

She stared at me. Her smile faded. She turned and slid the dinners into the oven. When she turned back her face was stony.

“Aren’t you pleased?” I asked. I’m sure my astonishment showed.

“Harry, I know I’ll seem like an ungrateful pig, but … There’s a Greyhound leaving tonight at ten-fifteen that’ll have me home by morning. I told my father today I’d be on it.”

I stared at her. Most likely my mouth fell open. She was blushing again but the pattern was different: two large red spots had appeared, one on each cheek. The rest of her face had turned pale.

She took a breath and added anxiously, “That is … I can’t walk to the station before ten because I don’t know how to get there from here. And if I did, I don’t have the money for the ticket. And I have no place to leave my things.” She spread her hands. “I told you I’m no good, Harry. If you’ve got the sense I know you have, you’ll throw me out right now.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down, still staring at her. She stood, somewhat slumped, blinking, her eyes brightening with tears.

“Why, Florrie? What’s the matter? What happened?”

“Last night happened.”

“Last night! My god, that was glorious!”

“I wasn’t kidding, Harry. It really scared me. I thought I was going to die.”

“Florrie … Good god, honey! That’s how it’s supposed to be for a woman, when it’s really good. That’s what your girlfriends meant by ‘better than anything.’ I can’t believe you didn’t enjoy it!”

She nodded slowly. “I did enjoy it. But it wasn’t me!”

“Florrie, I have envied women their endless orgasms ever since I first discovered they could do it. And last night you had as long a string of them as I ever saw. Everyone but you considers that the height of ecstasy, the best life has to offer. Plenty of people would kill to trade places with you!”

She heaved a powerful sigh and said quietly, “Maybe so, but it’s not for me, Harry. I just can’t stand it.”

“Well, of course, sex doesn’t have to be that intense all the time.”

“Oh, I know that,” she admitted, smiling slightly. “Except it does with you. I could tell: you didn’t much like our first time.”

“No, I didn’t. You felt nothing. I’m ashamed of doing so little for a woman. That’s what I can’t stand!”

“But I didn’t mind!”

Could it be that such a passive role is in fact her preference? I didn’t want to ask her that. I didn’t want to hear my answer confirmed.

I shook my head. “All right, Florrie. I’m beginning to think you may be doing the right thing … for you.”

Her eyes grew large, like a child’s. “You are?”

I recalled an unused pack of film for the Polaroid. I said, “I’ll go buy a suitcase for your things, take you to the bus station and get your ticket … if you’ll do something, one other thing, for me.”

She was starting to smile but it froze. “Do what?”

“Pose for some pictures.”

“Some pictures?”

“Nude.”

She blinked. “You won’t … lick me?”

“No, Florrie. I won’t touch you. But do you recall what I said about the statue? I want the picture at least.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

She gestured at the oven. “What about supper?”

“Forget it. Turn the oven off. We’ll stop for a bite on the way.”

We shot eight Polaroids, the entire pack, with my office bookcase as her backdrop. And I did touch her again, trying to massage out the red marks of her too-tight bra, which finally required a bit of her face powder. She put on the housecoat for three of them, holding it open and trying to recreate the expression on her face of that first time. She didn’t quite succeed, of course, because of her innate honesty. The first time she was truly grateful to me. Now she wanted only to get away. She looked often at my britches to see if sight or touch would arouse me. God knows what she’d’ve done if I’d sprouted an erection.

I have to say this looking at these photographs: she is the most classically beautiful woman I ever fucked. Yet the modern world considers her merely a “fat broad.” The world’s loss should be my gain. And would be, except she prefers to be merely a fat broad! As the man said in response to the advertisement, “Accounting for Women:” there is no accounting for women!

I made sure she had my business card with two twenties pinned to the back. She took the money reluctantly, only after I pointed out that the housecleaning alone was worth more than that. She promised vaguely to give me a call. I hope she will, even if it’s only to — I started to write, “touch me,” meaning borrow a few bucks, but I think it’s foregone that she’ll never touch me again.

I was “her man” for one day and it was quite an experience. Florrie takes very good care of her man. I miss her already. One consolation remains. She as good as said it herself. I was simply too much for her!

Too much man!