Эд Горман - Riders on the Storm

I proudly kept a book on feminism on my coffee table to show the young ladies I tried to charm that I was no Cro-Magnon macho moron. But here I was trapped in that old virgin trap. I’d always thought I was the first with Mary.

“Slap me.”

“What?”

“Slap me.”

“Sam, are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. I’m thinking like morons think.”

“And how would that be?”

“I don’t want to say. That’s why I want you to slap me. Bring me to my senses.”

“Either you’re mad at me for lying to you or you’re mad at me because you weren’t the first.”

“The first.”

“The lying?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“And a little because of the second.”

“Because I wasn’t a virgin when we finally slept together?”

“Yeah, a little bit of that.”

“Sam, please don’t be like my brother.”

“Stan?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“He has this wonderful girlfriend. And she really is wonderful. And he loves her. I’ve never seen him like this, but he won’t marry her.”

“Because she’s not a virgin?”

“Exactly.”

“He lost his virginity when he was fourteen.”

“He told you that, Sam?”

“No, my dad caught him in the back of his old panel truck.”

“God, I can’t believe how he’s been about this whole thing. About not being able to marry her. This is the seventies. Girls have as much right to have sex as boys. I know how it’s killing him. One night he started crying about it. I just held him the way I did when he was little and he got hurt or somebody had said something mean to him. He’d never admit it but he’s pretty sensitive. And then it wasn’t funny or even ridiculous anymore because I could see it was tearing him apart. How much he loved her and wanted to marry her but couldn’t because of this stupid idea he had in his head.”

“So is he ever going to marry her?”

“October fifth.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. He finally came to his senses.”

I took her arms and pulled her to me. Good Mary, bad Pamela. All good uncomplicated Mary and bad complicated Pamela. Reliable Mary and exciting Pamela.

But just as I was about to kiss this brand-new Mary, she stopped me. “One more thing, Sam. I know you think I kind of hover around you too much and I probably do. But you are sort of needy and that brings it out in me.”

“I’m needy?” My voice went up an octave.

“Sorta, sometimes, you know in little ways. But that’s part of why I love you. You’ve helped me so many times, too. I’m just as needy as you are.”

Anger flushed my face — I could feel it — and then without realizing it I started laughing. “You weren’t a virgin and you lied about it and now I’m ‘needy’? Whatever happened to that perfect little Mary I knew?”

“I’m right here, the real Mary, Sam. That other one was just in your imagination. And part of that was my fault, with the lie and all. But please, Sam, I don’t want to be ‘good Mary’ anymore. All right?”

Bad Mary was great.

If you couldn’t get laid in 1971, you couldn’t get laid at all.

This was according to just about every magazine, newspaper, and newscast you consulted for information on how the luckier half was living.

This was the era of free love, though that phrase had faded.

In the big cities they had sex clubs. You went in and had sex in your choice of many rooms. Sometimes you went alone and sometimes you brought your spouse. You could have sex by twos, threes, fours and just about any other number you wanted. And this was hetero sex or gay sex.

Swinging was also big. Suburban neighborhoods became the site of serious orgies. Marriages broke up, venereal disease ramped higher, and one prominent bestselling shrink said that if you wanted to have an affair it was none of your spouse’s business. The thing was to please yourself. It took a while before someone pointed out that this was what you might call — if you wanted to hurt the shrink’s feelings, the dear — sociopathic.

In Black River Falls we had one dance club/singles bar and that was The Retreat. A standard-issue bar had been gutted, a sparkling ball had been mounted on the ceiling, and a dance floor had been built. There was even a long mahogany bar perfect for leaning against if you thought you were cool enough for that particular pose.

Singles rejoiced and were still filling the place. The hopeless were soon banished by shunning. If you were too old, too nerdy, too unfashionably dressed, too dull by reputation, or too feckless with pickup lines — out.

What you have to understand here is that most of the popular people at The Retreat had been the popular ones in school. So what you had were the cheerleaders, the sports stars, the rich kids, the prom queens, and the just plain good-lookers of the past ten years from the town’s two high schools.

In other words, you were back in tenth grade when you didn’t get invited to any of the really groovy parties.

I never went there often enough to get shunned. I had dates from time to time who insisted we go but I always managed to get us gone early.

Tonight I was here on assignment.

The Retreat was crowded. That sparkling, revolving dance ball limned the heads and shoulders of all the dancers while other couples sat in shadow groping each other.

Cathy Vance sat at the bar sideways, her long, slim legs almost as enticing as that wild mane of dark hair and that vivid theatrical face of hers. She was always number one or two on the who’dya like to fuck list in high school. Tonight she treated us to a silver summer blouse and a skirt that could break your heart.

I was surprised that there were only two guys putting the moves on her. I stood to her left so eventually she’d have to see me. When she did, she said, “Who let you in, McCain?”

Her would-be suitors — all unbuttoned shirts and bell-bottomed plaid trousers — glared at me. The yellow-haired one said — actually said — “You want him gone, babe?”

Even as a little girl her smile had been wan, even sad.

“No, I’m going to give him a few minutes and if he tries to stay longer then I’ll want him gone.”

“You got it, babe,” said the dark-haired one.

They gave me their best TV bad-guy stares, then moved down the bar.

“Hey, babe,” I said.

“Go fuck yourself, McCain.”

“One of them could be husband number three if I’m not mistaken?”

She waved her empty glass at the bartender. “I’m worried about Will. I still care about him.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m wondering if you care about him so much that you send him threatening letters in the mail.”

“Does that sound like something I’d do?”

With a fresh drink in her hand, she said, “He didn’t kill Steve Donovan.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I did. I asked you if that sounded like me.”

For all her audacious sexuality the one man she’d loved had deserted and humiliated her. She and Will had gone together through most of college but the summer he met Karen he dropped her with no warning. Two marriages and numerous men later, she’d never recovered.

“I think you were sleeping with him again.”

“I don’t do married men.”

“And you don’t send threatening letters in the mail.”

Their official relationship had ended many years ago. Will told me over the years that she’d sent birthday cards and Christmas cards to him at his veterinary clinic. Her interest in him had never waned. What if they’d had an affair and then he’d ended it again? What if she saw an opportunity to punish him by killing Donovan and letting Will be blamed?