Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

They're just a bunch of silly kids, she told herself firmly, but deep inside, the innately honest girl could not deny that she'd been flattered by the young boys' obvious admiration. It seemed so long, so very, very long, since her husband had complimented her on her appearance.

"He was so different before we were married," she thought, her thoughts drifting to the whirlwind courtship which had been the talk of Collinsville, Florida. "Now he just seems to take me for granted… when I see him, that is…"

Her low, plaintive voice echoed eerily in the empty house, and Sandi clamped her lips shut and vowed once again to curtail the bad habit she'd been developing lately of talking to herself. What on earth would people think if they knew that she wandered around babbling to herself like a senile old maid?

"They'd think I'm stark, raving mad!" she murmured, realizing as the words left her lips that she'd broken her vow within seconds of having made it. "Well, maybe I am then!" she shrugged. "And if I am, it's all Verne's fault for leaving me alone like this while he's off with his stupid motorcycles!"

Without bothering to switch on the electricity, the unhappy young woman made her way down the short hallway to the master bedroom. By now it was pitch-black outside, but the street light out on the parkway cast its rays into the small room and illuminated the king-sized bed, brand new dressing table and bureaus with an almost surreal radiance that suited Sandi's morbid mood just perfectly. As she crossed over toward the closet to dig out the wool slacks and sweaters her husband had bought her, her eyes caught the color photograph of Verne that stood in a prominent position on her dressing table. Whenever he was gone for long stretches, the lonely wife always removed the wedding picture from the album and brought it in here so that she could look at it before she went to sleep, a habit that had started one dreadful day when she'd realized she could no longer conjure up an image of his face.

Now, as she'd done so many times before, Sandi stood staring at the handsome, sun-bronzed man in the photo. His deep blue eyes seemed to stare directly back at her, and she felt an urge to push the lock of wavy chestnut hair off his forehead. Though the young bridegroom was unsmiling, she could tell from the faint suggestion of a dimple in his strong jaw that he was not unhappy, merely embarrassed at having to pose in his wedding clothes when he really only felt comfortable in jeans and a motorcycle helmet. Even the rented tuxedo, however, could not conceal his healthy, masculine physique, and as Sandi gazed at her husband's muscular figure she felt a familiar rush of pride.

Then, as she remembered that Verne was miles away in Kansas with the Cycle Circus, the smile that was starting to form on her lips faded to a worried frown. What was the good of having a handsome husband when you never saw him? And when he was surrounded by plenty of cute girls all day long, his good looks really became a liability rather than an asset. In the early months of their marriage, Sandi had often accompanied her husband on his tours, and she'd had plenty of opportunity to observe the other girls who hung out around the cycle tracks. Most of them, the worried young wife felt certain, wouldn't hesitate to chase after the show's handsome star whether or not he happened to be married. And Verne… would Verne be able to resist their attentions… would he even try to…?

"I won't keep thinking those things about him!" she told herself firmly. "I won't be a jealous wife."

But try as she might, the suspicions remained in the back of her mind, even as she attempted to push away the fearful imaginary vision of her chestnut-haired husband standing beside some peroxide blonde in a low-cut blouse, his strong arm draped around her bare shoulders and his warm lips mashed against her lipstick-smeared mouth. Even though the picture was pure fantasy, Sandi's slender body began to shake in anger and she had to bite her knuckles to keep from bursting into tears.

After a moment, when she'd gotten a hold on her emotions, the golden-haired girl tore herself away from Verne's picture and moved in the direction of the closet. There, still in the shop's cardboard boxes, were all the new winter clothes her husband had bought for her – fluffy sweaters, woolen slacks, a few dresses in bright-hued cashmere-like fabrics, a shiny pair of leather boots, and even a nightgown and a pair of furry red angora slippers with a matching robe. For a moment Sandi felt sincerely guilt-stricken for the unproven doubts she'd been feeling.

"Verne's so good to me. I don't know what's wrong with me, why I'm so unhappy," she pondered aloud as she lifted each of the brand new garments from their wrappings. "I never had nice stuff like this before I met him – I ought to be grateful."

Deciding that trying on her new winter wardrobe would distract her from her gloomy fantasies, the young blonde pulled off her cardigan sweater and snug-fitting cotton halter top. Then, as her fingers sought the zipper of her skintight white shorts, her mind slipped back to the day when her tall, dark-haired husband had come home with the trunk loaded down with packages for her.

"Here you go, baby," he'd boomed in his usual hearty tone. "A few goodies to keep you snug and warm while I'm not around to warm your bed up this winter!"

She'd come to the back door, she remembered now, dressed only in the sheerest of sundresses, a strapless affair actually intended to be worn over a bikini, but which she'd thrown on that morning because of the truly suffocating heat. Since it was only eleven in the morning and she'd not expected Verne to come back until evening, she'd not even bothered to don her brassiere and panties before tackling the chore of unpacking the last of their things which had just arrived from Florida.

Her husband's habitual enthusiasm irritated her that morning – he had no more sensitivity to the sticky Midwest heat than he apparently had to the icy winters – and his vulgar words only added fuel to the fire. While she'd certainly been agonizing about the dreaded lonely winter months which she was supposed to spend alone in Lakeview Estates while her new husband toured the southern circuit, the crude way he spoke brought a crimson color to her already heat-flush cheeks.

"What are you going on about, anyway?" she demanded, too flustered to remember at first that she was as good as naked in the sheer beach dress.

"Hey, baby, I like that get-up!" Verne whistled, his glinting blue eyes boring into her body in a way that made his nineteen year old wife feel sordid and dirty. "How come you never wore this pretty little see-through number before?"

"Verne, I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that!" Sandi said stiffly, folding her arms to hide her proud, high-set young breasts and wishing that she had four arms instead of two so that she could cover up her shamefully revealed vaginal hair as well. "What are you doing back here now, anyway? I thought you were going over to talk with Larry? You said you both had to talk to the lawyer about the contract for the circus…"

"Hey, don't get uptight, baby," Verne laughed, still in his usual high spirits despite his wife's unenthusiastic response. "Larry was – uh – occupied with his wife. So I just thought I'd run up to Gary and pick up some things for you. After all, I don't want folks to think I'm neglecting my woman just because I'm gonna be gone most of the winter. I want you to look real a la mode, baby!"

Sandi knew that she should be pleased that Verne had thought to expand her exclusively summer wardrobe, but all she could feel was irritation. Ever since her husband had informed her one month ago that they would be permanently settling in northern Indiana, she'd tried her best to put the news out of her mind. Of course, she understood that this was an ideal home base for Verne's Cycle Circus – he'd grown up in the area and had good contacts, particularly his high school friend, Larry Johnson. Even though Sandi felt an instinctive and no doubt unreasonable distrust for her husband's darkly handsome manager, she had to admit that the Cycle Circus of which Verne had dreamed for so long probably would never have gotten off the ground if it hadn't been for Johnson's business expertise. It had been he, too, who'd insisted on this winter circuit of tours in the South and Midwest – it would give them extra capital, and enable the permanent cycle stunt riding show to open in style next summer.