Mary Jenkins - A mother_s forbidden passion

Hale began to spend more and more time away from home, to take unexplained trips to distant places without her. Bette refused to believe that he was being unfaithful to her, but the nagging thought persisted until finally she did some quiet investigating on her own and learned that Hale had been seen in Hollywood, Palm Springs and Acapulco with a beauteous young red haired movie actress – that he was having an open, wildly clandestine affair with her.

Bette had been crushed at first, refusing to accept the truth, knowing that she had to. Then the bitter irony of it all struck her, for this was the same situation she had placed David in those five years past; now she was the one being cheated on. And as David had done with her, she confronted Hale when next he came home – and he laughed in her face contemptuously, a stranger whom she had never thought existed in the body of the man she loved. He told her he was getting a divorce to marry the red haired starlet, that he was taking everything to give to the other woman and that, if Bette tried to countersue or to make any trouble at all, he would see to it that she was dragged through the messiest, cheapest, loudest kind of court battle on record. And if that wasn't enough, there was always other ways of taking care of her.

There was nothing for Bette to do. The change in Hale from a happy carefree lover to a cold, sneering stranger frightened her, and she had no doubt that he meant every word he said. She had tried appealing to some of her friends only to discover that she had no real friends at all – that all the acquaintances she had made while living with and married to Hale were his friends, his kind of people. Once they knew how things stood in the Bixby household, they were on Hale's side, not Bette's, and she was suddenly completely alone with no one to turn to, nowhere to go.

Completely demoralized, her world collapsed at her feet, Bette had moved into a small Chicago apartment five months ago and had remained there until two days ago. Hale had sent her a check in the mail for five thousand dollars as if she was a whore whose services were no longer needed and therefore was to be paid and forgotten. She had wanted to send the money back to him, to refuse to allow him this one final slap at her pride, but she had no funds of her own, no means of support, and so she had swallowed what was left of her feelings and had cashed the check.

Living alone, seldom going out, she had plenty of time to think – and to repent. She realized that she had made a mistake in destroying the home she and David had made, in denying his love and that of their son Tony, that she had been a fool to think that Hale loved her so much as to want her with him for the rest of their lives. She knew that there had been other women, too, before the red haired actress – a long line of women that she had been blind to the existence of during their marriage; and she knew that the only reason Hale had kept her around as long as he had was that he had not found a suitable replacement among those women, not until the redhead came into his life. Oh God! What a terrible romantic, naive fool she had been! She had given up happiness for excitement and adventure, and now that there was no more excitement and adventure, what did she have? Nothing – no husband, no home, not even a son any more.

Finally, Bette had reached her decision. She had known that her only hope for salvation for even a glimmer of renewed happiness, lay in returning to Westridge. But could she go home? Did she dare face Tony again? And Ken? Yes, she dared – she had to dare. It was the only way.

She had written to Ken, not able to face the pain of a telephone call, and he had responded immediately with a long-distance call of his own. Bette knew that Ken had always liked her, that perhaps his feelings for her had even at one time gone deeper than that, and she had always been able to talk to him. She was still able to talk to him, she discovered, and on the telephone that day she had poured out the entire sad, sordid story, begging at the end of it for forgiveness, begging him to let her come for a visit to see if she could find herself again. Ken had been sympathetic and understanding; too many years had passed, he said, for grudges to be held. People made mistakes every day, huge mistakes, and as long as they were willing to admit those mistakes, to seek amends for them, then they should be forgiven.

Tony had been less forgiving when he heard of his mother's plea to come home. He hadn't wanted her home; he still held firm to his vow never to see her again; this was what Ken had reluctantly told Bette in another phone call. But Ken had gently worked on the youth's resistance, while Bette waited expectantly in Chicago, not wanting to come unless Tony wanted her, knowing that she wouldn't be able to face him otherwise, and finally Tony had relented. Yes, his mother could come for a visit. After all, it was his uncle's house, wasn't it? If he wanted her there, then Tony guessed he did too.

Ecstatic, Bette had made all the arrangements and had left yesterday afternoon for Westridge.

Now, as the speeding taxi entered Westridge, nearing Ken's home, Bette was once more assailed with doubts, and her nervousness increased. If only Tony will forgive me, truly forgive me, she thought fervently, if only he'll accept me again as his mother then I'll be able to stay in Westridge and try to put together the shattered pieces of my life. But if he won't, I'll have no choice but to leave again, return to Chicago and never see Tony or Ken or Westridge again. There'll be no hope then, no happiness, no future at all for Bette Clark.

The house where Ken Clark lived with his nephew Tony was a sprawling ranch-style affair, set deep into the property behind heavy shrubbery and tall redolent pines. There was a large swimming pool in the rear, a cabana, rolling lawn and a flagstone patio, and privacy was assured by high fence-like hedges on both sides and in the rear. It was comfortable and affluent without being ostentatious, and its tasteful landscaping and clean lines were indicative of the personality of its owner.

In the huge beam-ceilinged living room, Ken paced nervously, casting glances at his watch. He was a tall, muscular man with dark brown hair worn long and shaggy in the current fashion; his skin was the color of old leather from many hours in the sun, and his dark eyes contained traces of humor and good nature, and now, worry and apprehension. His lean, corded body was encased in a white polo shirt and beige slacks and tennis shoes on this day.

Sitting on the couch before the stone and mortar fireplace at one end of the room, Tony smoked a cigarette in short quick puffs and tried to act nonchalant. He was taller than his uncle but with the same general build, and his facial structure favored his father's side of the family so that there was a superficial resemblance between him and Ken. His dark hair was worn similarly as well, though longer, and his eyes were an intense greenish-brown under thick brows that made him took older than his eighteen years. His handsomeness, however, was more boyish than distinguished as was Ken Clark's.

Pacing to the window, Ken looked again at his watch. Where is she? he thought with thinly concealed anticipation. She should be here by now. I wish she'd let me pick her up at the train depot, it might have been better that way Ken moistened his lips and drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly. What will she look like after five years? Will Chicago and the life she's led have changed her much? Will she still be as beautiful, as desirable as she was when she was married to David, as I remember her?

He had thought of Bette off and on for the past five years since she had left with Hale Bixby, and while his feelings toward her at first had been bitter – and had later changed to sadness and curiosity and perhaps a little pity – he knew that there was more to it than that, that deep-down he was still a little in love with her, just as he had been from the first moment he saw her those many years ago. Indirectly, David had died because of her selfish whim, her foolish hedonistic desire to run off with Bixby, and Tony had been left without a father or a mother to guide him (it was a wonder he had turned out as well as he had, having been subjected to life's more sordid aspects in his formative early teens). Nevertheless, Ken still felt that strong emotional desire for Bette. There had not been many women in his life since the death of his wife Luci whom he had loved dearly, several years ago. Only occasionally, when the need became too great would he seek out a bed-partner for an evening, and when that happened, it was only for a single evening. No other woman, with the exception of Bette, had ever had a deep meaningful effect on Ken besides Luci. Oh, he was struck by the beauty or sensuality of this one or that one, wanting their bodies, but that was all he wanted to possess – never any more.