William Davis - The Polaroid club book II

A low, barely audible moan escaped from Cindy's lips. Frantically she twisted the lucite handles on the shower unit built into the tile wall of the stall, bringing forth a thick stream of water. She adjusted the shower head until the spray became needlepoints of water, cool at first, then hotter and hotter until clouds of vapor began to billow upwards, making the bathroom seem like a hazy, humid sauna. Cindy stepped into the stall, gasping as the scalding water beat against her skin and turned it to a bright crimson hue. But she made no move to leave, to escape the burning cascade; instead she stood fast, her mouth open and her eyes shut, enduring the pain as if it were some divine punishment, some taste of hell, for her transgressions.

For five minutes Cindy withstood the torrent, blanking the pain from her mind, soaping her abdomen and her rectum and her vagina in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the crawling things. Only when the water heater emptied and the spray became cool again did she step from the stall. She stood once more on the circular throw rug, this time dripping wet. Wet – but not clean. Oh, God, would she ever be able to feel wholesome again?

Briskly, almost as if she were heaping further punishment upon herself, the agonized young wife dried herself with a large fluffy jacquard towel. Her body, tingling from the abuse of water and cloth, glowed a burnished red. She padded naked back to the bedroom and dressed quickly, choosing a light green blouse which buttoned at the throat, and a full, wide skirt which her husband had once described as "innocent-looking" and "totally lacking in sex appeal".

Still her head throbbed. Rubbing her forehead, she went to the kitchen to make some coffee and try to think. Think… and as she concentrated on her guilt, shame, and of the reasons causing her remorseful actions, her head ached still more. It was impossible, she realized. The situation was beyond her ability to handle. She couldn't cope with the postal clerk and his demands, couldn't fathom her own aroused nature, couldn't untangle the spiraling whirlpool of events which had been happening since the gift of the Polaroid. She became dizzy as her brain spun around, casting before her mind's eye quick glimpses of all that had taken place lately, much as a carrousel parades a kaleidoscope of ever changing animals as it turns before an uninvolved bystander.

She had to do something, that she knew. She couldn't let it be forgotten; neither her own mind nor her conscience would allow that. She had to talk to someone, to purge her sickened soul, to seek advice and comfort. Her husband? Yes, yes, he must be told, Cindy thought. Howard is strong, he would understand…

Her hand reached for the kitchen telephone extension, then paused. What could she say? He was in the middle of a convention, talking business and his mind totally filled with facts and figures and automobiles. So say she was able to locate him, to get him on the phone long distance. So then? She tried to compose her words in her mind, becoming almost ill as the bitter memories stirred within her. Each time she thought of things to say to him, she realized that what she truly wanted to tell still would not come.

Howard would never understand, she finally had to admit ruefully. She was incapable of properly explaining long-distance that her desire to help their marriage had resulted in her renting the post office box and sending for the Polaroid Club pictures. How her actions had betrayed her, how the postal clerk had forced her to do his bidding… and how her own body had betrayed her. No, it wasn't fair to her husband to suffer a moment because of her failings. She still loved him as before, perhaps more now, with the burned-in knowledge that she, alone, should suffer for her transgressions. As she lowered her hand, she was determined to protect Howard, no matter how it might hurt her.

She knew that never again could she curl up in his lap and playfully nip at his ear with girlish innocence without thoughts of the horrible previous night. This would be her penance alone to bear and the scar would last as long as she lived. Time might dim the memory but could never erase it.

That much was settled. Howard, her unsuspecting, trusting husband would never know her secret. But she was still faced with the torturous problem of what to do about her predicament. Who could she turn to? Who among her friends and acquaintances could she trust to understand? Understand and have the experience to be able to guide her through these troubled paths? Marsha? Pauline? Gladys? No… they were good at bridge and gossiping, but not at advice of this nature. There was no one.

Wait there was one woman, a woman who outwardly was more brazen than Cindy cared to think about… but who upon many occasions had shown friendship and sympathetic, earnest support. Norma! Norma Taylor, her husband's boss' wife. Yes, after that get-together weekend at the mountain cabin retreat, Cindy was positive that the lovely woman was interested in her, in spite of the fact that Ralph's different social sphere prevented them from being close friends. She would know what to do, Cindy knew. If anybody would know what to do, Norma Taylor would.

Quickly Cindy thumbed through the little phone number book beside the regular directory, locating the Taylor number and address Howard had penciled in when first he had been hired by Auto Circus. She feverishly dialed the number, impatiently waited as the phone on the other end rang… and rang… and rang. Wasn't Norma home? Oh, God, she had to be! Please, she had to…

"Hello?"

"Norma? This is Cindy Jamison."

"Cindy?" The voice was low and gentle, obviously full of warmth. "Good to hear from you. I was just thinking of calling you and inviting you over for lunch some time this week."

"You were?"

"Certainly. Our husbands being away and all…"

"Could… could you make that luncheon date for today?" Cindy asked hopefully. "It… it would be appreciated. I have… something to talk to you about."

"Of course. I have some leftover roast beef, and I'll make some sandwiches and we'll have a nice chat. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful!" Cindy said, breathing almost with relief. "What time?"

"Mmm, in about an hour. Say at eleven."

"I'll be there!" Cindy promised, and hung up.

The Taylor home was in another section of town. It wasn't in the finest area, but neither was it in a tract development as was the Jamison residence. It was in the lush, green hills bordering the western edge of Morriston, catching the morning and noon sun, but having a cooler late afternoon and evening than the majority of flat, fertile land around it. Cindy drove her car – a Volkswagen Variant 1600 – through Morriston and up the winding, narrow streets, pulling the sun visor down as the sparkling rays blinded her eyes.

The Taylor home was an older one, built around the middle twenties when the national economy was booming and no end was in sight. The chicken was in every pot, optimism that the world was without further war and the country was forever prosperous overshadowing the gathering dark clouds of the future. As a result, the original owner had gone all out to build a house sturdy enough to last long after he was gone – prophetic enough, for he committed suicide a few years later, on that Black Tuesday in October, 1929. The house weathered the Depression with a succession of owners, and then later the Second World War, Truman, the Korean conflict… and as designed, it looked as warm and comfortable as when new.

Oh, the kitchen had been remodeled twice, and the cellar redone and paneled into a game room, and the backyard gazebo removed and a swimming pool installed, but basically it was the same sturdy home it had always been. The Taylors had bought it shortly after they'd been married. It was then far out of their price range, but Ralph had gambled on his ability and as a result he was happily ensconced in an ever growing real estate investment. He had no desire to move. It had all the things he wanted of a house. It was in a fashionable, well-kept neighborhood; it was surrounded by well-grown trees and shrubs which provided privacy; the people on his block were of the kind without children and with connections; and it gave him and his wife an aura of being respectable, settled citizens of the community.