William Davis - The Polaroid club book II

The three of them walked down the great main hall where the staircase swept upwards to the second and third floors and beyond, past the sitting room and the billiard room and the music room where one of the salesmen was pounding out "Chopsticks" on the Steinway baby grand. All the while Cindy was biting her lower lip, the opposites of wanting and yet not wanting to be here surging like cross-currents through her. She wanted to come here tonight because that way she wouldn't be home alone… still itching with the fear of being summoned again by that malicious postal clerk… listening for him and only hearing the miniature grandfather's clock in the hall ticking off the slow and endless seconds before Howard would arrive…

And so she had agreed with Howard's request to accompany him tonight, not even uttering one word about how the types of men and their mates she would find here disagreed with her. Usually she did so, for while she loved Howard and admired his boss, the suede-shoe operators at Auto Circus left her cold. They were loud, crude, and drank too much. They smoked the most foul-smelling cigars in the world, and insisted on either blowing the smoke in her face or waving the cigar under her nostrils as they made some asinine point about something they were ignorant about. Their wives and girl friends were little better, spending their whole day reading confession magazines and chewing gum, with even less to say than the men.

It never failed to give her a splitting headache, coming to one of these occasions. Christmas, New Year's, assorted birthdays and anniversaries – she would make sure she and Howard came late and left early.

Not tonight, though. Tonight Cindy was going to stay until the Lathrops threw them out. Until the last dog is hung, until the last drink is…

"Howdy!" came a booming voice, and Cindy nearly jumped a foot in the air. Gruff hands went around her waist and a wine-heavy breath seared her neck as Art Manacor kissed her. "Haw! Haw! I see you brought your wonderful little woman tonight, Howie!" he guffawed, his laugh reminding Cindy of a bowling ball bouncing down a flight of stairs. She tried to smile and act as though his kiss had been fun… but it hadn't been. His rubbery lips, his sudden grasp had been too vivid a simile to the postal clerk's hated touch…

"Yes," Howard grinned, "too big a deal even for her to pass up." He looked around, slapping the backs of some other men, acting as though he hadn't seen them for a coon's age, rather than just a matter of hours. "Say, what's that slop you're drinking, Art?" Howard asked, pointing to the glass the salesman was holding. "Looks like raspberry Kool-aid."

"Something called sangria," came the reply. Art blinked, studying the pieces of lemon and orange at the bottom of the glass. "A wine punch Binnie found a recipe for in a Spanish cook-book." Binnie was Mrs. Lathrop's nickname, and what she insisted everybody call her. Manacor drank a little. "Not bad, and that's all what's available." It had obviously gotten him high.

"Ah'll get you-all some," cried out Mrs. Manacor. She was a thin, breastless woman with black spit-curls and a vapid expression, except when drunk as she was now and then her eyes had a tendency to cross. She was from Louisiana and had a grating twang which made Cindy think the bowling ball had crashed through a plate glass window. "You-all wait raht heah."

Cindy waited impatiently, for she wanted some sangria; wanted a lot of it, in fact, to dull the building pressure in her head. The party was going to be terrible, that she could see – but not as terrible as the silent nightmare shadowing her happy home…

Mrs. Manacor – "Jest cahl me Salli-Ann" – delivered two brimming tumblers of the ruby liquid and Cindy drank deeply. The sangria was pleasant tasting, very refreshing, with a combination sweet-tart taste hard to identify. A fruit punch? No… the fruit taste was in the background, Cindy thought as she ran her tongue around her lips. A wine base, plus… what? She finished her glass in three more swallows, excused herself from Howard, who was explaining what was wrong with the Buick he had been driving, and the Manacors who were both listening intently, and walked over to the large cut-crystal punch bowl.

Binnie Lathrop was behind the bowl, busily ladling out the sangria. She was an impressive woman, statuesque, with a large figure gained from many years of creamed chicken luncheons at the country club. Her breasts were well buttressed in a corset, standing out like the Continental Shelf, and her whole bearing was one of imperious condescension as she looked over their tops. She was, however, a pleasant and friendly woman, and unlike most of the other females, knew something of the world. Cindy's husband had once said of her: "She must have been one hellion on wheels in her day…"

She was most pleased to see the pretty wife of Auto Circus' star salesman; her own husband being quite aware of Howard's fine record and coming ability and having mentioned the young man to her. Cindy felt warmly toward the woman, and after getting a refill, they started chatting amiably. Binnie Lathrop was happy to give Cindy the recipe for sangria: "It's a red wine base, a good and hearty wine like burgundy. Seven parts of it to two parts brandy and one part Cointreau, add a little vodka if you want – I did – then a bottle of some carbonated lemon drink, slices of orange and lemon and some cherries, stir like hell and serve. Voila!" The older woman chuckled and winked, though never losing her decorum. "Be careful with it. It's very potent!"

Cindy let some more of the fine punch swirl around her taste-buds. She nodded. "It's delicious Binnie."

"Well, I thought it might be fun to have something different than the usual bourbon and scotch and gin. I get so tired of them after a bit."

"Hello, Cindy," came a familiar, mellow voice, and the young girl turned, startled slightly. Ralph Taylor stood, smiling at the two women, though his attention was mainly focused on Cindy. "A very pretty dress you're wearing tonight. Is it new?"

Cindy was flattered that her husband's boss noticed her enough to pick out a new dress – most men wouldn't have bothered. "Why, thank you, Ralph. Yes, I bought it while the convention was on. Sort of a pick-me-up."

"After you've been married as long as I have," Binnie Lathrop interjected wryly, "you'll be buying the pick-me-ups when your husband's home, not away."

The three of them laughed at that. Binnie was quite devoted to her husband, and everybody knew that. They talked a little more, and then Ralph said to Cindy: "My wife is dancing with Higgins. How about you and I trying a little swing around the floor?"

"Well… I… I don't know." Cindy looked around for her husband. She saw him in an animated conversation with another salesman over in one corner, oblivious to everything else. Then she saw Ralph's raven-haired wife in the arms of the head of the body shop, Higgins trying not to step on either her's or his own feet. He was not much of a dancer. The music which was playing on the tape recorder built in to one bookshelf was a fast fox-trot, and Cindy was not in the mood for such a beat.

"No, I think not, Ralph. It's a little fast for me."

Just as she spoke, the number ended, and was followed almost immediately by Jackie Gleason's orchestra playing "Moonglow".

"This better, eh?" Ralph asked. Not waiting for an answer, he took the glass from Cindy's hand and placed it on the table and swept her in his arms. "But…" Cindy protested weakly.

"Go ahead," urged Binnie Lathrop. "Ralph is such a good dancer. Relax and enjoy the party…" Her last words were drowned out as Cindy found herself whisked to the middle of the polished wood floor. There was one mole moment of unreasoned resistance, and then she let the strong muscular arms of her husband's boss lead her gently to the beat of the music. The violins and muted horns wafted to her ears, soothing her…