Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

It took him a little while to realize that most of the early dancing was being done by husband-and-wife teams, nice ballroom dancing, which they had practiced together since they were teen-agers, every nuance of husbandly pressure on the small of the back instantly picked up by the wife, each trick-step specialty executed with precision and aplomb, slightly idiotic grins on the faces of mates, it was Prom Time again in lovely, woodsy Talmadge. Then the record changed, or everyone suddenly needed a fresh drink, and then the couples on the floor were no longer husband-wife teams, or at least no longer this-husband-belongs-to-this-wife teams, everyone seemed to have changed partners again at a signal, a magician had waved a magic wand and whooossssssssh , the swirling couples were mismatched.

Talmadge was a friendly town, and everyone danced close here, and cheek to cheek here. If a man in the New York subway had stood this close to a Talmadge woman, she’d have clobbered him with her umbrella. But this was Talmadge, and this was the town where everyone was concerned with how you were, and where it was always good to see you, and where men shook hands with other men but kissed the women on the cheek, so it was all right to dance close here. No one minded it. It was the proper, friendly, social thing to do. It never got unfriendly, or unsocial, or improper. It got damn close to being all of those things, but it never crossed the unchalked line, never broke the unwritten code. A great many male thighs were very very close to a great many female thighs, and a great many male hands reached clear around a female back to that first soft swell of an unfamiliar breast, a soft cheek was flushed and feverish against a bearded one, lips almost touched when their owners pulled back their heads to murmur a word or two, the dipping was sometimes a little personal, a tiny bit intimate, especially during the summer months when clothing was habitually lighter. But all this touching and near touching seemed to reach a prearranged, quasi-climactic point when the female would say, “I think we’d better rest a little,” or the male would say, “Let’s have another drink, shall we?” With these words, or a variation of them, the touching of this particular partner had reached its apogee; there was nothing further to do but go. So they went. Touch-and-Go, and whoooosssssh , the magician waved his wand again, everybody changed partners again, the carousel was in motion once more, different horses, new riders, the same old jazz.

Matthew hated it.

He hated it because it was an outrageous lie, and he didn’t like lies or liars. He hated it, too, because it was a game of musical wives that had no obvious destination, a game that was a deception, an inspired delusion, a medieval sort of orgy-cum-fantasy in modern dress with self-imposed limits, time-consuming, energy-depleting, and totally frustrating. He hated it. He decided definitely and emphatically to avoid it. If he had to get stone-cold drunk and pass out on the richly carpeted floors of every home in Talmadge, he would manage to avoid this juvenile nonsense.

For however fanciful Matthew’s theories, however speculative his ideas, he had never once in the six years of his marriage broken the contract he’d made with Amanda. If he ever did break that contract — and he had considered it, he was a man, and vain, and egotistical, and he had considered it — if ever he did break that contract, he was going to do it in spades and not by rubbing bellies with a Talmadge matron who had already borne three children and was corresponding secretary of the P.T.A.

The Talmadge party that November night was exactly the same as every other Talmadge party he’d ever attended.

Except for Julia Regan.

He didn’t meet her until eleven o’clock. He was fairly crocked by that time, so that the inane chatter and the blasting hi-fi unit and the cavorting couples blended into a sort of alcohol-misted din behind him. He was sitting in the dark on the patio, his jacket collar raised on the back of his, neck, the lapels pulled closed across his chest in defense against the cold. The door opened suddenly, and a tall woman with an upswept hairdo stepped onto the patio, pulled her stole around her, sighed deeply, and reached into her bag for a cigarette. He saw her face briefly in the flaring match, fine-lined, patrician. She sucked in on the cigarette. The match flared again and died. She began walking toward the edge of the patio. Her heels clicked on the slate in the darkness. He had always liked the sound of high-heeled pumps. He listened to the clicking. She has good legs, he thought. He could tell from the sound of her walk.

“You’re not alone,” he said suddenly

The woman turned. “I know.” She walked toward him. “I thought you were asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Her voice was the voice of an older woman. Forty? Forty-five?

“Had enough in there?” he asked. “Ooooops, I should know better. You may be the hostess, for all I know.”

“I’m not.” She paused. “May I sit with you?”

“Please.” He rose and offered her his chair with an elaborate bow. He pulled over another chair, took a cigarette from his pocket, and lighted it. Julia looked at his face in the flare of the match.

“Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”

“That’s who it is, all rights,” Matthew answered. He held the match close to her face. “And it’s you, too.”

“That’s right.” Julia smiled. Matthew shook out the match.

“ Who? ” Matthew said.

“Julia Regan.” She extended her hand.

He took it. “Matthew Bridges.”

“Yes, I know. We were introduced earlier tonight.”

“Impossible,” Matthew said. “I’d have remembered.”

“You weren’t paying much attention. You seemed extremely bored.”

“I’m never bored at Talmadge parties.”

“You seemed to be.”

“Never.”

There was a silence.

“I thought we could talk,” Julia said.

“Aren’t we?”

“Not if you’re going to be facetious.”

“Okay, I was bored. I’m also a little drunk, and I was trying to be cute. Okay? What are you, a district attorney?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing;”

“Everybody’s something.”

“All right, I’m a widow.”

“And that’s all?”

“What would you like to know? I’m forty-eight years old, I have a son named David who’s almost your age, and I live in a big old house right here in Talmadge.”

“There’s more,” Matthew said.

“No, that’s all.”

“Uh-uh,” Matthew said. “There’s more.”

“You’re right,” she said quickly. “I don’t collect blood for the Red Cross, I don’t belong to the National Democratic Committee, and I despise Little Leaguers. I drive an Alfa Romeo, I shower twice daily, and I don’t keep pets. Thumbnail sketch of Julia Regan.”

“I’ll bet your son is nowhere near my age.”

“How old are you?”

“I was thirty-five in February.”

“David will be twenty-nine in October.”

“That’s... just a second, I was never very good at arithmetic... that’s a difference of six years.”

“Yes. See?”

“I see. You and I are generations apart.”

“At least one generation.”

“No, no, countless generations,” Matthew insisted.

Julia smiled. “We’re closer than you think, Mr. Bridges.”

The patio was silent for a moment. The sky was clear. Matthew took a deep breath of air.

“Which one is your wife?” Julia asked. “The blond girl?”

“Yes. Amanda.”

“Yes, we met. She’s lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have any children?”

“I have a daughter almost as old as you are,” Matthew said, smiling.