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  He tried to get some kind of conversation going with Tony, but soon gave up. There was such an undercurrent of hostility, at least on Tony's part, that nothing could get started.

  Then he heard Janice beginning something else, and a sensation of apprehension threaded up into his mind.

  "Frank has covered some pretty big stories. Once he even made a hero of himself. The firemen--this was in Brooklyn--had been working on a tenement blaze and all the reporters--they get fire-line cards so they can get close enough to see and take pictures--the reporters were pretty close up to the building. A wall was about to come down, and everyone was being ordered to stand back, when Frank saw this child standing in the doorway of the wall that was going to crash. He yelled, 'C'mere, kid,' and started to run toward the child, but the kid was too frightened to do anything, and he had to go all the way up under that dangerous wall and grab the kid out of the doorway and start running back. He had just gotten out of the danger zone when the wall crashed down. He wouldn't write the story about himself--but the other reporters did, and it was in all the papers. But let me tell you something--That was the phoniest false modesty I ever saw, because he bragged to me about it for a week afterward ..."

  "I did not," Frank said. And everybody laughed. There was a sudden easing of the tension. Then Janice said, "Frank, why don't you show Joyce some of those stories. You've got them all in the scrapbooks upstairs, and I'll take Tony out in the garden. It's just beginning to be nice, Tony. I made Frank put the furniture out there while I was away, and you'll find it lovely and cool. I never saw a June like this. Why there are already fireflies in the yard, but no mosquitoes yet ..."

  This was the apprehension. This was what Frank had been fearing. He said, "No, Janice. She doesn't want to see those scrapbooks."

  "Oh, but I do, Fra--M--Frank."

  "Oh, come off it, now," Janice said. "Don't be such a phoney. Everybody knows you're dying to show them."

  "I'd like to see them, too." Tony said--for obvious reasons.

  "No you don't, young man," Janice said. "Who's going to keep me company in the yard? Besides, they wouldn't mean anything to non-newspaper people. You come along with me."

  It was clear, Frank thought, how Janice's mind was working. She had sensed the trouble, taken steps to treat it, and now wanted them to be together so that the last vestiges could be swept away. But she was hurrying things too much. He didn't want to be alone with Joyce. Just didn't want to be alone with her yet. But what could he do now?

  "All right. Joyce, come upstairs with me so I can show you what a big shot I am."

  Tony and Janice carried their drinks out through the dining room and kitchen into the back yard. Frank watched Joyce climbing the stairs ahead of him. She caught the full skirt of her light dress high on one thigh so that it would not interfere with her feet. The gesture charmingly shaped her figure under the light fabric.

  "The books are in the bedroom--to the left." he said. His throat felt tight and dry. His voice came almost as a whisper. "Careful. Don't wake Junior."

  In the bedroom she sat down on the spread, leaning back on her arms. Her skirt spread out fanwise on the tufted chenille. Her attitude emphasized the freshness of her youth.

  He thought: Cut it out, Frank! Stop it! Get control of yourself, man.

  Through the open, screened window overlooking the yard and the garden came the murmur of voices, Janice's and Tony's, blended with the tinkle of the little concrete fountain full of goldfish that Frank had, himself, installed last fall.

  There was a vanity, on one side of the room, cluttered with the miscellaneous appurtenances of feminine charm: bottles of cream, ointments, nail polish; a jar full of bobby-pins; brushes, combs, a silver-backed mirror engraved with the initials JB; there were nail-buffers, emery boards, scissors, a single fastener from a garter belt, eye-shadow boxes, tweezers, a compact and hosts of other items.

  Facing the vanity, but across the room, stood a bureau, with the male equivalents of these beauty aids--lotions, hair tonic, after-shave talc--the array perhaps a little neater because Janice was committed to restoring order to whatever chaos Frank might create, but felt no such responsibility toward her own things.

  And against the wall, between the two windows that looked out on the back yard, hunched a desk--a very wreck of a desk, teetering on spindling legs of oak which supported a bookshelf before reaching up to maintain the inclined face of the drop-leaf and the frame. The shelf was loaded down with scrapbooks.

  Tensely, insistently, Frank bent down and picked up three, bringing them back to where Joyce was seated on the bed. He seated himself next to her and opened one book across their two laps.

  His voice trembling, his grip on himself slipping, he tried to tell her the story behind each yellowed clipping.

  Suddenly Joyce turned to him, looking up at him with her great somber eyes. "Frank," she whispered, the faint sound of her voice merging with those from the window. "Frank, do you love me?"

  He bent, quickly, and kissed her lightly on the forehead, feeling his whole body trembling. But he said, "Of course I do, honey. Now, this story began when ..."

  "No, Frank. I mean, really."

  His mind cast about frantically, but all control was gone now. There was nothing to seize upon which could protect him from his own burning hunger. The books fell to the floor as he caught her to him and felt the response of her warm, excited lips. She trembled against him, and her fingers dug deep into the flesh of his back.

  Something, very like fire, seemed to be consuming them ...

  8 ~ Substitution

  For Joyce the romance with Frank had always the added poignancy of impending tragedy.

  The first blow fell that same night--the night she shared ecstasy with Frank, while Frank's wife and Tony talked together in the garden below.

  The rest of the evening had gone off, somehow, in a state of continuing tension. Tony was hurt and angry because Joyce had deserted him. Frank was tormented by his own guilt--faced with the horrifying realization that he had against his will succumbed to a girl only a little more than half his age. Janice, her plans all made to depart for Maine with the baby the following morning, was openly bewildered at the tensions of the others, and still more bewildered by a psychic unease, that told her something had gone dreadfully wrong.

  But the real blow came later, when Tony and Joyce had muttered "good nights" and "thank yous" to Frank and Janice in the doorway of the little house on Randolph Road, and had gone out to the parked car at the curb.

  They got in and Tony, jaw grimly set, started the motor.

  "It was fun, wasn't it?" Joyce said. It wasn't what she meant. She meant glorious, wonderful, tremendous. But these were not words she could say. A man loved her, wanted her--would protect her. Frank was strong and able and adult. He was already a father, the very symbol of adulthood. He was successful, mature.

  Tony said nothing.

  "What's the matter with you?" she demanded.

  He put the car in motion, driving down Randolph Road like a man escaping demons. At Central Avenue he forced the rebellious vehicle around the curve with a mad squealing of tires on the macadam.

  After that, the convertible shot through the moonlit darkness, a thunderbolt of whistling winds and whirring motor in the silence of the night. Past the big, silent houses on Central Avenue, past the recurring streetlamps, past the end of the macadam where the street became a highway and turned to concrete paving, past the new development in South Paugwasset.

  "Tony!" she said. "Where are you taking me?" In the dim lights from the dashboard, his face was brewing a storm of violence. "Answer me!" Still the car sped on. "Tony, you stop this car right this minute."

  No answer.

  "If you don't let me out of this car, I'll ... I'll ..." Sudden hysteria gripped her. She caught at the doorhandle, pressed downward and tried to force it open against the flying wind-stream. Tony reached over with one hand, not taking his eyes from the road, and caught her wrist
with steely fingers, pulling her back into the car. Then he reached past her and pulled the door to full latch. After that, as though nothing had interrupted him, he drove forward into the night, faster and faster, until the whipping airstream lashed Joyce's unfastened hair down in stinging blows against her face. Suddenly she dropped her face into her hands, and sobs jerked at her shoulders.

  "What are you doing, Tony?" she wailed. "Please, Tony."

  Then he stopped the car, pulling it up sharply like a horse that is forced to rear, on the shoulder of the road.

  The silence, after the roaring of wind and motor, was poignant, almost unbearable. Then, one by one, the night-sounds of the country insistently made themselves heard. Crickets in the tall grass that bordered the highway. A nightbird "hooooo-ed" in the distance, and somewhere ahead a late train on the Long Island railroad clicked its electric way over an untidy roadbed. Water gurgled faintly through a culvert, and leaves, lightly displaced in the gentle breeze, rustled softly.

  Tony drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered it to Joyce and, when she refused, lit one for himself.

  The girl stared at his grim face, she was frightened. Tony was never like this.

  "Joyce," he said, suddenly, "are you in love with Burdette?"

  She stalled, "What?"

  "I asked if you are in love with--with that editor?"

  "Don't be silly." Was that the right tone? Should she have said: Don't be ridiculous? Or: What are you talking about?

  "He's a lot older than you are, Joyce." He wasn't saying it flatly. His voice was flat, but something underlay the flatness, as though he were keeping, by a tremendous effort, from breaking into sobs.

  "Oh, stop talking like a child."

  "I'm your age, Joy. If I'm a child, so are you."

  "Girls mature earlier than boys."

  "I've heard that before. It all depends on which girls, what boys."

  "You'd better stop this nonsense and take me home."

  "No, Joy. This is too important for us to just shrug off. If I find out that you're--you know I saw you last Friday with Frank."

  "I don't care what you saw, and don't you dare threaten me."

  "I'm not threatening you, Joy; I'm just telling you what I'm going to do if things turn out the way I suspect."

  "You are absolutely the stupidest boy I've ever met."

  "Keep it calm, Joy. We're not fighting. We're just clearing up some confusion."

  Desperately she wished that Frank were here. Frank was a man, full-grown and protective. Strong, wise. He loved her and would defend her from--from this kid who had rejected her when she had needed him. She forgot that it was she who had really done the rejecting. "Well, let's clear it up then," She felt so much older and stronger than Tony.

  "I don't know how you feel about it, but after last week, I feel that you belong to me, and it's up to me to look out for you. If you broke off with me for some other kid, that'd be all right I wouldn't be happy about it, and I'd probably make a big fuss, but it wouldn't be wrong--like this is."

  "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "Tm talking about Frank, and you know damned well I am. Joyce, you're too young to get involved with an older man, like that. He's married. He's got a wife and kid. Can't you get it through your stupid head that you'll ruin your life with that guy. Even if he loves you, he doesn't want to love you. He's--oh, hell, I don't know what he is, but he's not for you. And if I find out you're going too far with him--I'll tell your aunt. You know what she'll do."

  Then the idea came to her. She forced her voice to a calm. "Tony, you know better than what you're saying." There was only one way to convince him. And, for one blinding moment, she saw herself as a martyr, sacrificing herself at the stake for her love.

  She moved closer to Tony. "I'll show you who I love, Tony." She had to do something. If her aunt found out about Frank, she'd probably have him arrested, have him run out of town. She put her lips to Tony's and kissed him.

  Frank and Janice went to bed that night like two strangers who, by chance, have been forced together into a shipboard stateroom. Janice was troubled because of something she could not bring into the forefront of her consciousness. She knew that something had happened which threatened her; knew too that some part of her had understood it fully and was weighing it; taking measures for her protection from it--she knew, too, that whatever had happened had lowered a veil of estrangement between herself and her husband. But what, exactly, it was that had happened she did not know, could not let herself guess.

  But Frank's problem was far greater. He knew what had happened. Worse still, he knew that it would happen again and again. He loved Janice. She was his wife, the mother of his child, a capable, wonderful person on whom he could depend for everything he needed. But something about this strange kid, this seventeen-year-old femme fatale, had caught him in a terrible grip.

  She was beautiful, intelligent, sensuous--but that wasn't quite it. Nor was it the tense, passionate excitement she roused in him. That, too, was mere seasoning for the dish. No. There was something else she gave him, something not quite healthy--not for either of them. A kind of unquestioning obedience. A slavish devotion to his orders and desires which flattered him and made of him more than he was, but which at the same time gave him virtually an incestuous feeling, like that of, say, a father over-affectionate with his daughter.

  He looked across the room at Janice, brushing her soft, ash-blonde hair before the mirror. He couldn't let such a thing happen again. It must never happen again. What did a man want out of life more than Janice gave. All right, she had moods. All right, she had a mind of her own--and could raise utter hell with it, too. But he and Janice were two parts of the same whole--perfectly matched, perfectly mated. He wished she were not leaving tomorrow to be gone for the whole summer.

  She was wearing a pale, transparent gown of green nylon or silk, or something, and the soft light of the small lamp on her vanity outlined the lovely shape of her legs. He thought, how can you get excited over any woman but her, lovely Janice, his Janice.

  "Janice," he said softly. "Honey." She did not turn and he could not see her face. What was she thinking? Did she know? "Baby," he said. "Turn out the light and come here."

  There was a click, and he saw her pale figure coming to him across the room in the faint, leaf-spotted moonlight seeping through the window.

  Then she was in his arms, her lips parted and pressed to his, and he tasted the salt of her tears.

  Joyce undressed slowly, her whole body aching with exhaustion. Her dress she let fall to the floor. Her arms hurt. She looked in the mirror. Her shoulders and neck and upper arms felt bruised, but they showed no marks. She stretched the rubber waistband of her panties, let them drop to her feet, stepped out with one foot and with the other kicked them onto a chair. Her hair was wild with the slip stream of the convertible and she had no energy left to brush it. She went to the bathroom and washed away the lipstick smears around her mouth--but nothing could wash away the smear inside her. She started to the closet for her nightgown, thought of the vast energy that would require, and turned back to the bed, pulled down the sheet and single blanket and slipped in.

  What's the matter with me?

  She pressed the convenient switch that turned off the light over the bed and tried to settle herself for sleep.

  Why did I do it?

  She fluffed up the pillows and shifted her head, then turned and tried the other way, but there was no rest in her.

  She thought, how could you do such a thing? How could anybody let themselves get like that? What was wrong with a person who behaved like that? What was it old Iris had said, "... you need psychiatric help ..." Was that it? Was she crazy?

  She remembered things in school. Defiance. That had been the thing. Why did she have to write a shocking paper when everyone else was satisfied with things like measles and virus pneumonia? Why had she insisted on smoking in the school corridors between classes? After all, she hadn'
t actually needed a smoke. Why had she tried that idiotic dance during the auditorium study period? That was so stupid, so meaningless, so ridiculous except as defiance. Or was defiance the whole story? Wasn't it also something else, almost as if you were courting disaster, searching for trouble, demanding punishment?

  And the afternoon, just one day over a week ago, right after Dean Shay had kicked you out of school--what had happened that you had to tempt Tony so disgracefully? Supposing you got--got yourself with child? Was that it? Was that the trouble you were courting this time? Or was there still something else?

  She remembered it another way, then. There had to be someone. You had to belong to someone, be someone's property, so they would take care of you and keep you safe, because people did take care of the things that belonged to them, didn't they?

  And then, when Tony was so angry, why shouldn't you have gone out with Mr.--with Frank. And everything had been so wonderful--the fine, safe feeling, the protected feeling of being with a grown man.

  But tonight--first one and then the other. Betrayer. Delilah. First betraying Tony with Frank, and then Frank with Tony. Awful--but just wonderful, wonderful, the feeling of being loved. And two loves were better than one.

  Now she belonged to two men, but it was horrible. No, wonderful. No ...

  Tony drove his car into the garage, switched off the lights and climbed out closing the garage doors behind him. The moonlight cast long shadows over the lawn, making it look vast and deep and mysterious, and the huge darkened house where his father and mother lay sleeping loomed like a castle out of a fairy tale. He walked over to the grape arbor and seated himself on the long bench that ran the length of it.

  There was something wrong with Joyce--something he would have to figure out. Maybe, if he were to write to her parents--but no, you couldn't do that. There was honor among kids. You couldn't betray that.

  And for a while--he took out a cigarette and lit it--he had thought she was getting herself into trouble with that Frank Burdette. No. Nothing like that could happen. Frank was too nice a guy. And he had a wife and kid, and that kind of thing just didn't happen. Besides, he knew better now--after the way she had demonstrated, in the car, her ardent regard for him.