Gwen, in Green

Then, in sudden contrast, the scene of pure bliss, endless peace, immortality, heaven. Strange, lovely landscape. The moment of terror was wiped away. It was if it had never happened. She saw and understood. She had a choice, but that choice did not include inactivity. As if to drive home the point, she was swept with unbearable agony, terminal agony, twisted, torn, and rended, her limbs being shattered. It was only a moment, but in that terrifying moment she saw more and understood more and knew, with regret and a sweet, unreachable sadness, what she must do.

A quick summer shower crossed the island as George came home. As he entered the drive, the windshield wipers making rhythmic sweeps, he saw Gwen, her blouse open, her hair wet and streaming down her back, standing down by the pond. He was dry, but he would have to change from his work clothes anyhow. It was a warm, pleasant summer shower, so he ran through it and yelped at her. She turned around and smiled.

“Hi, nuthead,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “Why the rain act?”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Rain ran down her face. She licked at it with her tongue. “I haven’t walked in the rain in, oh, years.”

“Ever screwed in the rain?” He pinched her breast through the wet tricot bra which showed the outline of a nipple.

“No. You?”

“Come to think of it, no.” He was grinning. He was pleased. She looked better, happier, more herself than she had in weeks.

“Well?” she asked, giving him her sexiest look.

“You’re kidding.”

“All show and no go,” she said.

“A Ferrier never lets a dare go by,” he said, starting to strip the sodden clothing away from her.

Her healthy skin beaded the rain at first. He looked at her, entranced. His Gwen, the nut, the prude, was naked in the open, laughing in the rain. “Honey?” he asked. The sight of her turned him on.

“Yes,” she whispered through the rain. “Yes, darling.”

He couldn’t believe it. He made a mental note to leave his fortune to the study of psychiatry. He blessed Dr. Irving King as she clung and pulled. He giggled as he arranged their sodden clothing on the grass, and then it was a serious, beautiful thing, with a wildly responsive, willing, wanton woman, wanton just for him, loving his touch, and saying, “Ah, ah, ah,” with his penetration. George was a happy man. The union was quick, total, violently active. Finished, he saw love and laughter in her eyes, felt his own laugh overflowing.

“God, you’re silly,” she said, pushing him off and running, with him giving chase, to splash noisily into the rain-­dimpled clear pond.

Inside, after a hot shower, a mutual rubdown with rough towels, a drink, and music on the player, he wondered if it were only a momentary release on her part, if she’d go back. As if in answer, she came to him, crawling into his lap as he sat in the big, gold chair. “George?”

“Ummm.”

“George.” A whisper, a sensual kiss on his cheek, a hand doing things Gwen’s hands had never done.

“Hey, am I in the right place?” He cringed. He shouldn’t have said it.

“You’re different.”

“Like it?”

“God, yes.”

He liked it. He liked it. His Gwen, the wanton, sexy, endlessly hungry woman. As the days went by and things didn’t change, he began to hope. At first, when indulging an old whim, such as making love in the big chair, he’d say, “Are you sure?” Then he forgot to ask. It was a fantastic week. George loved his new wife more than he’d ever, ever loved the old one. He was a happy man and she was happy and uninhibited and loving.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, making one last try to figure it out.

“I don’t either, really. It just came to me. All of a sudden I said, Gwen, that’s me, you know, you’re a big girl. He’s your husband and he loves you. Give, baby.” She giggled. “I find giving to be, frankly, one hell of a lot of fun.”

So he accepted it and was happy. He would be one happy fellow right up to the day he died.

10

Billy was working the inland side of the cut. Jock, his friend, was on the ocean side. There was a buildup of clouds to the west, indicating a short work day. Billy was rooting for the clouds. He’d had a rough night. First, he and Jock had stopped by a joint in Ocean City on the way home, punched a few coins into the juke for a couple of country-­western goodies, shot a few games of bowling on the little game machine, and put away a few tall, cold Buds. Back at the trailer, Billy had been restless. Jock was out of it. He could hold his booze, but beer did him in and made him sleepy. He hit the sack just after dark, leaving Billy on his own. He considered calling the two sisters, and entertained a delightful vision of talking both of them into bed at one time. He had to walk all the way to the office to use the telephone. The aged, short, fat, wrinkled mother of the two sisters answered and said, rather curtly, that her daughters were not in. Billy said to hell with it and walked back down the line of trailers, kicking at the bare, white sand.