The Impetuous Mistress. George Harmon Coxe
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out the window into the night, a moderately tall man with a lanky, loose-muscled look and straight dark hair that was sometimes stubborn. His brows were straight and black over the brooding brown eyes and his bony face was tight above the solidly set jaw. In those silent moments there was no outward movement of his body except the uncontrollable tremor in his hands, but he could feel the stiffness in his knees and an internal shakiness that spread out from the pit of his stomach. Finally he put the glass aside and turned back to his wife.
“Why, Frieda?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Why what?”
“The sudden possessiveness about Ricky? Because you know a divorce is important to me and you want to be vindictive—though God knows why you should be? Or is this your father’s idea? Does he want to mold the boy the way he tried to mold you?”
She had herself in hand again and her voice was clipped. “Do you think you and Nancy can give him a better home than Dad and I?”
He started to ask her just how often she expected to be at home and then reconsidered because her question had merit Twice Nancy had driven with him to camp to see the boy and they had quickly formed a mutual admiration society. This much he knew, just as he knew that in his daydreams the past few months he had seen Ricky and Nancy in this house together; he had even planned the layout so that an extra room or two could easily be added.
“Perhaps not in material things,” he said. “But one thing we could give him that your father has never been capable of, and that is understanding and affection. . . . No,” he said as he moved away from the table. “No deal. Visitation rights are not enough, Frieda.”
“Very well.” She tucked her bag under her arm and straightened her back. “In that case you and Miss Heath will have to accustom yourselves to the idea of sleeping together without benefit of clergy. Not that you haven’t already tried it.”
He started for her as she finished; then stopped as she jumped to her feet to face him. The words that came to him died in his throat as a cold fury possessed him. In that instant he hated this woman and the cold bright glints in her eyes told him that hate was returned. He made one more effort to preserve his self-control.
“Then let’s fight it out the other way. There’s one ground for divorce in New York State, so let’s see whose skirts are clean.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, and for that instant her glance wavered. “Are you—”
“I mean I’ve heard things here and there and if this is the way you want it I’ll get some private detective and find out how accurate the rumors are. Let’s see what a judge will say about this custody business once the facts are in.”
“Try it!” she shouted, her voice shrill. “Just you try it.”
“I intend to,” he yelled, and took a breath, standing with his face no more than a foot from hers, seeing the ugly distortion of her features and knowing his own expression must be equally twisted and stiff. “And if your conduct the past couple of years hasn’t been one hundred per cent virginal—which I damned well doubt—”
She hit him then, an open-handed, swinging blow that caught him on the cheekbone, and for the first time in his life he retaliated.
There was no thought process involved. At that moment he was beyond thinking. He felt the sting of the blow and instantly his own hand moved in an instinctive reflex action, as automatic as a skilled boxer counter-punching.
He saw her head rock as his palm caught her cheek, watched her stagger off balance and sit down on the edge of the divan and then skid off to the floor. She landed in a sitting position and there she stayed, more bewildered than hurt, her mouth open and her eyes incredulous.
For a long and silent moment as the shock immobilized them he stared down at her, horrified, the sickness rising in him as he realized what had happened. Then he wheeled and headed for the door as she found her voice.
The screams that followed him were hysterical, the words incoherent. He kept his eyes on the door, not daring to look back. Somehow he knew that if he listened or hesitated or tried to argue again the fury that possessed him might drive him to further violence.
It was fear that drove him on, the certain knowledge that he must get away before it was too late. He reached the door and stumbled into the night and the screams were muted. He passed the convertible and found the highway and turned left, his mind still tormented and the sickness rising in his throat.
He was vaguely aware that next door Tom Ashley’s house was dark and the garage empty. He was conscious enough of his surroundings to move to the side of the road when he heard an approaching car. He walked fast, driving himself in an effort to steady his nerves and erase the physical shakiness that still gripped him. When, finally, he could begin to think again he began to ask questions, some of them aloud.
Why? What happened that he could do such a thing?
Never before had he ever touched his wife in anger and it had not always been easy. There had been many scenes and arguments in his past, not so violent but equally devastating to his state of mind. Two or three times before she had slapped him when his rebuttals were sound and her exasperation got the best of her. But this—
Was it because in earlier days his self-control was better and pride prevented any retaliation? Or was his forbearance due to the fact that never before had their contentions seemed so important?
Was it the things she had said about Nancy, the inferences made? The thoughts of his son and the deep-seated resentment of this new request for custody?
His steps slowed as reason returned and the shakiness disappeared. There were no conclusive answers to his questions and presently hope came again. What had happened was over. He was ashamed and he would apologize. Frieda might not forget, but the fact that she had come to discuss divorce indicated that she was interested. There could be personal reasons, quite aside from Ricky, where none had existed before. If so, a compromise was possible.
Suppose he agreed to custody during vacations, holding out for one month in the summer. That would be better than nothing. Ricky would be thirteen in another couple of months. In three years he would be sixteen, nearly a man, and by then he would have some choice as to where, and with whom, he spent his vacations. Such thoughts were mildly cheering and he stopped at the side of the road, seeing the string of moving lights in the distance and realizing this must be the parkway.
Then he thought of Nancy and the instructions he had given her.
Wheeling, he started back, legs stretching. He had no idea how long he had been walking, but he had an idea about how far he had come. Hurrying now in the still night air, he could feel the perspiration come and his shirt was damp beneath his belt. Rounding a curve a car coming toward him swung wide and he stepped from the macadam. Another car not far behind gave him more room, and when he glanced over his shoulder after it had passed he thought it looked familiar.
It was moving too fast for him to read the license plate and he had the vague impression that a man was driving. But it was a convertible like his wife’s. The general color scheme was similar, too, and as he plowed ahead, he hoped it was Frieda’s. For there was no telling what she might do when she was angry, and although he had told Nancy not to stop if she saw Frieda’s car, he did not want to encounter his wife again so soon.
He was panting slightly as he made the final turn into the straight stretch that led past his house. Ashley’s place was still dark and a minute later he could tell that the convertible was gone. There was only his small sedan in the driveway as he cut across the lawn to the front door.
As he turned the knob he hesitated, to glance back at his car to make sure Nancy was not in it and then he went inside and through the little entryway. At first glance he thought the room was empty and started to call out; then, his gaze lowered, he saw the crumpled figure on the floor in front of the divan.
The next long seconds had no place in Rick Sheridan’s memory then or later. What he did was automatic and without conscious thought because the