Woman Aroused | Page 7

army, Hank?"
"Will be in a few days."
"Somebody forget to tell you the war was over four or five years ago?"
I asked, powdering my toes.
He shrugged his plump shoulders. "No. Don't think I've been through
combat, hell, and all that. I haven't, but somehow the war turned out to
be the only real thing in my life, and I tried to hang onto it. Only I got

sour on the idea of living like an English Sahib in Germany and..."
He was staring at me sadly and I stopped powdering myself, asked
what was wrong. "George, you're wonderful! Still using one kind of
powder for your toes, another to dust your crotch, and a third for under
the arms. My God, you don't know how I'm trying to get a hold of
something, of my old life."
"Got a job in the hopper?" I asked, slipping on a silk bathrobe.
"Oh, I'll get back to selling, I suppose," Hank said.
We went back to the living room and I stepped into the kitchen, put on
the electric coffee percolator, was halving grapefruit, when he called
me.
He was standing in the living room next to the heavy woodwork that
had once been a door leading to the upstairs apartment, before I had the
wall filled in. He pressed part of one of the wooden panels, which slid
back, showing an empty space. We used to call it the "hideaway" when
we were kids.
Hank said happily, "Imagine, this still being here--still working."
"Bet I haven't opened that panel--or thought of it--in fifteen years," I
said.
"Remember when this was the garage and the big car was here? We'd
sit in the front seat and imagine we were racing like hell along some
dark road, every yegg in the world after us, and then we'd jump out and
put all sorts of crazy documents in the panel? Had some great times
then." Hank pressed the top of the panel and it slid back into place
again. "Like a movie," he added.
There was something a little slobbering and queer about him and I said
rather sharply, "The corn-flakes company will still send you secret
rings for box tops."

He lit a cigarette, sat on the couch. "George, why is it when we grow
older instead of getting smarter, we get more stupid? Why do we lose
the simplicity and happiness we once held in childhood?"
"What happened, Hank, the army make you a philosopher?"
"Don't laugh it off, as we grow older we become full of sour bitterness.
Too bad humans don't age for the better, like wine. The wine of
humanity is pretty thin and watery." He blew out a fairly decent smoke
ring, watched it dissolve in the air, asked, "Own the oil company yet?"
"Nope. Still editing the 'Sun, published every month by the Sky Oil
Company, Inc.,' and it's still as corny as it sounds."
"And you still wear conservative suits by Brooks Brothers,
custom-made shirts with stiff tab collars, Bronzini ties, make a ritual of
powdering your crotch, of blending your tobacco. You take in the
dance recitals, and quietly read your Times in the evening over the
pre-dinner cocktail, which can only be ordered at certain bars. George,
you're so wrapped up in yourself, you give so much attention to George,
I envy you."
"And I still have my little bouts with Flo--might as well make a
complete inventory. Want breakfast?"
Hank shook his head.
"Then take some coffee with me."
"I'm full of coffee. George, do me a favor."
"Certainly," I said, wondering how much of a bite he was going to put
on me. I didn't have any money in the bank but I could always borrow a
couple of hundred.
He pulled a thick white envelope out of his pocket. "Hold this for me."
I took the envelope. It was open and full of twenty dollar bills. "What's
this, black-market loot?"

"No, saved it from my salary. There's $7,000 there. Keep it in your
bank for me."
"Why don't you open an account tomorrow? I mean I don't like to hold
money--you know how the green slips through my hands. What's the
gimmick?"
"I'm married to the world's greatest bitch," Hank said softly. "That's
why I came home--I'm going to get a divorce, soon. I don't want
Lee--that's the 'little woman'--to know about this. She's... well, I know
why she is what she is, but she's... well, greedy wouldn't start to
describe her. She's money-crazy. In fact, she's downright crazy. You
see she... oh, it's quite a mess. No sense involving you in it."
"This is news. How long have you been married?"
"Let's not talk about it. Put it down as one of these war marriages
you've probably read too much