Like A Cat In The Night

By Humiliare Te

I was born. I am alive. Someday I will die. What more can be said about any of us? I believe in the concept of forgetting self. This book is as much a confession as a novel, and so many of the emotions are drawn from personal experience; as an adulterer, which I am not proud of, and as an alcoholic. Tis' a saint that has no skeletons in his clos

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Apr 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781648958366

Humiliare Te

I was born. I am alive. Someday I will die. What more can be said about any of us? I believe in the concept of forgetting self. This book is as much a confession as a novel, and so many of the emotions are drawn from personal experience; as an adulterer, which I am not proud of, and as an alcoholic. Tis' a saint that has no skeletons in his closet. I was born in the Midwest, and grew up living a normal middle class life. After graduating I worked a series of dead end jobs, until going into the military four years later. After the military I worked as an electronic technician until retiring.

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Like A Cat

In The Night

STORY BY

Humiliare Te

Like A Cat In The Night

Copyright © 2022 Humiliare Te

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-64895-835-9

ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-64895-836-6

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chapter One. The Seed of Desire

Chapter Two. The Sting of Guilt

Chapter Three. The Point of No Return

Chapter Four. Discovery

Chapter Five. Reckless Abandon

Chapter Six. Surrender

Chapter Seven. Consequences

Chapter Eight. Healing the Wounds

Chapter Nine. Tragedy

Chapter Ten. Pleasure and Pain

Chapter Eleven. Release, Good and Bad

Chapter Twelve. Answers

The sleepy town of Elliot baked under the hot Georgia sun in that summer of 1959. Farmers toiled in their fields of cotton and peanuts, while in town people stayed off the streets, sitting in front of electric fans. The old folks sat on their porches, sipping tall glasses of ice water or lemonade and talking about summers past, when they had toiled in the fields of cotton and peanuts, or stayed indoors to escape the hot afternoon sun. Dogs peered out from the shady places where they lay and watched the world with indifference as children splashed and played in their little plastic pools bought at Jackson’s Five and Ten.

On the edge of town, the Little Muddy Creek wound its way through the pines, Bobby Tyler’s body lying on its bank, bloating in the sultry air, flies buzzing about it while maggots feasted on the gunshot wound in his forehead that had ended his life. Back in town in a small frame house on Third Street, shaded from the sun by ancient magnolias, Missy Tyler nervously picked up her purse and stepped onto the porch. She stood there for a moment, face turned heavenward and eyes closed, wishing for some hint of a breeze to stir, but it didn’t come. She slowly went down the short brick walk and up Third Street toward its junction with Main.

As she walked, she replayed the events of the past seven months in her mind. It had all started back in January, or at least the final act had. Missy’s marriage to Bobby had been no picnic. They had been married for five years, the first two of which had been happy. Soon after they wed, Bobby had taken a job with Jimmie McDowell. McDowell owned a paper factory, and he hired men to work in it and to log the surrounding pine forests. Most men did both at one time or other, though whether it was better to traipse through the woods cutting timber or work in the sweltering factory boiling pulp during a steamy Georgia summer was anyone’s guess. It was a hard job, and eventually Bobby fell into the habit of going to Johnson’s Bar after work and drinking with the other men.

With his drinking came abuse, at first just verbal, but over the past year it had become physical on more than one occasion. Though Missy had never actually caught him, she also knew that he had been with other women. Missy tolerated the situation as best she could and did her best to hide it. She had tried to reason with him, God knows how she had tried. She had begged him to see their doctor about his drinking, to get help, but all it ever got her was a dose of angry profanity and, the last time that she had tried, a bloodied nose. She thought about divorcing him, but her mother would die if she ever did that. Her parents were disappointed enough when she had married him to start with, but divorce! They would disown her!

So Missy withdrew into herself, stayed out of his way, and thanked God that they had no children. At twenty-four, she sometimes felt as if her life was already over. If it weren’t for her job at the courthouse, she would lose her mind. That was her escape; it was how she filled her need to talk to people, to satisfy the basic human desire for dignity and self-respect. That worked well enough for her. If she was not as happy as she would have preferred, she was at least somewhat content. She still enjoyed her gardening and decorating the little house that they rented, and her walks in the woods.

But then came that rainy night in January, when all the anger and hurt and desire that had been festering inside of her for so long came pouring out. Fate had dealt her a hand, and now she would be put through an ordeal which would challenge her beliefs and values. She would find herself locked in a struggle with her own human frailty, as she weighed her religion and morality against the most base of human needs and desires.

Beulah Catherine, Missy’s given name, was a strikingly beautiful woman. Of slight stature, like her mother, with long auburn hair and vibrant green eyes, she was a woman that men could not help but look at. Her mother had come from an old aristocratic Georgia family, and she had raised Missy to be a genteel, proper Southern lady. Always in control of her emotions, Missy never allowed anyone to cause her to show anger, no matter how deeply she felt it. The heat of passion, her mother always told her, is something that a proper lady reserves for her boudoir.

So it came as a surprise to Missy on that rainy Monday evening, when she allowed herself to violate her principles and succumb to her desires.

Chapter One

The Seed of Desire

Good morning, Missy! John said cheerfully as he walked into the room. A tall, well-built man of forty-eight with a receding hairline and a soft, kind face and rather silly mustache, John Walters was a pleasant man to be around. He was a soft-spoken man that could make anyone feel at ease the first time they met. He had been a successful attorney in Atlanta for fifteen years. John’s father had owned a very profitable textile mill, and when he passed away in 1954, John had sold the mill per his father’s will and retired to Elliot. Three years ago, he had been elected mayor, a position that he greatly enjoyed. He was a good-natured man, and Missy enjoyed working with him. She had, in fact, known John for her entire life, he and her father being old friends.

John had married Priscilla Bancroft, an Atlanta socialite from a well-to-do family, soon after passing his bar exam. She was a stuffy, self-righteous woman that enjoyed no middle ground with the people of Elliot. You were either one of her sycophants or you couldn’t stand her, with most people falling into the latter group. Priscilla was a tall, skinny woman with graying hair, cold steely eyes, and thin lips, and she took great pleasure in looking down her long, thin nose at people. She had been somewhat attractive when she was younger, but the years had been unkind to her. What little beauty she ever had faded long ago.

Good morning, John, Missy replied, looking up from her work and returning his smile when their eyes met. How are you today?

I’m wonderful, Missy. How are you?

I’m fine. Can you believe this rain?

He hung his rain-drenched coat and hat on the coat tree that stood next to his office door as he answered, It’s really coming down out there. This is the wettest winter we’ve had in years.

I know, I’m so tired of rain. I can’t wait for spring to get here. All of these gray, dreary days are beginning to depress me.

Keep smiling. Sunny days are coming, Missy. Before you know it, you’ll be out planting flowers in your garden.

She smiled. I know, January just always seems such a long month to me. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t live up north where the winters are long and severe. I don’t think that I could stand that.

John laughed. No, he said, I don’t believe that I would tolerate that very well either. Thankfully the winters are short and mild in southwest Georgia.

Yes. I suppose I should be grateful for that and quit my whining.

John smiled again and disappeared into his office.

The Elliot Courthouse was an impressive structure that sat on the town square, where Main and Broad Street’s intersected. It was of red brick, with ornate stone coping and four massive stone columns supporting a portico on the front.

Inside were two marble hallways that divided the building into four quarters. On the first floor, it housed the water department, the city inspector’s office, the police department, and the City clerk’s office and office of the mayor. On the second floor were the courtrooms and county offices.

Missy and another woman, Barbara Stiles, worked in the clerk’s office. It was the largest room in the building. There was a counter that ran the width of it, behind which were Missy and Barbara’s desks, and behind those, the mayor’s office. The two women waited on the public, providing marriage licenses, birth certificates, and other vital documents. They also took care of the typing and filing for the mayor. Missy had had to do it all for the past week, because Barbara had taken some time off to settle the estate of her mother, who had recently passed away.

Missy’s day was fairly quiet that Monday. The rain kept people in their homes, so she was able to begin to get caught up on some of the work that had begun to pile up since Barbara had been away. She kept very busy, and before she knew it, it was nearly five o’clock. John emerged from his office and handed her the stack of papers he had been working over all afternoon. It was raining quite hard, and the wind was howling through the trees.

I hate to give you this, Missy, he said as he handed it to her. With Barbara gone, you’ve been having to pull double duty.

It’s no problem, she said. It was so quiet around here today that I was able to get almost caught up. I guess the rain kept people home.

It hasn’t let up all day, has it?

No, Missy said, making an exaggerated pout, if this keeps up, we’ll surely float away.

I wish that I didn’t have to go out into it now, but I have to go pick up Priscilla. We’re having dinner with her sister tonight. I’d sooner be the bait at an alligator hunt.

Missy laughed. Surely it’s not that bad.

He just smiled and rolled his eyes as he pulled on his coat. I’ll be lucky if I don’t drown before I get there.

Well, I hope you have a nice evening.

Thanks, Missy. I’ll see you in the morning.

Okay. Good night, John.

She turned back to her desk and began to look through the stack of paper he had just given her. It would easily take three hours to type it all, she thought, and decided that she would stay late to finish it. She never knew if Bobby would be home right after work, late in the night, or even at all anymore. She would try calling in a little while to see if he was there, though she didn’t know why. She took her sweater from the back of her chair and wrapped it around herself and putting a clean white sheet of paper into her typewriter, began working.

Like her sister, Priscilla, Eleanor Bancroft was a thin plain-looking woman seven years younger than her sister. A spinster living off the trust fund that her father had set up for her in his will, she had moved to Elliot a year and a half after Priscilla and John had so that she might be close to her sister. She lived alone in a comfortable house on Decatur Street.

The rain was still falling as John and Priscilla walked up the three steps to the front door. They rang the bell and waited for the housekeeper to come and let them in. Eleanor was probably the only person in Elliot that kept her doors locked at all times. She was a rather eccentric woman and constantly complained about the pathetic little backwater with its boorish hicks that her brother-in-law had dragged her dear sister to. Priscilla allowed her sister to continue in this belief, though in reality she had welcomed the move, relishing the thought of moving to a small town where she would be one of the more prominent citizens.

Good evening, Janice, John said when the housekeeper opened the door for them.

Good evening, sir. Good evening, ma’am. She stepped aside so that they could pass, closing the door behind them and then taking their coats. Miss Bancroft is in the parlor. She stood there solemnly as John and Priscilla walked to the parlor, only going to hang their coats after they had disappeared from sight.

Eleanor was sitting reading a book. Placing it on the table beside her when she heard them come in, she rose to greet them.

Hello, Priscilla, she said, the two woman hugging lightly. Hello, John. She tilted her head slightly toward him so that he could kiss her cheek.

Hello, Eleanor. How are you this evening?

As well as can be expected, she said without emotion. He knew that it was meant to express her displeasure at living here in Elliot, but he couldn’t help but play with her a little.

Oh? Have you been ill?

My health is fine, John, she said coldly, turning her attention to her sister. How are you, Priscilla?

Fine, dear.

Why don’t we sit, Eleanor said. Dinner will be ready at six. John looked at his watch. It was ten minutes till six now. He sat down in a chair near the fireplace, pulled his reading glasses from his jacket, and picked up the most recent issue of Look Magazine that was lying on the table. He began to thumb through it, trying to ignore the droning voices of the two women.

I had a letter from Mother in today’s mail, Eleanor. She said that she is doing quite well. She also said that Miss Pritchett passed away.

Really? I never liked Miss Pritchett. I suppose that she left all of her money to that worthless nephew of hers?

Mother didn’t say.

John knew who they were talking about and felt compelled to interject. Would that be the worthless nephew that received a Bronze Star for action in France and was later awarded a Purple Heart? As I recall, he was responsible for some rather impressive acts of bravery while overseas. If my memory serves me right, he’s now quite a well-respected journalist. A slight smile crossed John’s face now, because he knew that he would strike a nerve. Alfred Pritchett had indeed been a hero in the war and afterward had gone to school and became a journalist. He lived in New York now and was doing quite well for himself. He had also dated Eleanor a few times, out of respect for his aunt, who had encouraged him to do so.

I really don’t care what he did in that ridiculous war, John. He’s a bum. The color had drained from Eleanor’s face, her eyes locked on his in an angry stare.

That will be quite enough, John, Priscilla said angrily. Still smiling, John returned his attention to the magazine in his lap.

Anyhow, Priscilla continued, giving John one last angry look, Mother said that there were letters and diaries found in Miss Pritchett’s personal effects that indicated she had perhaps been less than virtuous.

I don’t doubt that one bit, Priscilla. There were always rumors about her.

John peered disapprovingly over the top of his glasses at the women for a moment and then returned his attention to the Pritchett article that he was reading.

I know, the woman was a disgrace.

Janice walked into the room and faced Eleanor. Dinner is ready, ma’am. She turned and walked back out, Eleanor never saying a word to her. As if on cue, she and Priscilla both rose and turned to look at John. He slowly put down the magazine and put his glasses back into his jacket. Only when he stood did Priscilla and Eleanor turn and walk toward the dining room. They all took their places at the table, and Janice began to serve dinner.

That was a fascinating article I was reading, John said. It was about jet aircraft. It’s possible now to travel from New York to Paris in a matter of hours. Alfred Pritchett wrote it.

Priscilla slammed her fork to the table and stared coldly at her husband. He returned his attention to his dinner. Priscilla continued to stare at him for a moment, and Eleanor too had her eyes fixed upon him. It was not in John’s nature to behave this way, but occasionally he could not help but taunt his wife and sister-in-law. He didn’t worry about making Priscilla angry, because her behavior toward him did not change whether she was angry at him or not.

Still fuming over John’s comment, Eleanor tried to draw his ire. So tell me, John, when are you going to tire of living in this godforsaken place and move back to Atlanta?

Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever leave Elliot, Eleanor. This place suits me. I find life to be so much more enjoyable in this rural atmosphere.

I should think that a man of your background would find this place and its people to be rather insipid.

Quite the contrary actually. I find the people here to be fascinating, and I’ve forged many strong and wonderful friendships in Elliot.

Oh, John, they’re a bunch of country bumpkins. I honestly can’t understand why you even want to associate with them.

I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Eleanor. He took another bite of his dinner, staring at Eleanor with amusement in his eyes. She turned her attention to Priscilla.

Can’t you talk some sense into him, Priscilla? You are withering here. Why did you ever let him talk you into coming to this place?

I don’t know, Eleanor, she said with a sigh. Priscilla fancied herself to be the envy of everyone in town, and her egotistical nature prevented her from ever desiring to return to Atlanta, where she would be of no significance. It’s not so bad, and I think that I have helped to stimulate the social scene a bit. I have several large affairs every year that are the talk of the town.

Eleanor picked up the little silver bell that always sat on the table next to her plate and rang it angrily. Janice came from the kitchen and stopped next to where Eleanor sat.

I’ve lost my appetite. Take these away, she said with a broad, sweeping gesture.

Yes, ma’am, she said, and began to clear Eleanor’s dishes.

John and Priscilla finished their dinner, the two women talking in hushed tones all the while. Eleanor again rang the bell, and Janice appeared as if from thin air. Are you ready for dessert, ma’am?

Yes, Janice.

John sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Why do you hate it here so, Eleanor? Have you really even made an effort to get to know the people?

What’s to know, John? I have nothing in common with them.

Then why did you ever come here?

To comfort my poor sister, whom you dragged down here on a whim.

John laughed heartily. A whim? It wasn’t a whim, Eleanor. I’ve always wanted to live in a small town. Life is so much simpler here. I fell in love with Elliot the first time I laid eyes on it. There’s really no place else on earth where I could be any happier.

You were a very successful attorney in Atlanta, John. You worked for one of the most prestigious firms in the city. You knew all of the movers and shakers, were invited to all of the best parties. How could you possibly be happier here?

I would not expect you to understand, Eleanor. I could say the same about you, though. You led a very active life in Atlanta, were involved in a number of charities, and were yourself on the lists of some fairly prominent people. Leaving all of that to be within walking distance of Priscilla seems rather asinine, wouldn’t you agree? Atlanta is not exactly the other end of the earth. You had the means to come and see Priscilla any time that you desired, and she as well could have traveled to Atlanta on a whim. A few hours on a train and you two could have been together.

That’s enough, Priscilla snapped, from both of you.

Janice returned from the kitchen carrying a large silver tray with a steaming pot of coffee and three parfaits.

I am thinking of going to Atlanta soon, Eleanor. Would you care to join me?

Yes, I have some things to take care of there. When do you think you will go?

In the next week or so, I imagine.

John sat sipping his coffee, finding his thoughts drifting to the young woman whom he had left at the courthouse. He could still see the pout she had made this morning when they were talking about the rain. What a sweet woman, he thought to himself. She always seemed so happy. Never once could he recall her being hateful or cross, the way Priscilla and Eleanor always seemed to be.

John! He snapped out of his reverie when Priscilla called his name for the third time.

Yes, Priscilla, what is it?

I asked if you were going to accompany me to Atlanta.

No, Priscilla, not this time. I’ve a busy month ahead of me, so I’ll have to suffer the agony of not going with you. He smiled at Eleanor, sipping his coffee. Her eyes said what she would not allow her lips to speak.

Really, John, you talk as if being mayor of this place requires any actual thought. The job is purely symbolic. You have no power. So you get to conduct a marriage now and again or cut a ribbon when they open a new library. Any clod could do that.

There actually is a certain amount of work involved in running our little community, Eleanor, and while it is true the job is often symbolic, I have gone far beyond what most of my predecessors did and take a far more active role in the actual running of the city.

Eleanor just laughed at him. Oh well, Priscilla, we’ll have a grand time without him.

And I without you, John thought.

When they had all finished their dessert and coffee, they returned to the parlor, where John resumed reading the magazine while Priscilla and Eleanor prattled on, talking gossip about most everyone that they knew, both in Elliot and in Atlanta.

John was able to finish two more magazines and part of a third before Priscilla finally announced that she was ready to go home. As soon as the car had cleared the driveway, Priscilla began to scold him.

Why do you insist on treating my sister so hatefully, John?

Self-defense, Priscilla! We can’t be in the same room without her beginning to go on about what an awful place Elliot is and accusing me of dragging you here against your will.

She’s a city girl, John. There is nothing here to stimulate her intellect.

Eleanor is a very cultured woman and a fairly wealthy one as well. If she finds Elliot so devoid of intellectual stimulants, then she should use her money and her talent to do some good and provide some of the things that she feels we are lacking. If she is not willing to do that, then perhaps she should move back to Atlanta.

John, you know very well that she won’t do that as long as I am here.

Then I suggest that she open her mind and her purse and see if she can’t develop that intellectual stimulation which she needs.

Why do you hate her so?

I don’t hate her, Priscilla, but has she ever given me a chance? She was hardly fond of me when we lived in Atlanta, and since we’ve been here, she has been positively hateful towards me every time that we are together. I have tried to be civil to her, but it becomes increasingly difficult. She can protest that she only moved here to support you emotionally, but the fact remains that she is really quite free to leave any time that she chooses.

Priscilla did not respond. She knew that Eleanor did not like her husband, because she had told her as much long ago. What John said was true, Eleanor really had never given him a chance, and though Priscilla liked having her sister near, her role was hardly one of support. John and Priscilla did not speak the rest of the way home.

As they passed through the center of town, John saw that the lights in his office were on. He dropped Priscilla off at home and then returned to the courthouse to see if Missy was still there working.

That sonofabi’ch. Bobby was already fairly drunk, and it just barely five o’clock. Fer two goddamn cents, I’d lay that sonofabi’ch on his ass. I’d like to a seen him git that truck in an’ out a there today in all that fuckin’ mud.

Ronnie Clemson, the foreman and Jim McDowell’s right-hand man was who Bobby was referring to. He had insisted that the men go into the woods when they arrived this morning. They protested that in this rain they would surely get the truck stuck in the mud, and they had. After walking two miles in the rain to get out of the woods and hitching a ride into town with a passing farmer, Clemson had chewed them out and sent them home early. They went straight to Johnson’s Bar and had been there drinking ever since.

Johnson’s Bar was a small frame structure, painted dark green, on Carter Road near the edge of Elliot. It sat back off the road a small distance, with a dirt lot in front that always had a few cars in it regardless of the time of day. It was far enough out that very few people passed by, so it was a reasonably anonymous place to drink. There were seldom new faces in Johnson’s, and the people that did frequent it abided by an unspoken agreement that what happened at Johnson’s, stayed at Johnson’s. There were always a few women there, some looking for love and some selling it. Most of the regulars had found it there at one time or another.

We oughta go kick his goddamn ass right now, chimed in Bill Davis, a short, stocky man that was rumored to have killed a man in Atlanta once with his bare hands, though no one had ever summoned up the courage to ask him if it was true.

Calm down, guys, Henry Bowen said. Nobody would like to twist that bastard’s head off more ’an I would, but you all in the same boat as me. If we couldn’t work fer ol’ man McDowell, we wouldn’t work at all. Henry was a monstrous man. Well over six feet, he was by far the most soft-spoken, though, and the least prone to anger of them all.

Yeah, you right, Henry. Much as I hate working for that weasel McDowell, there ain’t no other jobs to be had aroun’ here, less’n ya wanna pick cotton with the niggers. Bobby slapped a dollar on the bar. Bring me another beer, Johnson!

Sam Johnson hobbled up with another beer and put it on the bar in front of Bobby, pushing the dollar bill back to Bobby. This’ns on me, Bobby. Johnson was a rather quiet and occasionally ill-tempered man of sixty years. He had mangled his foot years ago in a baler, and ever since he had walked with a severe limp.

Hey, thanks, Johnson. You all right, man. I don’t care what yer wife sez abou’ ya.

They all laughed heartily. Bobby picked up his beer and raised it toward Johnson by way of a toast, and took a long draw off it.

I reckon we won’t be able to get that truck outta there tomorrow either, he said as he sat the beer bottle back on the bar and fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

Naw, if this rain stopped right now, Bill said, we be lucky to get it out before We’nsy afer’noon.

Maybe, Bobby said thoughtfully, if we take some planks up there tomorra, an’ some long chains, we can pull her out with the other truck.

Henry took a drink from his beer. You might be right, Bobby. If we can jack the rear en’ up nuff to slide planks un’er the wheels, an’ lay some planks down before we take the other truck in so it don’ get stuck, we might jus’ could do it.

Loretta Sykes had been sitting quietly at the far end of the bar listening to the men talk. The daughter of a sharecropper, she had married at fifteen. He ran off after a few years and two kids, and since then she had been married twice more.

The second one had been killed in a bar fight, and the third just disappeared one day. There was plenty of speculation as to what had really happened to him, but nobody knew for certain. Loretta was a thin woman of thirty-four, with long coal-black hair. A hard life and years of drinking made her look somewhat older than she was, but she was still not an unattractive woman. She tended to wear her clothes a bit too tight, but it looked good on her. She worked the morning shift at the City Grill on Main Street.

Bobby, Loretta yelled from her perch, why don’ ya buy me a beer?

Henry gave him a little nudge. ’Retta wan’ some lovin’, Bobby, an’ she got her eye on you. He slapped Bobby on the back. That gal could suck a golf ball through fifty yards of ungreased garden hose.

Bobby laughed. She won’t be needin’ no garden hose tonight, Henry. I got somethin’ else she can suck on. It was common knowledge that if Loretta asked you to buy her a drink, it was your lucky night. Bobby thought for just a moment and decided that he wouldn’t mind taking her home tonight. She was a little on the wild side, but he didn’t mind.

Okay, darlin’, he yelled back. Johnson, give Loretta there a beer. As Johnson hobbled down the bar, Bobby picked up his beer and stood. I’ll see ya in the mornin’, fellas, he said, and giving them a wink, he strolled down and sat next to the woman.

Loretta put her hand on his back and moved it in little circles. How you been doin’, Bobby? she purred, smiling at him seductively.

I been okay, sugar. Been missin’ you, though. Where ya been hidin’ at?

I been sick, Bobby. Had a real bad flu. I’m all better now, though.

Well, that’s good, sugar. He discreetly slid his hand down and put it on her thigh. Ol’ Bobby take care of ya tonight.

She put her hand on his thigh and then slid it up to his crotch, squeezing him gently. Yes, you will, she said softly, winking at him.

The two quickly finished their beers and walked out of the bar, Bill giving Bobby a little pat on his backside as they passed him.

G’night, y’all, Johnson called. They didn’t acknowledge. They walked out into the rainy darkness, climbed into Bobby’s truck, and sped off into the night.

Missy sat typing, the staccato of the typewriter playing in harmony to the rain that still pelted against the windows. She heard footsteps on the marble floor in the hall and looked at the clock that hung on the wall. It was eight thirty. She waited as the footsteps came closer, thinking at first that it must be Willie Garrison, the janitor, but then realizing that these steps were quicker than Willie’s slow, shuffling gait. Finally, John appeared in the door, soaking wet.

Good evening, John, she said. I wasn’t expecting to see you again tonight.

He had his hat in his hand, and he walked behind the counter and put it on the coat tree. I saw the light was still on when I drove by on my way home, so after I dropped Priscilla off, I thought I would come back and see who was here. With all this rain, the Little Muddy has overflowed its banks. Willie lives out back in the sticks, and I know he can’t get into town tonight. The roads out where he lives are surely all mud rivers.

Well, I was so close to being caught up that I decided to stay and finish. I really didn’t have anything much else to do anyhow. I’m just about finished. Another fifteen minutes and you would have missed me. She smiled at him. He looked pitiful, like a little lost child, she thought. Having dinner with Priscilla was probably bad enough by itself, but having it with Priscilla and her sister had to have been all that he could bear. Missy had met Eleanor a few times over the years and knew what a haughty individual she was. How was dinner?

He shuddered. Everything I expected it to be, he said, smiling at her. I guess my wife is somewhat of a legend in Elliot. He paused for a moment. What do people really say about her, Missy?

Missy felt a little awkward now. Though they had become fairly close in the three years that they had been working together, they had not become so close that they discussed the intimate details of their private lives with each other. His question made her feel a bit uneasy, because she wanted to tell him the truth, but didn’t know if she should, yet at the same time it made her feel good that he trusted her enough to ask it in the first place.

It’s okay, Missy, you don’t have to be afraid to answer. He paused for a moment. You don’t have to answer at all. I shouldn’t have asked you that, I apologize. Hell, I know what they say anyhow, the same thing I say.

He looked so miserable. His must be such a lonely life, she thought.

It’s okay, John, you don’t need to apologize. I just, well, you caught me off guard, that’s all. There was a long pause, with them just looking at each other, each studying the other’s face, trying to assess if they could trust the other, if they could carry their working relationship to the next level, of intimacy and confidence.

People don’t like her much. She makes them feel uncomfortable. They feel like she takes pleasure in talking down to them, in insulting them in that subtle way of hers.

John walked over to Barbara’s desk and rolling her chair close to where Missy sat, its back facing her, straddled it and locking his fingers together on the chair back, rested his chin on top of them.

Well, that about sums up my Priscilla. That is who she is. Do people think of me that way also?

Oh no, not at all, I’ve heard many people ask how a man as nice as you could ever be married to her.

You know, Missy, Priscilla cannot have children, and that’s not her fault, but I have often wondered if being a mother would have softened her, brought out some sense of tenderness in her. Do you think that it would have made a difference?

I don’t know, John. I suppose it may have. I have never had any children, and I don’t know how having any would change me. I don’t think it would change my heart, though. I’ve always felt that being a mother would just open up another part of my heart, a part that a woman does not need until she is a mother.

John lifted his head and looked at her and began laughing. Well, that answers that. Priscilla doesn’t have a heart.

Missy sat there at a loss for words. Of course Priscilla was cold; everyone knew that. John occasionally made jokes about her, as he had prior to leaving earlier, but he had never discussed her this way before in Missy’s presence. He sensed her awkwardness and stood and stepped over to her desk. He picked up the papers lying there and began to thumb through them.

Missy thought for a moment before continuing. John, has Priscilla always been so cold?

He put the papers back on her desk. Yes and no. When we first met, she seemed such a warm, wonderful person, and I was attracted to her. After we married, though, she changed so much. I’ve always felt somewhat ill used by her, as if she had been luring me. Do you understand?

Missy nodded.

I mean to say, of course a woman wants to marry a man that will be a good husband and provide her with a good life, but to deliberately deceive a man, to pretend to be someone that she is not in order to win his heart, is that not wrong? That is how I have always felt, though, since very soon after Priscilla and I married.

"John, I really don’t know what to