“Now, what for?” he asked. “The little one is off making beaded loincloths or shooting apples off the head of counselors with his little bow and arrow . . . or whatever they do . . . and hubby is busting heavies at the office . . . and now is the time for Castle Rock’s prettiest hausfrau and Castle Rock’s resident poet and tennis bum to make all the bells of sexual congress chime in lovely harmony.”
“I see you parked out in the driveway,” Donna said. “Why not just tape a big sign to the side of your van? I’M FUCKING DONNA TRENTON, or something witty like that?”
“I’ve got every reason to park in the driveway,” Steve said, still grinning. “I’ve got that dresser in the back. Stripped clean. Even as I wish you were yourself, my dear.”
“You can put it on the porch. I’ll take care of it. While you’re doing that, I’ll write you a check.”
His smile faded a little. For the first time since she had come in, the surface charm slipped a little and she could see the real person underneath. It was a person she didn’t like at all, a person that dismayed her when she thought of him in connection with herself. She had lied to Vic, gone behind his back, in order to go to bed with Steve Kemp. She wished that what she felt now could be something as simple as rediscovering herself, as after a nasty bout of fever. Or rediscovering herself as Vic’s mate. But when you took the bark off it, the simple fact was that Steve Kemp—publishing poet, itinerant furniture stripper and refinisher, chair caner, fair amateur tennis player, excellent afternoon lover—was a turd.
“Be serious,” he said.
“Yeah, no one could reject handsome, sensitive Steven Kemp,” she said. “It’s got to be a joke. Only it’s not. So what you do, handsome, sensitive Steven Kemp, is put the dresser on the porch, get your check, and blow.”
“Don’t talk to me like that, Donna.” His hand moved to her breast and squeezed. It hurt. She began to feel a little scared as well as angry. (But hadn’t she been a little scared all along? Hadn’t that been part of the nasty, scuzzy little thrill of it?)
She slapped his hand away.
“Don’t you get on my case, Donna.” He wasn’t smiling now. “It’s too goddam hot.”
“Me? On your case? You were here when I came in.” Being frightened of him had made her angrier than ever. He wore a heavy black beard that climbed high on his cheekbones, and it occurred to her suddenly that although she had seen his penis close up—had had it in her mouth—she had never really seen what his face looked like.
“What you mean,” he said, “is that you had a little itch and now it’s scratched, so fuck off. Right? Who gives a crap about how I feel?”
“You’re breathing on me,” she said, and pushed him away to take the milk to the refrigerator.
He was not expecting it this time. Her shove caught him off balance, and he actually stumbled back a step. His forehead was suddenly divided by lines, and a dark flush flared high on his cheekbones. She had seen him look this way on the tennis courts behind the Bridgton Academy buildings, sometimes. When he blew an easy point She had watched him play several times—including two sets during which he had mopped up her panting, puffing husband with ease—and on the few occasions she had seen him lose, his reaction had made her extremely uneasy about what she had gotten into with him. He had published poems in over two dozen little magazines, and a book, Chasing Sundown, had been published by an outfit in Baton Rouge called The Press over the Garage. He had graduated from Drew, in New Jersey; he held strong opinions on modern art, the upcoming nuclear referendum question in Maine, the films of Andy Warhol, and he took a double fault the way Tad took the news it was bedtime.
Now he came after her, grabbed her shoulder, and spun her around to face him. The carton of milk fell from her hand and split open on the floor.
“There, look at that,” Donna said. “Nice going, hotshot.”
“Listen, I’m not going to be pushed around. Do you—”
“You get out of here!” she screamed into his face. Her spittle sprayed his cheeks and his forehead. “What do I have to do