Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,3

that if everyone in the country would go to just one suburban party a week, psychoanalysis would soon go out of vogue." Gillian's shrug turned into a shudder. William was doing his Hugh Downs imitation – locating his con- versation on the right side of pompous and the wrong side of stuffy. His voice – a narcissistic and mellifluent instrument of torture – was professionally resonant, overwhelmingly smooth, always able to intimidate lesser voices and superior intellects in any gathering. The immediate conversation was more than passingly familiar to Gillian; it was a replay of last Tuesday's radio show. Gillian edged slowly away from the group and her space was filled by a plump and matronly woman with eyes that were devouring William.

Working her way toward the bar in an adjacent room, Gillian paused to take note of the décor. Fake beams that had been scarred by an ineptly wielded claw hammer; tapestried walls; lampshades with fringes; gaudy oil paintings of watery sunsets and Italian hill villages; everything overstuffed and red and silk. Expensive and atrocious.

On her way she met the Goodmans – Marvin and Helene. She walked unannounced into what seemed to be a family quarrel of some duration. Marvin Goodman's voice was raised, and tiny bubbles of perspiration were bursting on his forehead: "Ernie Miklos's wife says she can get by on thirty-five dollars a week – - thirty-five dollars a week for food and car." By way of response, Helene Goodman calmly and methodically unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. Gillian noted a strange phenomenon – as her husband's voice rose, so did her bustline. It led to a lowering of his eyes, a lowering of his voice and finally an end to the discussion.

Then she encountered her next-door neighbors, the Earbrows – Morton and Gloria. Morton's fingernails carried the residue of his day's labors, a colorful mixture of green paint and grease. He was sound asleep. His young wife, Gloria, was holding the attention of a small male audience by explaining precisely how one scraped paint from cement walls, the proper way of cleaning a paint brush, the relative advantages of a Black and Decker five-eighths-inch drill, what steps should be taken to prepare a lawn for a fall seeding – all of this while her husband snored his way into an ever-deepening sleep.

Gillian turned to meet Willoughby Martin and his friend, Hank. Willoughby was saying, "We really must take a drive soon; the foliage in Maine is already changing and before too long it will all just be… oh… a riot of color."

And Hank said, "Yes, in a few weeks it should be simply breathtaking."

Then Gillian was introduced to the Madigans – Agnes and Paddy. "Paddy Madigan, the fighter?" she said.

"That's right, dear," Agnes said. "Many think the finest left-handed fighter ever to contend for the light-heavyweight championship of the world."

Gillian then complimented Paddy Madigan on his remarkable physical condition. Paddy said nothing and Agnes did the responding: "Thank you, dear, we still manage to do our morning workouts, summer or winter, makes no difference." Gillian then asked Paddy what business he had entered since his retirement. Again Agnes answered for her husband: "Oh, we just putter around the house these days, doing the gardening and so forth."

At this point, what Gillian wanted was another drink. Before she could reach the bar, Mario Vella, the host for the evening, was standing up on a stool, calling for everyone's attention.

"Quiet, please," Mario said. "Please now, ladies and gentlemen, quiet down now. Tonight, by way of a little entertainment, we have a very special surprise for our neighbors at King's Neck. I have persuaded my very good friend, Johnny Alonga, to come here and favor us with a few of his hit songs."

Gillian was momentarily surprised. Johnny Alonga was a rising young singing star, reportedly Mafia-sponsored, who had sung a song, "A Dying Love," that had been on the charts for over a year. There had not yet been a second hit record. Possibly because Johnny Alonga's syrupy voice made Jerry Vale's seem crisp by comparison.

As all the lights except one were extinguished, two men in tuxedos entered from the bedroom. The black man sat at the piano and quickly picked out the opening notes of Johnny Alonga's one hit record. And the singer began to sing.

You come to me in all my dreams,

You touch my lips, or so it seems,

Your love is but a kiss away

If only I could make you stay

A dying love,

A