Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,37

wasn't a suicide or an accident. So it had to be….

Gilly: Never mind, I think that's just too morbid for words. Anyway, let's get back to Christmas shopping. Billy: That's something else I'd rather not contemplate. Gilly: I know. We seem to be doing our best to keep the commerciality in Christmas.

Billy: Yes, all you need for a merry Christmas is money. Gilly: Ummm. Money. Why is it that you never have it when you need it most?

Billy: Probably because you always need it. I mean, if it's not Christmas presents, it's the old faithfuls – the telephone bill, the mortgage, the fuel bill, and all the rest.

Gilly: That's part of the joy of being a home owner. It's the emergencies that hurt.

Billy: You sound worried, dear. Don't tell me you've gone and run up a gambling debt, or spent the milk money on demon rum?

Gilly: Oh, you're so silly. No, I'm just speaking figuratively. It's simply that money can be a problem. Billy: Yes, but you know what they say. It can't buy happiness.

Gilly: Perhaps not, but there are times when it can quell anxiety.

MARVIN GOODMAN

It was the week before Christmas, traditionally a time of heightened emotion, and two residents of King's Neck shared the feeling that the world, or at least their private worlds, would soon end. Neither of the two anticipated a particularly pleasant finale. Marvin Goodman was once again on the verge of bankruptcy. And Gillian Blake was pregnant.

Marvin Goodman groped anxiously toward the Danish modern mailbox that hung from the rough-hewn shingles of his Custom Split, and extracted a dozen envelopes of various sizes, shapes and colors. The sight of the cellophane windows was sufficient to justify his next-to-worst fears, to induce his recurrent daylight nightmare.

He walked noiselessly through the foyer into the living room, barely conscious of the thick velvet pile ($22.50 a yard) that cushioned his steps. He totally ignored the climate control system that nurtured his well-being, the Tanganyikan carvings, the pre-Columbian figures, the abstract expressionist oils, the limited-edition art books that fed or stimulated his aesthetic needs.

Marvin tore open the wide manila envelope first and watched as the garish illustration of a one-time comic book hero and erstwhile companion of his youth fluttered to the floor. "Bat-shit," Marvin said, resisting the temptation to grind his heel into his fallen idol's groin. The sadistic smile that had accompanied the impulse faded as speedily as the gray winter sun over the Lombardy poplars marking the Goodmans' rear property line.

"Bat… shit," he reiterated slowly, while a dozen mauve, perfumed sheets fell from a squarish envelope tastefully imprinted Saks Fifth Avenue. A remaining sheet, imprisoned between Marvin's thumb and forefinger, indicated that $249.89 worth of unpaid merchandise had been transferred from the Saks showroom to the Goodman residence during the past thirty-day period. Added to previous shipments, still unpaid, the total due now exceeded the Goodmans' joint checking account balance by an amount approximating seven hundred dollars. Marvin did not have the strength to figure it to the penny.

Combining X-ray vision with computerlike speed, Marvin's troubled mind assessed the contents of the other envelopes. Each envelope's return address triggered a response that fed a familiar figure to the accurate accounting department in Marvin's brain. Long Island Lighting Company ($44) … Suburban Meats ($52) … Green Pasture Farms ($35) … New York Telephone Company ($32) … Dr. Hetterton ($145 outstanding) … and so on.

"Helene!" Marvin screamed. "Helene!"

"What do you want, honey?"

"Get your ass down here."

Through more than a decade of marriage to Marvin, Helene Goodman's cells had developed responses of their own. On the rare occasions when she sensed unqualified hatred, she sought refuge. Anger, Marvin's most familiar attitude, was met with yielding softness, unswerving agreement and the promise to improve, to really try like hell next month. Manifestations of softness on Marvin's part, on the other hand, were invariably tested for small advantages. It was the sort of thing Helene had excelled at since high school – and even then there was evidence of great and practical flexibility. She would not stir, for example, should a popular boy's hand move toward her indifferent breasts if a prom was in the offing; however, should the same young man seek to continue his explorations on the way home from the prom, he would win only rebuke. Now in her early thirties, Helene had not appreciably changed. Her breasts, though fuller, were still indifferent. Her use of them, though refined through time, was still primarily geared toward inducing