Chapter 10 of Campus Nymph by Greg Caldwell

1962 GENRE: Vintage Sleaze | Promiscuous Wife

... PROMISCUOUS WIFE

Boiling passions and naked carnal desire on a college campus ... Night after night, beautiful, passionate Gay tossed sleeplessly on her lonely bed, wondering what had gone wrong with her marriage. Where was the ardent lover who just couldn't keep his hands and lips from her voluptuous body less than a year before, when they were first married? Why was Roger always "too busy"—or "too tired"? When she learned that Roger was involved in a torrid romance with one of his students, Gay decided that what was sauce for the gander was gravy for the goose ...

With provocative abandon she turned to Karl, the virile young college athlete who was never too busy or too tired.

... And Martin York, an accomplished connoisseur of the techniques of love ... Until one day she found herself caught up in a web of seething sin from which there was no escape, and learned what it really meant to be a …

… CHEATING HUSBAND ...

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CHAPTER TEN

By the time Gay had slept several hours, she felt differently about her problems. She got up about ten in the morning, had some coffee, and was quite calm by the time the mail arrived.

There was a letter from her mother. Elinor Ryan was bubbling over about the Apollo painting.

"I had received several offers for the Pan, darling. I was holding out for more when the Apollo arrived. So I had the idea to sell them as a pair, and darling I've had offers up to seven hundred and fifty dollars for the two of them already! Your silly impractical mother is holding out for more! Don't be upset, dear, I know I can get more than that. For once in my life, I'm going to be business-like."

Gay whistled out loud. $750 for two of her paintings!

She laid the letter on the table and stared dreamily out of the window. She could make a living at painting. She didn't know how it had happened, what had changed her style, except that her experiences of the past winter had made her see life more clearly. She felt more cynical, more realistic, more understanding of people. Maybe that showed in her paintings, her understanding of what people really wanted. She mused, leaning her chin on her fist. If only she had not married Roger, if only she had kept on painting. Still, she might not have matured so quickly, her paintings might not have changed so rapidly.

Her mouth twisted. Roger always sneered when she mentioned her painting! How his attitude would change when he discovered that she was selling her things.

He respected money, though he pretended to despise it.

He was a terrible hypocrite.

Thinking about Roger, her anger stirred again. He carried on an affair with one of his students, but when his wife did the same thing he blew his top. She thought again of last night, his brutality. She didn't have to put up with that. She could earn her own living. She was a good artist, capable of earning her living at painting.

She picked up her mother's letter again.

"Darling, if and when you get to New York again, I do want you to see Don. He's dying to meet you and he wants to know if you can do some work for us. And do you remember Pete Shafner? He's back, out of the Air Force, and he keeps asking how you are and what you're doing. Of course, he knows you're married, but I think the old flame is not quite dead."

Gay laid down the letter again, frowning a little.

Yes, she remembered Pete Shafner. Practically her first lover. Darling, eccentric Pete, with his crazy ideas. She wondered if he had settled down at all.

He was sweet, though. She closed her eyes, remembering those nights in his one-room apartment. She had been twenty, Pete twenty-one. Crazy kids. She was heart-broken when he had left for the Air Force—heartbroken for all of three months, until someone else came along. She grimaced. She was not exactly the faithful type in those days.

She wished she could go to New York, forget all this business with Karl and Martin York. Forget Roger, forget marriage and housework for a while. If she only had some money—

Money? But she had money in the bank. Her own money, from the sale of the first three paintings!

She jumped up and did a little dance of joy—until the pain in her side made her stop. Roger had really hurt her last night, the way he had mauled her, struck her and raped her. She set her chin. She was sick of being a punching bag for his neurotic impulses.

Without a second thought she went to the bedroom and packed a couple of suitcases. She threw in some clothes carelessly, then with much more care she put in her recent paintings and the sketches of the five boys. She would show some of the clothed ones to Don and see if he would give her a job. She would prove to Roger she could get along very well without him!

There was a noon train to New York, arriving the next morning. She finished packing and called a taxi.

On her way to the station she stopped at the bank and drew out all her savings, over the mild protests of the bank teller.

"But Mrs. Whitmer, you only started your account a week ago."

"I know," said Gay cheerfully, accepting the money and stuffing it into her pocketbook. He watched with evident pain the careless way she handled money. The taxi got her to the train with ten minutes to spare. She tipped the driver recklessly. Once aboard, she settled down and beamed to herself. She was on her way back to New York, home.

She ate lunch on the train and everything tasted like nectar and ambrosia. She wished she had some champagne to drink. Well, she would have some tomorrow for lunch if she wished!

It was mid-afternoon before she remembered she had not even left a note for Roger. She laughed aloud, thinking of his bewilderment. Served him right. Let him wonder. She would write from New York.

She had not been able to get a roomette at the last minute, she had to sit up all night, and she became very tired. But she was happy to think she was going back home to New York, back to her painting, back to the artistic life she loved. She thought scornfully of Roger. Let him try explaining her absence to his college president, to his colleagues, to the Sweetmans.

They would all know she'd had enough of Roger and his affair, and had left.

At noon the next day she arrived at Elinor's apartment.

Elinor wasn't home, but her landlady let Gay in.

"My gosh, won't your mother be surprised!" said the woman placidly. "What a nice surprise for her when she gets home."

Gay set her suitcases in the small cluttered living room and went exploring. Her mother's bedroom was in its usual disorder, with bedclothes sprawled over the floor, clothes over chairs, powder spilled on the dresser. Gay looked in the other bedroom. It was sparsely furnished with a couch and chair. Most of the space was taken up by an easel and canvases.

Here was where Elinor did her painting.

Gay unpacked one of her suitcases in the painting room, and took a shower. After that, she looked in the kitchenette for something to eat. The refrigerator was empty except for two hot-dogs, some stale buns, and a small jar of mustard.

"Good grief, mother," Gay muttered. "Is this what you eat?"

Knowing her mother, she figured that Elinor ate out most of the time. She disliked all housework, including cooking. Gay went out to a corner grocery, bought enough for lunch and a good dinner. Then she went back to the apartment, had some lunch, and started cleaning the place.

She had to laugh at herself. She certainly had changed! Having a house of her own had changed her.

She had to clean and dust and sweep, and put things in order.

She felt quite happy, working away. She wondered what Roger was doing today. Was he eating out?

Would he remember to take in the mail and the milk?

Was he worried about her? She ought to write at least a note and tell him where she was. But let him worry a while. It would do him good, she thought with intense satisfaction, nodding her head at the scattered records on the table under the portable player. Let Roger do the worrying for a while.

Elinor came home about six o'clock, dashing up the stairs like a young girl instead of a woman of almost fifty years. "Darling!" she screamed when she saw Gay. "Mrs. Purdy told me—I can't believe it—darling girl!" She hugged and kissed Gay, talking a mile a minute. "I can't believe it—this is an absolute miracle—when did you get in?—I said to Don just today that Gay really must come to New York and talk over-darling girl, are you getting dinner?—you've changed—Darling, you're much too thin."

She held Gay off and looked at her reproachfully.

"I've been trying to get that thin for years, and here you are ... darling, what happened?"

Gay burst into tears, wept on her mother's comforting shoulder. She had meant to laugh, berate Roger and talk scornfully, but she could not do it.

"Oh, mother, it was so terrible," she sobbed.

"Poor darling. My 'dearest girl," said her mother, patting her shoulders. "Let's sit down. What happened, my dear?"

Gay tried to tell her what had happened, but it was a muddle of sobbing words. Her mother didn't understand a thing, except that she and Roger had quarreled.

"I might have known," said her mother. "Two people, so very unlike. You'll have your quarrels off and on, and then making up will be all the sweeter."

"Oh, no, it isn't like that. I hate him! He's beastly—"

"Just what I used to say about your father," said Elinor, smiling with the memories. "We used to fight like fury. He wanted me to be domestic and keep the house neat and clean. My dear, I said to him, I am an artist! My dear, said he to me, you might at least keep the house artistically clean."

"It isn't like that—" Gay protested again.

Her mother raised her head, sniffed anxiously.

"Darling, what are you having for dinner—Burned steak?"

"Oh!" Gay yelped and raced for the small stove.

She yanked the skillet off the burner, and peered anxiously at the T-bone. It was too expensive to be burned. And she had wanted to have such a nice dinner—

Elinor followed her out to the kitchenette. "It's all right, dear. I don't mind a little burning around the edges. Let's eat and talk. I'm starving! And all those lovely vegetables. How in the world did you learn to cook like this? I'm sure I didn't teach you."

Gay laughed through her tears. "No. You certainly didn't! I learned the hard way, cookbook in hand, with lots of food thrown into the garbage can. And everyone on the faculty gave me favorite recipes. Mrs. Sweetman even came over several times and made a cake step by step."

"My." Elinor beamed at her. "Don't they sound nice! I'm so glad you liked them so well."

Gay paused. Well, she had liked them, some of them, some of the nicer ones. And they had been kind, very kind, now that she thought about it. They had looked doubtfully at some of her clothes, been shocked at some of the things she had said. But they had accepted her as Roger's wife, they had invited her to faculty events—even when Roger would have left her out! Yes, they had been good to her.

Her mother was tactful and did not question her anymore about Roger and his behavior. She pretended to take it for granted that Gay had come to New York to follow up Elinor's suggestions about seeing Don and finding a market for her paintings.

She suggested an interview with Don. Gay hesitated.

"Not yet, mother. Let me rest. I'm tired from the train ride. Guess I'm getting old."

"All right, dear. Now, what did you bring? Let me see everything."

Eagerly Gay showed her mother the paintings, watching her face. Elinor could lie with her tongue, but not with her shrewd artist eyes. Her eyes liked the paintings.

"Good. Good. Good," she murmured as she looked.

Gay also showed her the sketches.

"So these are your models. Darling boys. Sweet kids. Marvelous. We don't get anything like that here.

Ours are too old for their years. So good, dearest. We could use this—a girl on this side, ad copy on that side. Fine."

Gay had almost forgotten Roger by the time she went to bed on the ancient couch in the painting room. She stretched out wearily, thinking of all she and her mother had discussed in the past five hours.

Her mother was doing well at her job, had time to paint on the side. She had always been full of enthusiasm for anything she undertook. That had saved her when her beloved husband was killed in an automobile crash.

If Gay wanted to remain in New York and paint, and get a job, it would be easy to arrange. Her mother knew everybody, and was well-liked. Gay could get a job, live with her mother for a while, then find a place of her own. She could start in where she had left off, when she had gone to Rome two years before.

Gay stared wide-eyed in the darkness, unable to sleep. If only she had never gone to Rome. If only she had never met Roger. If all the sweet and terrible torments of love and married life had passed her by. She turned over, and the springs creaked. Roger had been so different in Rome. He had been so loving, so passionate, so interested in everything she did and thought. Why had he changed?

Had it been her fault? Had she insisted too much on her own way? Should she have been more conservative in her dressing, in her manner? Was he ashamed of her for good reason?

She had not acted like a good faculty wife, modest and retiring, letting her husband hog the limelight, talking demurely only to the other faculty wives. She had worn flamboyant clothes, talked to the men who had hung over her, enraged the women by her blithe refusal to follow their patterns. Maybe Roger was right, she hadn't tried to be a good wife for him.

She turned again to the other side. She could not get to sleep. What was Roger doing now? Was he lying awake, wondering where she was, worrying about her? Roger was very conscientious. He was probably worried. Maybe he would call the police. No, he wouldn't do that. He would see that her clothes were gone, would realize she had left of her own will.

Perhaps he had turned to Doris because she was more lady-like, more the kind of woman a faculty wife should be. Maybe he regretted marrying Gay, once the first ecstasy was over, because he had loved Doris first she was the type of girl he really wanted for a wife. Maybe if she went back and changed into the kind of person he wanted her to be, he would love her again. Gay lay wide-eyed, staring blindly toward the grey windows.

What did she want? Did she want marriage and Roger, or did she want to be an artist? She would have to choose.

She was getting drowsy, she found a comfortable nest on the couch and was almost asleep when another thought hit her so hard she sat up on the couch and exclaimed aloud. "I didn't bring my brushes!"

She had packed her best clothes, she had packed her paintings and sketches—but she had left her brushes and paints behind her!

She did not really want subconsciously to leave Roger. Or she would have brought her favorite brushes and paints with her, and the faithful old palette that she had used for six years. No, she did not mean to leave Roger, she meant to go back to him.

She lay down again with a sigh of relief. That was decided.

The next day she went to work with her mother, met Don and talked to him about doing some work for the agency. She was quite satisfied and thrilled with the arrangements, although she warned him that she might not have much time to paint.

"Send us what you can. We like your work," said Don.

Gay spent the remainder of that day and all of the next in quick tours of her favorite art galleries. She refused to meet Pete Shafner, and her mother did not urge her.

"I don't want to let dead flames flare up again," said Gay.

"You're right, dear," said her mother.

Gay decided to go back home to Roger. She already had decided to return, but couldn't make up her mind when to leave. On impulse, she packed her suitcases and told her mother that evening.

"I'm getting the morning train tomorrow, mother. I guess I belong with Roger."

"I'm glad, dear. I don't think you would be happy without him, since you love him."

It was good to return to Porterville. Gay watched the names of the towns as the train rolled past the stations. She would get in at six-thirty in the morning, but she didn't care. She would get a taxi from the station and surprise Roger.

She smiled at her own eagerness. She did love Roger. She had married him because she loved him, and that love did not pass away because of a few troubles. He probably had missed her also, and was sorry that he had carried on the affair with Doris now that he could see how much it upset Gay.

She would change, she vowed. She would settle down and do her best to make Roger proud of her.

He was a wonderful man and she did not regret marrying him, though he was so different from the others she had known. She would not give him cause to be angry with her and they would be happy together, the way they had been when they were first married.

The train pulled in. Sleepy-eyed people stumbled off the train; with the porter's considerate help. Gay managed to find a taxi. She gave the street address, and leaned forward eagerly as they drove through town. Portersville was just waking up. A few early morning risers were striding briskly through the town.

A corner restaurant was open to cater to the few customers who lounged over the stools.

The taxi driver carried Gay's suitcases up to the door.

"Thanks very much," she said, tipping him generously.

She was so glad to be home. It would be good to slide into her very own bed, to rest and be comfortable.

She would tell Roger she was sorry she had left. She would confess what she had done with Karl and Martin, tell him she would never do it again. She would begin again, all over, fresh .

She entered the house very quietly, put the suitcases down in the living room. She tiptoed back to the bedroom, smiling fondly. Roger was probably sound asleep. She would waken him with a kiss.

The bedroom door was open. She peered in. She stared. Both beds were mussed, the covers thrown back. Roger's bed was empty.

And in Gay's own bed was another girl. Blonde-haired and buxom, her white arms possessively around Roger—Doris Hammond slept peacefully!

Gay screamed aloud with shock and outrage. "You devils—carrying on as soon as I leave!"

Only a sheet covered them. Gay strode over to the bed, grasped the sheet in her hands and ripped it off the bed. What she saw outraged her further. Doris' white legs entwined with the dark hairy legs of Roger, their bodies clinging closely even in sleep.

She gave Doris a hard yank. The blond-haired girl, wakened so rudely, gasped and screamed. Gay yanked again. The girl fell out of bed, and rolled on the floor.

Roger sat up slowly, blinking dazedly.

"G—Gay?" he said. "Is that you, Gay? What are you doing here?"

"It happens to be my bed!" said Gay, furiously. She said to Doris, crawling on the floor, "Get out! You bitch—get out of here!" She kicked at the girl.

"You let her alone!" said Roger, waking up fast.

He started to get off the bed, then realized he was naked. He looked around for his pajamas, his dignity hurt. "Where's my pajamas? I had them last night."

Gay kicked Doris again. "Get out—get out!"

Doris started to cry. "I have to get dressed," she sobbed. "Roger, you told me she wouldn't be here!"

Gay grabbed her and threw her out of the bedroom.

Then she grabbed the chair with Doris' clothes on it and threw the chair and clothes out the door after her. "Get dressed and get out! Fast! Or I'll kill you!"

She slammed the door shut and turned on Roger.

"Now—you bastard! What excuse do you have for this? Were you comforting her for having lost her steady boyfriend? Are you psychoanalyzing her? Are you treating her like a professor should treat his nice little girl student? Go on, explain!!"

Roger had found his pajamas and was putting on the pants, standing unsteadily on one leg. But his dignity was unimpaired. "If you think I'm going to explain anything to you while you're in that state, you're mistaken."

Gay sneered. "I'm in much better state than you are! You're practically naked! And I caught her and you in bed together! Lie out of that if you can!"

"Your grammar gets worse all the time," he said coldly.

Gay stared at him. The control that had borne her up, the hopes that she had dreamed all the way home, all collapsed together. What good was it to try to reform, when he would not change?

She slammed out of the room. Doris was dressing in the hallway. She looked at Gay, real fear in her face. Gay brushed past her, went out to the kitchen.

She sat down on a chair, tried to catch her breath.

But everything had been too much.

She put her head on her arms and sobbed quietly, so they would not hear.

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