Rusty by Jess Draper - Chapter 01

1963 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Suburban Adultery

She lived across the street and her door was never locked.

CHAPTER ONE

Magnificent bitch.

An electric thrill trembled through him as he watched her trek from the driveway across her snow-covered lawn and disappear again inside the shingle house.

He let the curtain fall back over the living room window and padded barefoot to his bedroom. It was seven-thirty and she would not come out again till ten when she would go shopping. Rusty lived on a schedule. Everything about her was neat and right.

For three months since she had moved into the development, he had been watching her movements and wondering what might be the best way to cozy up to her.

He sighed and fell back against the pillows of his large empty bed. The room smelled heavy with sweat, from unchanged sheets and the general neglect of his carelessness. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes, letting the image of Rusty seep through him. She made him tingle with a strange and vital hope. The way she walked, the way she seemed to stretch toward the bright sky. It was more than the good, full breasts and firm, curving behind that intrigued him.

It was the promise of life that Rusty held out. Like food to a hungry child. And Mike knew he was hungry.

Smoke curled past his nostrils and grazed his eyelids.

He squinted in the semidarkness, telling himself that he ought to get up and try to work for a change.

When he thought of work, pain twisted in subtle anguish, eating him alive like a slow poison. He hadn't written a word since the break up of his marriage with Sheila and that was six months ago. The bank account wouldn't hold out forever. It was damned close to the bottom now.

The cigarette smoke felt nasty, biting his tongue.

He mashed the cigarette into the pile of stale butts.

Work.

Work, you fool.

His legs felt numb.

If you don't work, you'll have to go out and get a job one of these days. And that you wouldn't like.

Not a bit of it.

Mike forced himself to sit up. The truth was that he didn't want to do a damn thing in the world, ever again, except watch Rusty.

The alarm clock went off, jangling senselessly. He pulled socks onto his feet and shoes over the socks.

Then he remembered that he still had on his pajamas.

If he could just get to be friends with her it would help. Give him a thread to hang onto. Something to draw him back to life. Of all the women on the street, all the available women, no one appealed to him. He could have all the bored women in the neighborhood, but none of them held any interest.

None of them excited him the way Rusty did.

And Rusty, with her husband and her civic meetings and her piano practice, wasn't in the least interested.

She was too busy living, enjoying herself, being faithful to the clod in the black trenchcoat to look twice at anything out of her small circle of activities.

"Rusty," he said aloud. "I could love you. I really could." The words echoed back at him, reminding Mike of the futility.

Then a voice deep inside his guts answered him.

“I've got to have her," it said. And the blind, driving desire of his need pummeled his belly with ruthless fists.

Mike got into the rest of his clothes. A pair of shabby dungarees a khaki-colored turtleneck sweater with snags in the elbows. Good, comfortable clothes.

Clothes for working.

In the kitchen, he heated up the coffee left in the percolator from last night and drank it black. He could feel the typewriter, silent and waiting for him in the small, book-lined den across the hall. Waiting and laughing silently with the knowledge that he would never get there. Not today. Nor tomorrow.

Nor the day after that. Invisible walls surrounded him and he could hammer at them all he liked. Nothing would break down, and nothing would give in.

Not, at least, till he got to first base with Rusty.

All right, you jerk. If that's how it is, do something.

Anything.

Each day for the past few weeks, he had felt himself crawling closer to some kind of action. It was a matter of life or death in a way. Make out with her and come back to life. Or stare at her like a Peeping Tom and starve to death with desire.

He thrust his large hands through his lank hair. He thought of Rusty's husband, short and balding and efficient in his movements. The man reminded Mike of a card sharp.

Do something.

A tremendous tearing sensation roared through Mike's head, driving out all thought, all concern for self-preservation.

His feet took him to the door and out into the clear cold day. Vaguely, he felt snow soak into his shoes as he crossed the newly plowed streets.

What would he say to her? What excuse could he give for ringing her doorbell at this hour of the morning? He didn't know and he didn't care. With one stiff finger he jabbed at the bell.

Then he waited, quite steady and at peace with himself, staring at the ornamental brass knocker, waiting till she would open the door and face him.

"Good morning."

Her voice sounded hesitant and curious. The sparkle in her rust-brown eyes reflected the sun. Mike looked into her gaze and felt that he was drowning in it.

He cleared his throat and swallowed, afraid to trust his voice.

"Mrs. Parkins?"

"Yes?"

Her body, poised in the doorway, was soft, like a stuffed animal waiting to be snuggled up with in bed.

He could barely restrain his hands from reaching out to cup the full breasts that jutted roundly from beneath an emerald green sweater.

"I hope you can help me," Mike said. His voice echoed with an odd sincerity that he wished he could stifle.

"You live across the way, don't you?" she said now, opening the door wider as her smooth features jelled with recognition. Mike nodded and shoved his helpless hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

"Come on in," she said, "and tell me what I can do for you." She sounded eager, friendly. And her open innocence made him feel like a wolf slavering secretly.

Don't you know you're not supposed to let strange men into the house? he thought, stepping inside to a living room sparsely but comfortably furnished in an early American style of print ruffles against browns.

She moved ahead of him, scuffling a little in the boots she had not yet had time to take off. The black woolen slacks clung to her hips, showing off the lean but curved angles that sloped down to the tight-knit thighs.

"Have some coffee with me? I was just going to sit down for a cup by myself."

"Thanks."

"Roger leaves so early. I never feel much like breakfast before dawn," she continued eagerly. "Especially in the winter."

"I know. I hear him go off every morning."

"Do you?"

She turned to him with a smile and he felt a flicker of comradeship pass between them.

"I guess I know just about everybody's schedule on the street," Mike said, to keep the ball rolling.

"Don't you ever go out?"

Her hair swung across her shoulders as she tilted her head up from the gas range.

Mike couldn't look at her. He watched the gleaming pot travel in her freckled fingers from the stove to the table. The spout tilted down and poured its dark contents into a wide china cup on the placemat before him.

"Not if I can help it," he said.

"Why not?"

She was laughing now, a prisoner of her own curiosity.

Suddenly it dawned on Mike that she was lonely.

He could hear it in her voice and in her bubbling interest. There was something about her that seemed to be brushing against him, moving lightly like a straggly cat to a proffered bowl of milk.

"Because I'm caged in," he said, relaxing against the plastic upholstered chair. "With my typewriter.

Just the two of us."

"Oh?"

She sat down opposite him and poised a can of condensed milk above her cup.

“I'm a writer," Mike said, feeling stupid, but seeing no other turn to their conversation. "Does that explain it?"

"A writer." Her manner beamed with enthusiasm.

"Roger wants to write. In fact, he has two chapters of a novel finished. But he won't let me read them."

"I do short stories," Mike said quickly.

"That seems more sensible. At least you can get them finished when they're short. Seems to me a novel could go on forever. At least the way Roger does it. But I'm taking up your time. How can I help you, Mr. Bailey?"

The question startled him, dropping him down from the cloud of euphoria. He had to think of something that would give him an excuse to see her again.

"It's like this," Mike began, finding a cigarette and accepting a book of matches from Rusty. "Because I hardly ever get out to see people, I thought I ought to-to give a party one of these nights. You know. So I thought I'd start by asking you and your husband, if that's okay."

He saw her look down at her cup and purse her lips. In that instant, he knew that she didn't believe him. He had fumbled the ball. She knew what he was after and he couldn't hide it.

She moved back from the table and folded her arms across her breasts. The wedding band, wide and gold, flashed in his eyes.

"I'm a single man," Mike said quickly. "Divorced. And it gets to be a rut, looking at the four walls all the time."

"God helps those who help themselves?" Rusty said with an amused smile.

"Something like that," Mike grinned back.

"Well, if it's girls you're after, more power to you, Mr. Bailey. This is a rotten neighborhood for single women to forage in."

Mike didn't answer immediately. He exhaled a long fume of smoke while her words died unprotested.

The silence seemed to hang in layers between them and he gazed from her soft lips to her reddish hair combed smoothly down into a well-cut bang.

"Call me Mike," he said at last.

He saw her shifting uncomfortably, yet not a muscle of her face moved to give away her feelings.

"All right, Mike," she said after a long pause. "I'll do what I can. People should help each other, shouldn't they? Or at least try to."

Somehow he had finished the coffee and Mike realized that he'd better not overstay his welcome.

He would have to go easy with her. Lead her gently to him.

"And I'll tell you what," she concluded. "We'll have the party here. In my house. That'll make things easier all around. Especially if you don't have anyone to clean up for you afterward." She got up from the table and extended her hand to him.

Mike grasped the smooth, warm palm. Was this her way of saying good-bye to him? Or of opening the door wider for a closer friendship? He could not tell and he would not guess. "Thank you, Rusty," he said.

Her thick fringe of lashes flickered. "So you know my nickname," she said softly, as though to herself.

"I know it," Mike said at the door, "and I like it.

I like it very much."

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