Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [42]
Bernice wiped them away, tossed her head impatiently and laughed.
“Morbid, aren't I? How about some more coffee?”
I nodded, took my cigarettes out of my shirt pocket, and offered them to her. She put the cork tip in her mouth, and when I flipped my lighter, she held my hand with both of hers to get a light. This was unnecessary. My hand was perfectly steady. After refilling the cups, she sat down again and described circles on the tablecloth with a long red fingernail.
“I know that you want to go, Mr. Mansfield,” she said at last, “but I'm finding this a novel experience. It's a rare instance when a woman can pour her troubles into a man's receptive ear without being told to shut up!” She laughed, and shrugged comically.
“But I really don't have any troubles. As far as money goes, I'm fixed forever. My husband saw to that, God bless him. I own the house, and my trust fund is well guarded by the bank trustees. And I have a circle of friends I've known most of my adult life. So where are my troubles?” She sighed audibly and licked her lips with the point of her tongue like a cat.
“I should be the happiest woman in the world. But once in a while, just once in a while, mind you, Mr. Mansfield, I'd like to go into my bathroom and find the toilet seat up instead of down!” Color flooded into her face, and the freckles almost disappeared. She got up from the table hastily and pushed open the swinging door leading to the living room. “I'll get your money for you, Mr. Mansfield.”
She had aroused my sympathy. I wondered what her husband had been like. An insurance executive probably. Every time he had gotten a promotion he had used the extra money for more protection, more insurance. It must have cost her plenty to keep up this big house. And it was a cinch she didn't have any children, or she would have talked about them instead of a man five years dead. If I could have talked, I would have been able to kid her out of her mood in no time. My sex life had really suffered since I gave up talking. Not completely, because money always talks when words fail, but a lot of women had gotten away during the last couple of years because of my stubborn vow of silence.
As I pondered the situation, how best to handle it, Bernice returned to the kitchen. She placed a fifty-dollar bill on the table. The fifty ruined everything for me.
I could have accepted a twenty, because Lee Vernon had set the fee, but I couldn't, with good conscience, accept fifty dollars. My concert wasn't worth that much. I knew it, and Bernice Hungerford knew it. She was trying to buy me and I resented it. I folded the bill into a small square, placed it on the edge of the table and flipped it to the floor with my forefinger. I got up from the table and left the room.
I picked up my guitar in the living room and had almost reached the foyer when Bernice caught up with me. She tugged on my arm, and when I stopped, got in front of me, looking up wistfully into my face. My jaws were tight and I looked over her head at the door.
“Please!” she said, stuffing the folded bill into my shirt pocket. “I know what you're thinking, but it isn't true! The only reason I gave you a fifty was because I didn't have a twenty. I thought I had one, but I didn't. Please take it!”
I dropped my eyes to her face, looked at her steadily, and she turned away from me.
“All right. So I lied. Take it anyway. Fifty dollars doesn't mean anything to me. I'm sorry and I'm ashamed. And if you want to know the truth I'm more ashamed than sorry!”
I retrieved my hat from the marble angel's thumb and put it on my head. But I didn't leave. I reconsidered. Damn it all anyway, the woman was desirable! I removed my hat, replaced it on the angel's thumb and dropped my guitar case to the carpeted floor. Bernice had started up the stairs, but I caught up with her on the third step, lifted her into my