City, now approaching its final edited form, would be based, in part,
on what she learned.
To begin, she had taken Rollie to the Press Club, but the club had been
unusually crowded and noisy; also, Rollie had not seemed at ease. So,
on impulse, Barbara suggested driving to her home. They did.
She had mixed a whisky and water for each of them, then whipped up a
simple meal of eggs and bacon which she served on trays in the living
room; after that, with Rollie increasingly relaxed and helpful, they
talked.
Later, Barbara brought the whisky bottle in and poured them each a
second drink. Outside, the dusk-climaxing a clear, benevolent dayhad
turned to dark.
Rollie looked around him at the comfortable, tastefully furnished,
though unpretentious room. He asked, "How far we here from Blaine and
12th?"
About eight miles, she told him.
He shook his head and grinned. 'Tight hundred, more like."
Blaine and 12th was where Rollie lived, and where film scenes had been
shot the night Brett DeLosanto and Leonard Wingate watched.
Barbara had scribbled Rollie's thought in a
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few key words, thinking it might work well as an opening line, when her
father walked in.
Matt Zaleski froze.
He looked incredulously at Barbara and Rollie Knight, seated on the same
settee, drinks in their hands, a whisky bottle on the floor between
them, the discarded dinner trays nearby. In her surprise, Barbara had
let the pad on which she had been writing slip from her hand and out of
sight.
Rollie Knight and Matt Zaleski, though never having spoken together at
the assembly plant, recognized each other instantly. Matt's eyes went,
unbelievingly, from Rollie's face to Barbara's. Rollie grinned and
downed his drink, making a show of self-assurance, then seemed
uncertain. His tongue moistened his lips.
"Hi, Dad I" Barbara said. "This is
Matt's voice cut across her words. Glaring at Rollie, he demanded, "What
the hell are you doing in my house, sitting there... T'
Of necessity, through years of managing an auto plant in which a major
segment of the work force was black, Matt Zaleski had acquired a patina
of racial tolerance. But it was never more than a patina, Beneath the
surface he still shared the views of his Polish parents and their Wyan-
dotte neighbors who regarded any Negro as inferior. Now, seeing his own
daughter entertaining a black man in Matt's own home, an unreasoning
rage possessed him, to which tension and tiredness were an added spur.
He spoke and acted without thought of consequences.
"Dad," Barbara said sharply, "this is my friend, Mr. Knight. I invited
him, and don't..."
"Shut upl" Matt shouted as he swung toward his daughter. "I'll deal with
you later."
The color drained from Barbara's face. "What do you mean-you'll deal
with me?"
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Matt ignored her. His eyes still boring into Rollie Knight, he pointed to
the kitchen door through which he had just come in. "Out I"
"Dad, don't you dare I"
Barbara was on her feet, moving swiftly toward her father. When she was
within reach he slapped her hard across the face.
It was as if they were acting out a classic tragedy, and now it was
Barbara who was unbelieving. She thought: This cannot be happening. The
blow had stung and she guessed there were weal marks on her cheek, though
that part was unimportant. What mattered was of the mind. It was as if a
rock had been rolled aside, the rock a century of human progression and
understanding, only to reveal a festering rottenness beneath -the
unreason, hatred, bigotry living in Matt Zaleski's mind. And Barbara,
because she was her father's daughter, at this moment shared his guilt.
Outside, a car stopped.
Rollie, as well, was standing. An instant earlier his confidence had
deserted him because he was on unfamiliar ground. Now, as it came back,
he told Matt, "Piss on you, honky I"
Matt's voice trembled. "I said get out. Now go I"
Barbara closed her eyes. Piss on you, honkyl Well, why not? Wasn't that
how life went, returning hate for hate?
For the second time within a few minutes the house side door opened. Brett
DeLosanto came in, announcing cheerfully, "Couldn't make anybody hear."
He beamed at Barbara and Matt, then observed Rollie Knight. "Hi, Rollie!
Nice surprise to see you. How's the world, good friend?"
At Brett's easy greeting to the young black man, a flicker of doubt
crossed Matt Zaleski's face.
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"Piss on you too," Rollie said to Brett. He glanced contemptuously at
Barbara. And left.
Brett asked the other two, "Now what in hell was that about?"
He had driven directly across town from Metropolitan Airport when his
flight from California landed less than an hour ago. Brett had wanted
to see Barbara, to tell her of his personal decision and plans he had
begun formulating during the journey home. His spirits had been high
and were the reason for his breezy entry. Now, he realized, something
serious was wrong.
Barbara shook her head, unable to speak because of tears she was
choking back. Brett moved across the room. Putting his arms around her,
he urged gently, "Whatever it is, let go, relaxl We can talk about it
later."
Matt said uncertainly, "Look, maybe I was..."
Barbara's voice overrode him. "I don't want to hear."
She had contxol of herself, and eased away from Brett who volunteered,
"If this is a family mishmash, and you'd prefer me to leave..."
"I want you here," Barbara said. "And when you go, I'm leaving with
you." She stopped, then regarding him directly, "You've asked me twice,
Brett, to come and live with you. If you still want me to, I will."
He answered fervently, "You know I do."
Matt Zaleski had dropped into a chair. His head came up. "Live I"
"That's right," Barbara affirmed icily. "We won't be married; neither
of us wants to be. We'll merely share the same apartment, the same bed
..."
"No I" Matt roared. "By God, no!"
She warned, "Just try to stop me I"
They faced each other briefly, then her father
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dropped his eyes and put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.
"I'll pack a few things for tonight," Barbara told Brett, "then come
back for the rest tomorrow."
"Lis ten"- Brett's eyes were on the dejected figure in the chair-1
wanted us to get together. You know it. But does it have to be this
way?"
She answered crisply, "When you know what happened, you'll understand.
So take me or leave me-now, the way I am. If you don't, I'll go to a
hotel."
He flashed a quick smile. "I'll take you."
Barbara went upstairs.
When the two men were alone, Brett said uncomfortably, "Mr. Z., whatever
it was went wrong, I'm sorry."
There was no answer, and he went outside to wait for Barbara in his car.
For almost half an hour Brett and Barbara cruised the streets nearby,
searching for Rollie Knight. In the first few minutes after putting her
suitcase in the car and driving away, Barbara explained what had
occurred before Brett's arrival. As she talked, his face went grim.
After a while he said, "Poor little bastardl No wonder he took off at
me too."
"And me."
"I guess he figures we're all alike inside. Why wouldn't he?"
They drove down another empty street, then, near the end of it, their
headlights picked up a shadowy figure, walking. It turned out to be a
neighbor of the Zaleskis, going home.
"Rollie's gone." Brett glanced across the front seat of the car
inquiringly. "We know where he lives."
Both knew the reason behind Brett's hesitation. It could be dangerous
in downtown Detroit at
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night. Armed holdups and assaults were commonplace.
She shook her head. "We can't do anything more tonight. Let's go home."
"First things first." He pulled to the curb and they kissed.
"Home for you," Brett said carefully, "is a new address-Country Club
Manor, West Maple at Telegraph."
Despite their shared depression from tonight's events, he had an
excited, breathless feeling as he swung the car northwest.
Much later, lying beside each other in the darkened bedroom of Brett's
apartment, Barbara said softly, "Are your eyes open?"
'-fes." A few minutes previously Brett had rolled over onto his back.
Now, hands behind his head, he was regarding the dimness of the
ceiling.
"What were you thinking?"
"About something clumsy I once said to you. Do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember."
It had been the night Barbara had prepared dinner here and Brett had
brought Leonard Wingate home-the first meeting for the three of them.
Afterward, Brett tried to persuade Barbara to stay the night with him,
and when she wouldn't, had declared, "You're twenty-nine; you can't
possibly be a virgin, so what's our hangup?"
"You didn't say anything when I said that," Brett pointed out, "but you
were, weren't you?"
He heard her gentle, rippling laughter. "If anyone's in a position to
know..."
"Okay, okay." She sensed him smiling, then he turned sideways so that
their f aces were together once again. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing you talk about. Anyway,
was it important, really?"
366-wheels
"It's important to me."
There was a silence, then Barbara said, "If you must know, it was
important to me, too. You see, I always wanted the first time to be with
someone I truly loved." She reached out, her fingers moving lightly down
his face. "In the end, it was."
Brett's arms went around her, once more their bodies pressed together
as he whispered, "I love you, too."
He had an awareness of savoring one of life's rare and precious moments.
He had still not told Barbara of his own decision, made in Los Angeles,
or spoken of his future plans. Brett knew that if he did, they would
talk until morning, and talk was not what he wanted most tonight.
Then urgent desire, reciprocated, wiped out all other thoughts.
Afterward, again lying quietly, contentedly, beside each other, Barbara
said, "If you like, I'll tell you something."
"Go ahead."
She sighed. "If I'd known it was as wonderful as this, I wouldn't have
waited so long."
chapter twenty-three
Erica Trenton's affair with Pierre Flodenhale had begun early in June. It
started shortly after their first encounter, when the young race driver ac-
companied Adam Trenton home, foHowing the weekend cottage party at Higgins
Lake.
A few days af ter that Sunday night, Pierre telephoned Erica and suggested
lunch. She accepted. They met next day at an out-of-the-way restaurant in
Sterling Heights.
A week later the met again and this time, after lunch, drove to a motel
where Pierre had already checked in. With a minimum of fuss, they got into
bed where Pierre proved an entirely satisfactory sex partner, so that when
she went home, late that afternoon, Erica felt better, physically and
mentally, than she had in months.
Through the remainder of June, and well into July, they continued to meet
at every opportunity, both in daytime and during evenings, the latter when
Adam had told Erica in advance that he would be working late.
For Erica the occasions were blissful sexual fulfillments of which she had
been deprived f ar too long. She also relished Pierre's youth and
freshness, as well as being excited herself by his lusty pleasure in her
body.
Their meetings were sharply in contrast with the single assignation she
had had, months earlier, with the salesman, Ollie. When Erica thought
about that experience-though she preferred not to-it was with disgust at
herself for letting it happen, even though she had been physically
frustrated, to the point of desperation, at the time.
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There was no desperation now. Erica had no idea how long the aff air
between herself and Pierre would last, though she knew it would never
be more than an affair for either of them, and someday would inevitably
end. But for the moment she was enjoying herself uninhibitedly and so,
it seemed, was Pierre.
The enjoyment gave each of them a sense of confidence which led, in
turn, to a carelessness about being seen together in public.
One of their favorite evening meeting places was in the pleasant
colonial surroundings of the Dearborn Inn, where the service was
friendly and good. Another attraction at the Dearborn Inn was a
cottage--one of several on the grounds-a faithful replica of the
one-time home of Edgar Allan Poe. Downstairs, the Poe cottage had two
cozy rooms and a kitchen; upstairs, a tiny bedroom under the roof. The
upstairs and downstairs portions were self-contained, and rented
separately to Inn guests.
On two occasions when Adam was away from Detroit, Pierre Flodenhale
occupied the lower portion of the Poe cottage, while Erica checked in
upstairs. When the main outside door was locked, it was nobody's
business who went up or down the inside staircase.
Erica so loved the historic little cottage, with its antique
furnishings, that once she lay back in bed and exclaimed, "What a
perfect place for lovers I It ought not to be used for anything else."
"Uh, huh," had been all that Pierre had said, which pointed up his lack
of conversation and, in fact, a general absence of interest in anything
not connected with motor racing or directly involving sex. About
racing, Pierre could, and did converse animatedly and at length. But
other subjects bored him. Confronted with current af-
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fairs, politics, the arts-which Erica tried to talk about sometimes-he
either yawned or fidgeted like a restless boy whose attention could not
be held for more than seconds at a time. Occasionally, and despite all the
satisfying sex, Erica wished their relationship could be more rounded.
Around the time that the wish was developing into a mild irritation with
Pierre, an item linking their names appeared in the Detroit News.
It was in the daily column of Society Editor Eleanor Breitmeyer, whom
many considered the best society writer in North American newspaperdom.
Almost nothing which went on in the Motor City's social echelons escaped
Miss Breitmeyer's intelligence, and her comment read:
Handsome, debonair race driver Pierre Flo-
denhale and young and beautiful Erica Trenton-wife of auto product
planner Adam-continue to relish each other's company. Last Friday,
lunching t6te-A-t8te at the Steering Wheel, neither, as usual, had as
much as a glance for anyone else.
The words on the printed page were a startling jolt to Erica. Her first
flustered thought as she read them was of the thousands of people in
Greater Detroit-including friends of herself and Adam-who would also see
and talk about the column item before the day was out. Suddenly, Erica
wanted to run into a closet and hide. She realized how incredibly
careless she and Pierre had been, as if they were courting exposure, but
now it had happened she wished desperately they hadn't.
The News items appeared in late July-a week or so before the
Trentons'dinner with Hank Kreisel and their visit to his Grosse Pointe
home.
The evening the item was published, Adam
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had brought the Detroit News home, as he usually did, and the two of them
shared it, in sections, while having martinis before dinner.
While Erica had the women's section, which included Society, Adam was
leafing through the front news portion. But Adam invariably looked over
the entire paper systematically, and Erica dreaded his attention turning
to the section she was holding.
She decided it would be a mistake to remove any part of the newspaper
from the living room because, however casually she did it, Adam would
probably notice.
Instead, Erica went to the kitchen and served dinner immediately, taking
a chance that the vegetables were done. They weren't, but when Adam came
to the table he still hadn't opened any of the newspaper's back
sections.
After dinner, returning to the living room, Adam opened his briefcase
as usual and began work. When Erica had cleared the dining room, she
came in, collected Adam's coffee cup, straightened some magazines and
picked up the pieces of newpaper, putting them together to take out.
Adam had looked up. "Leave the paper. I haven't finished,"
She spent the remainder of the evening on a knife edge of suspense.
Pretending to read a book, Erica watched covertly each move which Adam
made. When at last he snapped his briefcase closed, her tension mounted
until, to Erica's unbelievable relief, he went upstairs to bed, ap-
parently forgetting the newspaper entirely. She hid the paper then, and
burned it next day.
But burning a single copy would not, she knew, prevent someone else
showing the item to Adam or referring to it in conversation, which
amounted to the same thing. Obviously, many on
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Adam's staff, and others he associated with, had read or been told about
the juicy piece of gossip, so for the next few days Erica lived in nervous
expectation that when Adam came home he would bring the subject up.
One thing she was sure of: If Adam learned of the item in the News,
Erica would know. Adam never dodged an issue, nor was he the kind of
husband who would form a judgment without giving his wife the chance to
state her case. But nothing was said, and when a week had gone by Erica
started to relax. Afterward, she suspected what happened was that
everyone assumed Adam knew, and hence avoided the subject out of con-
sideration or embarrassment. For whatever reason, she was grateful.
She was also grateful for an opportunity to assess her relationships
with both men: Adam and Pierre. The result-in everything except sex and
the small amount of time they spent together, Adam came out far ahead.
Unfortunately-or perhaps fortunately-for Erica, sex continued to be
important in her life, which was the reason she agreed to meet Pierre
again a few days later, though this time cautiously and across the
river in Windsor, Canada. But of all their rendezvous, this latest
proved the least successful.
The f act was: Adam had the kind of mind which Erica admired. Pierre
didn't. Despite Adam's obsessive work habits, he was never out of touch
with the sum of life around him; he had strong opinions and a social
conscience. Erica enjoyed hearing Adam talk-on subjects other than the
auto industry. In contrast, when she asked Pierre for his views on a
Detroit civic housing controversy, which had been headline news for
weeks, Pierre had never heard of it. "Figure all that stuff's none of
my business," was a stock reply. Nor had
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he ever voted. "Wouldn't know how, and I'm not much interested."
Erica was learning: An affair, to be successful and satisfying, needed
other ingredients than merely fornication.
When she asked herself the question: Who, of all the men she knew, would
she soonest have an affair with, Erica came up with the revealing
answer-Adam.
If only Adam would function as an entire husband.
But he rarely did.
The thought about Adam stayed foremost in her mind through several more
days, carrying over to their evening at Grosse Pointe with Hank Kxeisel.
Somehow, it seemed to Erica, the exMarine parts manufacturer managed to
bring out all that was best in Adam, and she followed the talk about
Hank Kreisel's thresher, including Adam's cogent questioning, with
fascination. It was only afterward, going home, when she remembered the
other part of Adam she had once possessed-the eager lover, explorer of
her body, now seemingly departed-that despair and anger overwhelmed her.
Her statement, later the same night, that she intended to divorce Adam
had been real. It seemed hopeless to go on. Nor, next day or during
others following, had Erica's resolve weakened.
It was true she did nothing specific to set the machinery of divorce in
motion, and did not move out of the Quarton Lake house, though she
continued sleeping in the guest bedroom. Erica simply felt that she
needed a chance, in limbo, to adjust.
Adam did not object-to anything. Obviously he believed that time could
heal their differences, though Erica did not. Meanwhile she continued
to keep house, and also agreed to meet Pierre, who
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had telephoned to say he would be briefly in Detroit during an absence
from the racing circuit.
"Something's wrong," Erica said. "I know it is, so why don't you tell
me?"
Pierre appeared uncertain and embarrassed. Along with his boyishness,
he had a transparent manner which revealed his moods.
He said, in bed beside her, "It's nothing, I guess."
Erica propped herself on an elbow. The motel room was darkened because
they had drawn the drapes on coming in. Even so, enough light filtered
through for her to see the surroundings clearly, which were much like
those of other motels they had been in-characterless, with mass-produced
furniture and cheap hardware. She glanced at her watch. It was two in
the af ternoon, and they were in the suburb of Birmingham because Pierre
had said he would not have time to drive across the river into Canada.
Outside, the day was dull and the midday forecast had predicted rain.
She turned back to study Pierre whose face she could see clearly too.
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