The face of Don Gault was curious in that it was absolutely clean. He wore his blond hair in a skull-tight crew cut which completed the immaculate square of his face. There was a geometric regularity to his features, an unblinking monotony about the straight blond eyebrows, the clean sweep of the nose, the hard unbroken line of the mouth. Only the eyes softened the face. Bright and blue, scattered with random flecks of white, they seemed at first as cold and clean as the rest of the face. But there was warmth there, and gentleness.

He was five feet nine inches tall, some four inches taller than Margaret in her stockinged feet, but inches did not matter with Don Gault. He was one of those perfectly proportioned men whose bodies have the flat, obdurate gleam of polished stone surfaces. The eyes were the only contradiction in the unbending geometry of Don Gault. And perhaps the eyes were the man.

It did not disturb him that Margaret had opened all the letters, including some addressed to him. He believed that marriage was an absolute partnership and the thought simply would never have entered his mind that there was anything in his mail which Margaret should not see.

Troubled, he thought only of the bills and of how difficult it was to earn money and hang onto it. For perhaps the fiftieth time he told himself he should have gone to college on the G.I. Bill after the war. He shouldn’t have let that opportunity go by. He always felt slightly inadequate in the presence of college men. He couldn’t exactly pin-point what it was about them that made him feel awkward. A certain slick façade, perhaps, or the arrogant knowledge that they were better equipped to lick, to defeat, life than he was.

In his heart he knew he would have been an absolute flop at school. He’d never had any patience with books or reading or sitting still and listening to another man talk. He was good with his hands, had always been. He could still remember the jewelry box he had made for his mother in a junior-high-school woodworking class.

“Did you make this, Donald?” she asked. “For me?” And he had nodded wordlessly, basking in her open admiration. “With your own hands? With your own hands?”

With his own hands, with these hands.

He held them out in front of him. They were good hands. They had been good to him.

I killed a man with these hands, he thought.

He immediately shoved the thought out of his mind. But like a nail driven too far into a narrow plank, the sharp tip of the thought protruded, catching at the fabric of his mind.

“Margaret!” he shouted, suddenly angry.

He put his hands into his pockets and walked into the living-room and then to the foot of the steps leading upstairs.

“Margaret!”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m coming.”

He waited, annoyed, and not knowing why, blaming it on the fact that he was hungry and there were no cooking smells in the house. She appeared at the top of the steps. She wore a tight black sweater and a flaring white skirt and exceptionally high heels.

“What are you supposed to be?” he said.

“What’s the matter?” She was smiling. She stood with one hand on the wooden railing, the other on her hip.

“Why do you always have to look like—” He bit off the sentence.

“Like what?” The smile was brilliant. Her hair, always wild, looked now as if she had purposely disarranged it before coming out of the bedroom.

“Like I don’t know,” he said harshly. “What are you always getting dressed up around the house for?”

“Don’t you want me to look pretty?”

“I don’t want you to look like a—”

“Like a what?” she asked quickly.

Her smile was beginning to infuriate him. “Never mind,” he said.

“I haven’t got anything on underneath,” she said.

“Margaret! For the love of...!

She came down the steps slowly, her hand gliding along the railing, burlesquing a movie siren, slithering down the steps, undulating her body, moistening her lips, the smile never leaving her mouth. In a sultry, sexy voice, she said, “Come on, big boy.”

“Where’s Patrick?” he asked.

“I sent him over to Betty’s.”

“Got this all planned out, huh?”

“Um-huh.”

She was a step above him now, so that her eyes were almost level with his. Her eyes were impishly bright, and the smile was fixed on her mouth, and he wanted to kiss her, pull her to him and cover her mouth with kisses. Her hand touched his shoulder, rested there a moment, and then slid over his chest, down, trailing fire behind it. She touched him, and he ached with the touch, and he felt himself come instantly awake, and her smile widened, widened until there was nothing in the room but her smile and her hand on him, and he thought, This is evil, this is evil.

“Come upstairs,” she said.

“What... what’s today?”

“It’s all right.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes” she said.

“I don’t want any accidents. I don’t want—”

“I’m sure.”

“When will Patrick be back?”

“I told her I’d call.”

“Does she know what—?”

“Come upstairs.”

“Margaret...”

“Come upstairs.”

“It’s still light.”

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“Margaret...”

“Come with me, Don. Come upstairs with me.”

“What about dinner? Have you—?”

“Don’t you want me, Don?”

“I...”

“Don’t you want to be inside me?”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“How do you want me to talk?”

“You’re a mother, for God’s—”

“Don, Don...”

Her fingers tightened, and there was no smile any more, only her hand, and his entire life clutched in the warm full palm of her hand, and then she released him suddenly and turned and started up the steps. She walked swiftly, the skirt swirling around her legs, the sharp heels leaving tiny rounded squares in the pile of the rug. Dusk had invaded the living room, spreading into the corners, spreading darkness into the silent house. In the basement, the oil burner started with a sudden click.

He brushed his hand across his eyes, and then he started up after her. She was naked when he entered the bedroom. He could see the line of her body against the deep blue of the blanket, softened by dusk. She stirred when he came into the room, twisting the familiar golden head on the white pillow.

He went into the bathroom. He did not turn on the light. He stood looking into the sink for a long time, the darkness growing around him. He took off his clothes then and folded them neatly over the edge of the tub. Then he washed his hands and went out to her.

The room was very dark. He found his way to the bed, and he sat, and her hand went to him instantly, and he climbed onto the bed feeling immense and clumsy, and then he lay beside her on his back, and whispered, “Make love to me.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think of me when you’re working?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think of going to bed with me?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don...”

“Make love to me.”

“What do you want to do to me? What do you think of doing to me?”

“Nothing. I don’t think anything like that. You know I don’t.”

“What do you think then?”

“I think of you.”

“What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“I just think of you.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“In bed?”

“No.”

“Naked?”

“No.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready all day.”

“Help me.”

“Why?”

“I want you to.”

“Don’t you know where it is?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then help me, Margaret.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“If you really wanted me...”

“I do, I do.”

“Say it.”

“Help me, Margaret.”

“No.”

“Margaret...”

“Tell me you want me.”

“Margaret...”

“Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret...”

“Why won’t you touch me?”

“Honey, can’t we...?”

“Kiss me.”

He kissed her, and her hand tightened, and he pulled his mouth from hers.

“Touch my breasts. Don’t you like my breasts?”

“I love them.”

“They’re good. They’re big and soft, and the nipples—”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“Why don’t you ever touch them?”

“I do. You know I do. There. There.”

“Do you like the way they feel?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I like them.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I do.”

“Tell me. Talk to me, Don. Tell me!”

“Honey, honey, help me!”

“No! Do it yourself.”

“Honey, I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t...”

He stopped. The room was very silent. When her voice came, it came as a slow, sepulchral command.

“Touch me!”

“No.”

“Touch me.”

“No.”

“Don, why? Why? Why?”

“I don’t... I don’t want to get you dirty,” he said.

He heard her heavy sigh, and he held his breath for a moment, and then he felt the weight of her body on him, her hands guiding him, and he closed his eyes tightly and said again, “Make love to me.”