I swore the little bastard to secrecy!

In the morning Clendon told me he knew Vickie was having an affair and while he hated her for it, it excited him to think of her making love to another man. Clendon told me he was dicking some of his students and that he couldn’t get it up for Victoria. I said, “Leave that nasty bitch. I can’t work up any sympathy for you, she’s runnin’ you, man.”

“I don’t know what to do. You’re right. I’m torn. I feel like Hamlet. Good God, what are you doing?”

“What?”

“Put out that cigarette.”

“Are you shittin’ me? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Passive smoke, little brother. The kids. And Jesus! Don’t take them out in that goddamn toy anymore either. A hundred and thirty miles an hour?”

“It’s not a toy, big brother, it’s pure pussy. You’re scared shitless, aren’t you?” I flipped him the keys to my Jaguar. “Go take it for a ride, motherfucker. Live a little. Go on, drive it; it’s good therapy. Primal Scream Therapy.”

Clendon went out into the driveway and turned the engine over. He revved the motor and popped the clutch, spinning rubber out into the street. I spotted his reflection in the rearview mirror frozen in the rictus of fear. Not a good sign, I thought. How Clendon could not find satisfaction from the rich thrrraaaghh! of the dual exhaust system baffled me. It was that sound that made the car worth every bit of the $80-some thousand. I could have thrown the money into a Keogh account but, hey! it was the sound of pure balls.

In a moment the kitchen door opened and Victoria walked in with a tanned young man in his late twenties; both were wearing tennis clothes. I was caught in the act of lighting another cigarette. Victoria introduced me to the young man, Larry, a tennis pro, and exchanged an intimate look with him before she ran upstairs to change. If they thought they were fooling me, and I think they did, they were both dead wrong.

I offered Larry a cigarette and he declined in that particularly annoying Middlebury fashion so I said, “If you weren’t such a goddamn faggot, I’d bet you were screwing that bitch.”

He began to puff up and I said, “Don’t even think about it, motherfucker.”

When Victoria came down five minutes later, showered and in fresh sweats, if she missed Larry or was puzzled by his taking leave, she didn’t show it, didn’t miss a beat, but remained pleasantly aloof and began to whip together a Caesar salad for supper. I was in the mood to tear her head off. Maybe she knew that.