Gerald's Game(16)

Jessie pressed the back of her head into her pillow and arched her neck so she could look at the headboard and the bedposts. The fact that she was looking at these things upside down barely registered. The bed was smaller than a king or a queen but quite a bit larger than a twin. It had some sort of fancy name-Court jester Size, maybe, or Chief Lady-in-Waiting-but she found it harder and harder to keep track of such things as she got older; she didn't know if you called that good sense or encroaching senility. In any case, the bed on which she now found herself had been just right for screwing but a little too small for the two of them to share comfortably through the night.

For her and Gerald that hadn't been a drawback, because they had slept in separate rooms, both here and in the Portland house, for the last five years. It had been her decision, not his; she had gotten tired of his snoring, which seemed to get a little worse every year. On the rare occasions when they had overnight guests down here, she and Gerald had slept together-uncomfortably-in this room, but otherwise they had shared this bed only when they had sex. And his snoring hadn't been the real reason she had moved out; it had just been the most diplomatic one. The real reason had been olfactory. Jessie had first come to dislike and then actually loathe the aroma of her husband's night-sweat. Even if he showered just before coming to bed, the sour smell of Scotch whisky began to creep out of his pores by two the next morning.

Until this year, the pattern had been increasingly perfunctory sex followed by a period of drowsing (this had actually become her favorite part of the whole business), after which he would shower and leave her. Since March, however, there had been some changes. The scarves and the handcuffs-particularly the latter had seemed to exhaust Gerald in a way plain old missionary-style sex never had, and he often fell deeply asleep next to her, shoulder to shoulder. She didn't mind this; most of those encounters had been matinees, and Gerald smelled like plain old sweat instead of a weak Scotch and water afterward. He didn't snore much, either, come to think of it.

But all those sessions-all those matinees with the scarves and thehandcuffs-were in the Portland house, she thought. We spent most ofJuly and some of August down here, hut on the occasions when we hadsex-there weren't many, hut there were some-it was the plain oldpot-roast-and-mashed-potatoes kind.-Tarzan on top, Jane on the bottom.We never played the game down here until today. Why was that, Iwonder?

Probably it had been the windows, which were too tall and oddly cut for drapes. They had never gotten around to replacing the clear glass with reflective sheets, although Gerald had continued to talk about doing that right up to... well...

Right up until today, Goody finished, and Jessie blessed her tact. And you're right-it probably was the windows, at least mostly. Hewouldn't have liked Fred Laglan or Jamie Brooks driving in to ask onthe spur of the moment if he wanted to play nine holes of golf and seeinghim boffing Mrs Burlingame, who just happened to he attached to thebedposts with a pair of Kreig handcuffs. Word on something like thatwould probably get around, Fred and Jamie are good enough fellows, Iguess-

A couple of middle-aged pukes, if you ask me, Ruth broke in sourly.-but they're only human, and a story like that would have been toogood not to talk about. And there's something else, Jessie...

Jessie didn't let her finish. This wasn't a thought she wanted to hear articulated in the Goodwife's pleasant but hopelessly prissy voice.

It was possible that Gerald had never asked her to play the game down here because he had been afraid of some crazy joker oopping out of the deck. What joker? Well, she thought, let's justsay that there might have been a part of Gerald that really did believe awoman was just a life-support system for a cunt...and that some otherpart of him, one I could call "Gerald's better nature." for want of a clearerterm, knew it. That part could have been afraid that things might getout of control. After all, isn't that just what's happened?

It was a hard idea to argue with. If this didn't fit the definition of out of control, Jessie didn't know what did.

She felt a moment of wistful sadness and had to restrain an urge to look back toward the place where Gerald lay. She didn't know if she had grief in her for her late husband or not, but she did know that if it was there, this wasn't the time to deal with it. Still, it was nice to remember something good about the man with whom she had spent so many years, and the memory of the way he had sometimes fallen asleep beside her after sex was a good one. She hadn't liked the scarves and had come to loathe the handcuffs, but she had liked looking at him as he drifted off; had liked the way the lines smoothed out of his large pink face.

And, in a way, he was sleeping beside her again right now... wasn't he?

That idea chilled even the flesh of her upper thighs, where the narrowing patch of sun lay. She turned the thought aside-or at least tried to-and went back to studying the head of the bed.

The posts were set in slightly from the sides, leaving her arms spread but not uncomfortably so, particularly with the six inches or so of free play afforded by the handcuff chains. There were four horizontal boards running between the posts. These were also mahogany, and engraved with simple but pleasing wave-shapes. Gerald had once suggested that they have their initials carved in the center board-he knew of a man in Tashmore Glen who would be happy to drive over and do it, he said-but she had poured cold water on the idea. It seemed both ostentatious and strangely childish to her, like teenybop sweethearts carving hearts on their study-hall desks.