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They’re in the bushes, arguing about their next move, when she comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. They can hear the baby crying. Then it stops. They see her running, naked, back to the bathroom like she’s scared or something. I’m going in after her, man, whether you’re with me or not!” Mark whispers, and he starts out of the bushes. But just then, a light comes sweeping up through the yard, as a car swings in the drive. They hit the dirt, hearts pounding. Is it the cops?” “I don’t know!” “Do you think they saw us?” “Sshh!” A man comes staggering up the walk from the drive, a drink in his hand, stumbles on in the kitchen door and then straight into the bathroom. “It’s Mr. Tucker!” Mark whispers. A scream. “Let’s get outa here, man!”
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9:00. Having missed most of the spy show anyway and having little else to do, the babysitter has washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen up a little. The books on the refrigerator remind her of her better intentions, but she decides that first shell see what’s next on TV. In the livingroom, she finds little Bitsy sound asleep on the floor. She lifts her gently, carries her into her bed, and tucks her in. “Okay, Jimmy, it’s nine o’clock, I’ve let you stay up, now be a good boy.” Sullenly, his sleepy eyes glued still to the set, the boy backs out of the room toward his bedroom. A drama comes on. She switches channels. A ballgame and a murder mystery. She switches back to the drama. It’s a love story of some kind. A man married to an aging invalid wife, but in love with a younger girl. “Use the bathroom and brush your teeth before going to bed, Jimmy!” she calls, but as quickly regrets it, for she hears the baby stir in its crib.
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Two of them are talking about mothers they’ve salted away in rest homes. Oh boy, that’s just wonderful, this is one helluva party. She leaves them to use the John, takes advantage of the retreat to ease her girdle down awhile, get a few good deep breaths. She has this picture of her three kids carting her off to a rest home. In a wheel barrow. That sure is something to look forward to, all right. When she pulls her girdle back up, she can’t seem to squeeze into it The host looks in. “Hey, Dolly, are you all right?” “Yeah, I just can’t get into my damn girdle, that’s all.” “Here, let me help.”
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She pulls them on, over her own, standing in front of the bedroom mirror, holding her skirt bundled up around the waist About twenty sizes too big for her, of course. She pulls them tight from behind, runs her hand inside the opening in front, pulls out her thumb. “And what a good boy am I!” She giggles: how funny it must feel! Then, in the mirror, she sees him: in the doorway behind her, sullenly watching. “Jimmy! You’re supposed to be in bed!” “Those are my daddy’s!” the boy says. “I’m gonna tell!”
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“Jimmy!” She drags him into the bathroom and pulls his pants down. “Even your shoes are wet! Get them off!” She soaps up a warm washcloth she’s had with her in the bathtub, scrubs him from the waist down with it Bitsy stands in the doorway, staring. “Get out! Get out!” the boy screams at his sister. “Go back to bed, Bitsy. It’s just an accident” “Get out!” The baby wakes and starts to howl
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The young lover feels sorry for her rival, the invalid wife; she believes the man has a duty toward the poor woman and insists she is willing to wait But the man argues that he also has a duty toward himself: his life, too, is short, and he could not love his wife now even were she well. He embraces the young girl feverishly; she twists away in anguish. The door opens. They stand there grinning, looking devilish, but pretty silly at the same time. “Jackl I thought I told you not to cornel” She’s angry, but she’s also glad in a way: she was beginning to feel a little too alone in the big house, with the children all sleeping. She should have taken that bath, after alL “We just came by to see if you were being a good girl,’’ Jack says and blushes. The boys glance at each other nervously.
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She’s just sunk down into the tubful of warm fragrant suds, ready for a nice long soaking, when the phone rings. Wrapping a towel around her, she goes to answer: no one there. But now the baby’s awake and bawling. She wonders if that’s Jack bothering her all the time. If it is, brother, that’s the end. Maybe it’s the end anyway. She tries to calm the baby with the half-empty bottle, not wanting to change it until she’s finished her bath. The bathroom’s where the diapers go dirty, and they make it stink to high heaven. “Shush, shush!” she whispers, rocking the crib. The towel slips away, leaving an airy empty tingle up and down her backside. Even before she stoops for the towel, even before she turns around, she knows there’s somebody behind her.
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“We just came by to see if you were being a good girl,!’ Jack says, grinning down at her. She’s flushed and silent, her mouth half open. “Lean over,” says Mark amiably. “We’ll soap your back, as long as we’re here.” But she just huddles there, down in the suds, staring up at them with big eyes.
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“Hey! What’s going on here?” It’s Mr. Tucker, stumbling through the door with a drink in his hand. She looks up from the TV. “What’s the matter, Mr. Tucker?” “Oh, uh, I’m sorry, I got lost — no, I mean, I had to get some aspirin. Excuse me!” And he rushes past her into the bathroom, caroming off the livingroom door jamb on the way. The baby wakes.
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“Okay, get off her, Mr. Tucker!” “Jack!” she cries, “what are you doing here?” He stares hard at them a moment: so that’s where it goes. Then, as Mr. Tucker swings heavily off, he leans into the bastard with a hard right to the belly. Next thing he knows, though, he’s got a face full of an old man’s fist. He’s not sure, as the lights go out, if that’s his girlfriend screaming or the baby…
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Her host pushes down on her fair fanny and tugs with all his might on her girdle, while she bawls on his shoulder: “I don’t wanna go to a rest home!” “Now, now, take it easy, Dolly, nobody’s gonna make you—” “Ouch! Hey, you’re hurting!” “You should buy a bigger girdle, Dolly.” “You’re telling me?” Some other guy pokes his head in. “Whatsamatter? Dolly fall in?” “No, she fell out. Give me a hand.”
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By the time she’s chased Jack and Mark out of there, she’s lost track of the program she’s been watching on television. There’s another woman in the story now for some reason. That guy lives a very complicated life. Impatiently, she switches channels. She hates ball-games, so she settles for the murder mystery. She switches just in time, too: there’s a dead man sprawled out on the floor of what looks like an office or a study or something. A heavyset detective gazes up from his crouch over the body: “He’s been strangled.” Maybe she’ll take that bath, after all.
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She drags him into the bathroom and pulls his pants down. She soaps up a warm washcloth she’s had in the tub with her, but just as she reaches between his legs, it starts to spurt, spraying her arms and hands. “Oh, Jimmy! I thought you were done!” she cries, pulling him toward the toilet and aiming it into the bowl. How moist and rubbery it is! And you can turn it every which way. How funny it must feel!
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