"What?" he said, startled out of his reverie. "Oh. Oh, sure, I'm sorry, honey," he apologized to Cindy, taking her arm and guiding her to her chair.
"That's all right, Howie," she said, and she seemed to be composed now.
He sat down, smiling at her, his eyes bright. "More champagne, baby?"
"Yes," his young wife replied. "Yes, I think I will."
As Cindy accepted another glass of the effervescent liquid, she reaffirmed in her mind what she had told herself in the Ladies' Room: even though she felt wretched and miserable, there was no use letting the others see her condition — especially Ralph and Norma. When Norma had come in and asked if she was all right, if she wanted to talk about what was bothering her, Cindy had answered that she was fine now — drying her eyes with a tissue and forcing a smile and that there wasn't anything to talk about, really. Norma had seemed to understand; they had washed up, chatting about something Cindy couldn't recall now, and then come out to the table again.
Determined to affect a calm exterior, not to show the turmoiled nature of her inner self Cindy had decided to have a few more glasses of champagne, just enough so that she became a little high — not so that she got drunk. That way, it would be easier to pretend that everything was all right, that nothing was troubling her; she might even, with a slight tipsiness, be able to join in the conversation that went around the table, might even be able to laugh at Ralph's sly innuendoes and comments and Norma's ready agreements to them.
She drained her fresh glass of champagne and extended it to Howard to be filled again, smiling, feeling already a little tight and missing completely the intensity in his dark eyes, the way he began to slur his own words, the smiling all-knowing endorsement of the Taylors as they exchanged glances across the table…
The rest of the evening, to Cindy, seemed to be a blur. She had vague remembrances of an endless succession of fresh bottles of champagne being brought to their table; of the four of them moving down to the lounge area; of dancing with Howard and pressing close to him, feeling the hardening bulge of his penis in his pants as he whispered intimate words in her ear; of Howard saying, in a pronounced slur, that it was time. "He and the little woman wen' home to bed, yessir, time to take the bull by the horns an' bring her around you unnerstan' Ralph."
The next thing she was fully cognizant of, after that, was sitting beside Howard in their car with the cold night air blowing in through the opened windows. Her tongue felt thick and fuzzy and her head light, airy; she licked her lips experimentally, and then leaned against her husband's shoulder.
"Howie, where are we going?"
He, too, had been sobered considerably by the chill night breeze. He was still nice and tight, though, just tight enough so that he was on edge with anticipation. In spite of its bad beginning, the evening had turned out very well; he had gotten Cindy drunk, as he had planned, and she had loosened up considerably, even to the point of smiling and tacitly forgiving Ralph for the set of photos of the night before, of that he was almost certain. She was warm and cuddly now, sitting next to him, in an obvious loving and permissive mood; it wouldn't take much to convince her of the rightness, the propriety, of allowing him to take more intimate pictures of her with their new Polaroid. He just had to be very careful how he went about it…
"We're going home, honey," he whispered. "Home."
"Mmm, that's good," she murmured. "I… I think I drank too much tonight, Howie."
"No you didn't, baby," he assured her.
"I… I'm sorry I was so… so bitchy the first part of the evening," she said softly. "It's just that I was… well, that I was upset about… about a few things."
"It's okay, honey, I understand."
A few moments later they were pulling into the driveway of their small, middle-class cottage in one of Morriston's older sections. Howard parked the car in the garage, and they got out, arms about one another, and went into the darkened interior. He switched on one of the low-watt lamps on an end table as Cindy took off her coat and put her purse down on one of the chairs.
"How about a nightcap, Cindy honey?" he suggested.
"Oh Howie, I don't know. I've drunk so much tonight…"
"Just a little one," he said quickly.
"Well… okay. But a little one, now?"
"Sure," Howard said eagerly. "Sure, baby."
He mixed two gin-and-tonics in the kitchen, spiking Cindy's liberally with gin and enough fresh lemon juice to conceal the oily taste of the liquor. He carried the glasses into the living room, handed his young wife hers, and then sat down beside her on the divan.
She sipped tentatively, smiled at him, and then took a larger swallow. "Mmm, good," she said. She felt safe and secure, now that they were back in their own home, and a little contrite for the way she had behaved tonight. But, as she had told Howard, she'd been upset and everything had seemed to be drawing in on her at the same time, crushing her under its weight. Now, with the liquor to take away the sharp edge of her problems, she wasn't as sure as she had been that things were going to go wrong in their perfect marriage. After all, Howard still loved her — there was no doubt of that in her mind at all. What, then, could be terrible enough to override that abiding love? Especially since she loved him as deeply as he did her?
Still, though, there was one nagging question permeating her mind. If she had been fully sober, she would never have broached it aloud to Howie — but the drinks had loosened her tongue enough so that, now, she did; she had to find out the truth.
"Howie," she began, "Howie, did you… well, did you say anything to Ralph about those… those pictures you took of me the other night?"
He frowned slightly, looking at her. "Why do you ask that?"
"The way he and Norma were talking tonight," she replied. "It was as if they… they knew all about them."
Howard moistened his lips. "You're attaching too much significance to those photos, honey," he said. "There's nothing wrong in them, you know. Just some harmless intimacy between a husband and his wife, that's all."
"Howie," she insisted, "did you tell Ralph about them?"
"All right, if you must know — yes, I told Ralph about them. I couldn't help it; he kept asking me and I… well, I just blurted it out."
"Oh Howie, how could you!" Cindy looked as if she were about to cry.
"Hey now," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. "There's nothing to get upset about, for God's sake. Here, drink your drink."
Obediently, Cindy took a deep swallow from her glass, shuddering a little as the strong liquor raced hotly into her stomach. He had told! She had known he had, of course, but his admission brought a renewed sense of anguish to her. He had no right telling about the photos; they were a private thing between the two of them, something personal, something exciting and…
Cindy sat rigid. Exciting? Had she just thought that the photos he had taken of her were exciting? No… no, she couldn't have… and yet, there was no doubt that she had thought that self-same thought. But why? Did she really think they were exciting? Herself lewdly displayed like… like those women in the other photos she had seen last night, Ralph's photos — displayed in an obscene provocative pose before her husband…
Exciting? No… no… and yet Howard had obviously been excited by them at the time, just as she herself had been undeniably excited by the lewd carnality displayed in those other snapshots. Oh God, oh God…
She drank again, emptying her glass, and when she put it down on the coffee table she felt a terrible rise of guilt once more. And with it came the need to unburden herself, to tell Howard that she had looked at those pictures of Ralph's last night — but not that she had fingered herself while looking at them, never that. Still, she had to tell him that she had seen them, that she had been aroused by them…