felt that I behaved with the dignity of a gentleman.
So the expected reversal of roles led only to greater humiliation.
I know she poisoned Mr. Howey against me.
I cannot understand a person like that.
I am totally glad she is dead.
I am very glad.
I rejoice.
And I am not afraid.
Six
(RANDY HESS—BEFORE)
I TOLD NOEL that Wilma expected us both for the week end, and that started another of our dry, bitter little quarrels. There is no ranting and raving. Just a sour quietness. It was not always this way. Not before Wilma. My nerves used to be better. My wife and I are almost strangers. It seems a long time since we have laughed together. And that did not matter to me very much before Gilman Hayes came on the scene, six months ago. He displaced me nearly entirely in one area of my usefulness to Wilma. I think of that and wonder how I have managed to give up all pride and decency. And I wonder why I am willing to trade day after day of the humiliating tasks she gives me just for the sake of those brief rare times when she opens her arms.
I think of myself and wonder that I can feel so devoid of shame. I think I used to be a proud man. I have that memory.But it’s a memory that seems to belong to some other person.
She is not bad. She is not evil. People make a mistake when they say she is evil and malicious. She is merely Wilma. I remember one time when she talked to me in a voice I had not heard before.
“I was a fat kid, Randy. A horrible fat kid. My bones are big and there was a lot of padding on the bones. My God, I ate all the time. And I hated the way I looked. I was ugly.” She spoke quietly beside me in her bed, her profile clear against the red mist high over the city. “I used to dream that a fairy godmother would come along. She would have a wand. She would touch me on the forehead and she would tell me I was beautiful. And, in the dream, I would run, run, run to the mirror, my heart in my throat, and I’d look in and there I’d be, the same fat Wilma. I used to hate my fairy godmother. Maybe that’s what started me on this cosmetics thing, Randy. I’ve wondered about that. Magic wand. Say, make a mental note of that, will you? For the stick perfume. It might be good. I’m too relaxed to think about it right now. I guess it did other things, being fat and ugly like that. You see, I’d see the little golden girls going to their parties. I’d hide. Sometimes, when I was brave, I’d throw mud. There was a boy they all had crushes on. My God, I had a crush on him too. My heart used to go thud-thud just seeing him in the school halls. And it was so damn ridiculous. I told my psychiatrist about all this.”
“What did he say?”
She rolled over and up onto her elbows, half over me, one large perfect breast eclipsing half the world. “He said,Randy, that he could isolate the cause for my so-called nymphomania. He says there is absolutely no physiological basis for it. He says there very seldom is. It’s because usually a person wanted to be loved so badly. And there’s some obstacle. Mine was the way I looked. My God, underneath I was a mess. All a bunch of crazy longings. And that family of mine! Brother. They’d crack you for nothing, just for walking by. Funny, thinking about it, about spending the rest of your life getting even. He said that was what I was doing. That I resented the male. He hadn’t noticed me when I wanted to be noticed. He said it was too bad, because now I can’t really love anybody. Hell, I guess I don’t miss that. I asked him why I needed so much physical love. He said it was just a symbol. He said that given time, he could cure me. And I thought about that and told him I would go along as is, thank you very much. So you see, Randy. I really hate you. Can you believe it?”
And, looking up at her, I could believe it. And yet understand her. Yet pity and love the child she had once been.
And pity myself for having been standing in the right place and time to have
So the expected reversal of roles led only to greater humiliation.
I know she poisoned Mr. Howey against me.
I cannot understand a person like that.
I am totally glad she is dead.
I am very glad.
I rejoice.
And I am not afraid.
Six
(RANDY HESS—BEFORE)
I TOLD NOEL that Wilma expected us both for the week end, and that started another of our dry, bitter little quarrels. There is no ranting and raving. Just a sour quietness. It was not always this way. Not before Wilma. My nerves used to be better. My wife and I are almost strangers. It seems a long time since we have laughed together. And that did not matter to me very much before Gilman Hayes came on the scene, six months ago. He displaced me nearly entirely in one area of my usefulness to Wilma. I think of that and wonder how I have managed to give up all pride and decency. And I wonder why I am willing to trade day after day of the humiliating tasks she gives me just for the sake of those brief rare times when she opens her arms.
I think of myself and wonder that I can feel so devoid of shame. I think I used to be a proud man. I have that memory.But it’s a memory that seems to belong to some other person.
She is not bad. She is not evil. People make a mistake when they say she is evil and malicious. She is merely Wilma. I remember one time when she talked to me in a voice I had not heard before.
“I was a fat kid, Randy. A horrible fat kid. My bones are big and there was a lot of padding on the bones. My God, I ate all the time. And I hated the way I looked. I was ugly.” She spoke quietly beside me in her bed, her profile clear against the red mist high over the city. “I used to dream that a fairy godmother would come along. She would have a wand. She would touch me on the forehead and she would tell me I was beautiful. And, in the dream, I would run, run, run to the mirror, my heart in my throat, and I’d look in and there I’d be, the same fat Wilma. I used to hate my fairy godmother. Maybe that’s what started me on this cosmetics thing, Randy. I’ve wondered about that. Magic wand. Say, make a mental note of that, will you? For the stick perfume. It might be good. I’m too relaxed to think about it right now. I guess it did other things, being fat and ugly like that. You see, I’d see the little golden girls going to their parties. I’d hide. Sometimes, when I was brave, I’d throw mud. There was a boy they all had crushes on. My God, I had a crush on him too. My heart used to go thud-thud just seeing him in the school halls. And it was so damn ridiculous. I told my psychiatrist about all this.”
“What did he say?”
She rolled over and up onto her elbows, half over me, one large perfect breast eclipsing half the world. “He said,Randy, that he could isolate the cause for my so-called nymphomania. He says there is absolutely no physiological basis for it. He says there very seldom is. It’s because usually a person wanted to be loved so badly. And there’s some obstacle. Mine was the way I looked. My God, underneath I was a mess. All a bunch of crazy longings. And that family of mine! Brother. They’d crack you for nothing, just for walking by. Funny, thinking about it, about spending the rest of your life getting even. He said that was what I was doing. That I resented the male. He hadn’t noticed me when I wanted to be noticed. He said it was too bad, because now I can’t really love anybody. Hell, I guess I don’t miss that. I asked him why I needed so much physical love. He said it was just a symbol. He said that given time, he could cure me. And I thought about that and told him I would go along as is, thank you very much. So you see, Randy. I really hate you. Can you believe it?”
And, looking up at her, I could believe it. And yet understand her. Yet pity and love the child she had once been.
And pity myself for having been standing in the right place and time to have
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