All These Condemned by John D. MacDonald Page A

been run down by this implacable female machine, and still know that it was no excuse for me. She had merely uncovered a basic sensuality, a masochistic weakness in me that I had not suspected.
    She seldom talked that way to me. My role was more generally that of whipping boy.
    There was another time. “Does Noel know about this, Randy?”
    “I haven’t told her, if that’s what you mean.”
    “But she knows?”
    “I’m pretty sure she does.”
    “Doesn’t that make you feel bad? Wouldn’t you like to give all this up and try to make her happy again?”
    “I know that’s what I
should
do.”
    “But you’re going to keep on with this, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. I guess I am.”
    “Tell me why you are.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Tell me why you’re not going to give this up.”
    “Because … I can’t.”
    “That’s what I wanted you to say. Let me tell you about the others, Randy. Don’t you want to listen to me?”
    “Please don’t, Wilma.”
    “I like to talk about them. Like I talk to them about you.”
    “Stop it, Wilma.”
    “I’ll stop it. Tell me what you are. Are you weak?”
    “Weak and vile and foul.”
    “And ashamed?”
    “No. Not ashamed.”
    “Should you be?”
    “Yes, I should be. What I’m doing is a sin in the eyes of man and God.”
    “That sounded nice. You must say it again sometime. But right now we’ll stop talking, won’t we, Randy? Right now, darling, we’ll stop talking. Won’t we? Won’t we?”
    And there was no escape, as there never was. As though I needed vileness. As though I sought degradation. As though I had to go on punishing myself for inconceivable crimes, for a guilt that had not yet been explained to me. And I wondered if I would ever kill her. It was the only possible release. She did not tire of the little humilities. The emptying of her ash trays. Sorting her clothes for the cleaners.Taking care of her shoes. Picking up after her. She was a robust animal and she casually littered the rooms in which she lived. She liked to have me tell her about how important I used to think I would become. Sometimes she made me tell her those old dreams while I was making up her bed while she sat at the dressing table, watching me in the mirror.
    I knew of her other affairs. She made certain that I knew of them. Ears should be able to be closed, like eyes. But I was not deposed. I had the most of her and that had to be enough. Until she took unto herself Gilman Hayes.
    “He’s no good, Wilma. You’ve got to get rid of him.”
    “We’ll have a nice talk about him. As though you were my girl friend, Randy.”
    “He’s no good.”
    “He’s a fabulous artist, my dear.”
    “Who says so?”
    “Steve Winsan says so. I’m paying him to say so in the right places. The places where it counts. Be good, Randy. And be patient. He’s a very arrogant young man, and a very splendid animal, and after he has been properly broken to the halter, we shall send him on his way and forget about him.”
    “He’s costing you too much money.”
    “You nag me like an old hen, Randy dear. Be your sweet and patient self, and Wilma will be back soon. Poor Gil has the absurd idea he’s doing me some sort of a favor. That’s a little attitude I shall manage to correct. And then, because he’s a bit dull, we’ll send him on his way, older and wiser.”
    She had told me the list for this week end. Hayes and theDockertys and Steve and Judy and Wallace Dorn. There was one small gain in this Hayes affair. It had given me time to go over her accounts. And I did not like what I saw. I had a talk with her on Tuesday. I tried my best to frighten her. I made it strong. She smiled and ticked the things off on her fingers.
    “Rent the Cuernavaca house. Check. Get a smaller apartment here. Maybe. Drop Gil and cancel out Steve’s efforts for both of us. Check. Stop spending so much on other things. Check. And you know, dear, as long as we’re making changes, I’m getting awfully