self-hate and self-love. Divorcing herself from all logic, more easily than she had divorced herself from her husband three years ago, she blamed this body for contributing most largely to the delinquency and mismanagement of her life. She was attractive, and she had always been attractive, as long as she could remember.. Now, at thirty-one, the bouffant hair-do, dark sloe eyes, flaring little nose, and small full mouth gave promise of strange delights and eroticism. Her frame-she was only five feet one-seemed sculptured from ivory by a master craftsman. Every feature and limb was perfectly proportioned, except the breasts, which were oversized, with abnormally prodigious brown nipples that reduced men to inarticulate slaves and gave Naomi the feeling of physical superiority usually possessed only by the very young.
Discarding her soggy towel, she sprinkled talcum on her skin, gently smoothed it in, then applied perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. She walked, naked, into the dressing room that led to the bedroom, released a flowing white peignoir from its hanger, and pulled it on. Loosely knotting it at the throat, she continued to the bedroom. She surveyed what she variously named, in her mind, her mausoleum or purgatory. The farthest half of the customed bed was a mess-as if it had been through a mixmaster -the pale rose bedspread a mangled mound, and the table next to the bed accusingly told her why. The ash tray was heaped with cigarette butts, the bottle of green pills was uncapped, the fifth of gin was almost empty, and the tall glass still contained the remains of an old drink and worn lemon peel. The entire room-no windows were open, for she had an inordinate fear of prowlers-reeked of stale tobacco and nauseating drink. How much had she consumed last night? Perhaps a third of the fifth. Possibly more. She could not recall. She remembered only that the two pills-or was it three?-had not brought oblivion, and so, against all resolve, she had taken a drink, and then another, and had not stopped. She had slept like death, yet the tortured blankets and pillow pressed low between the gilded headboard and the mattress gave evidence that (for her) to sleep was still to dream.
Quickly, she raised a window to air the room, and then, because the bath had revived and cleansed her, she fled the foul air. Passing through the narrow hall, through the living room and dining room into the kitchen, she tried desperately to focus on a plan for the long day ahead. As she started the coffee on the stove, and took down cup and saucer in a hand that trembled, she thought that she might visit her parents in Burbank. She had not seen them for weeks. But the very thought of a day with that loveless, bickering pair-an old father, senile and regretful, and a stepmother spouting shrill cliches-was more than she was prepared to endure. She might telephone the wonderful child down the block, Mary Ewing McManus, and go shopping with her. But she dreaded the youngster’s effervescence and energy, and knew that in the end Mary’s presence would make her feel unclean. She might drive into Beverly Hills and visit those females in the rental library-though she still possessed three novels that were unread and woefully overdue-and then shop for a new sweater and skirt, since several alimony checks had piled up undeposited through neglect and inertia. But Beverly Hills seemed a million miles away, and she was in no mood to walk through streets of noisy, busy, overdressed women.
Pacing, as she waited for the coffee, she felt that frighteningly recurring feeling of being suspended in space, rootless. Her peignoir had loosened, partially exposing her body, and she covered herself and tightened the cord, more distraught than ever. She did not know what she should do, but she did know what she would not do. She would not drink. The very thought of drink seemed, at once, a crutch, until she could decide. Quickly, she turned to the maple
Discarding her soggy towel, she sprinkled talcum on her skin, gently smoothed it in, then applied perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. She walked, naked, into the dressing room that led to the bedroom, released a flowing white peignoir from its hanger, and pulled it on. Loosely knotting it at the throat, she continued to the bedroom. She surveyed what she variously named, in her mind, her mausoleum or purgatory. The farthest half of the customed bed was a mess-as if it had been through a mixmaster -the pale rose bedspread a mangled mound, and the table next to the bed accusingly told her why. The ash tray was heaped with cigarette butts, the bottle of green pills was uncapped, the fifth of gin was almost empty, and the tall glass still contained the remains of an old drink and worn lemon peel. The entire room-no windows were open, for she had an inordinate fear of prowlers-reeked of stale tobacco and nauseating drink. How much had she consumed last night? Perhaps a third of the fifth. Possibly more. She could not recall. She remembered only that the two pills-or was it three?-had not brought oblivion, and so, against all resolve, she had taken a drink, and then another, and had not stopped. She had slept like death, yet the tortured blankets and pillow pressed low between the gilded headboard and the mattress gave evidence that (for her) to sleep was still to dream.
Quickly, she raised a window to air the room, and then, because the bath had revived and cleansed her, she fled the foul air. Passing through the narrow hall, through the living room and dining room into the kitchen, she tried desperately to focus on a plan for the long day ahead. As she started the coffee on the stove, and took down cup and saucer in a hand that trembled, she thought that she might visit her parents in Burbank. She had not seen them for weeks. But the very thought of a day with that loveless, bickering pair-an old father, senile and regretful, and a stepmother spouting shrill cliches-was more than she was prepared to endure. She might telephone the wonderful child down the block, Mary Ewing McManus, and go shopping with her. But she dreaded the youngster’s effervescence and energy, and knew that in the end Mary’s presence would make her feel unclean. She might drive into Beverly Hills and visit those females in the rental library-though she still possessed three novels that were unread and woefully overdue-and then shop for a new sweater and skirt, since several alimony checks had piled up undeposited through neglect and inertia. But Beverly Hills seemed a million miles away, and she was in no mood to walk through streets of noisy, busy, overdressed women.
Pacing, as she waited for the coffee, she felt that frighteningly recurring feeling of being suspended in space, rootless. Her peignoir had loosened, partially exposing her body, and she covered herself and tightened the cord, more distraught than ever. She did not know what she should do, but she did know what she would not do. She would not drink. The very thought of drink seemed, at once, a crutch, until she could decide. Quickly, she turned to the maple
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