credibility of her information. As a source, Marsha Sadler is not particularly trustworthy. Bill Sadler’s flight from her sinewy arms to the comforting embrace of the Independent Pre-Millennial Church of God’s First Chosen appears to have unhinged the woman. She now resents anyone who is married, happily or otherwise. With dogged determination Marsha seeks the hairline fractures that can be found in any marriage, and into such cracks she scrabbles her witchy fingernails and, tugging with spiteful vigour, does her best to make them gape as wide as the jaws of hell.
The peculiar thing is that when we meet she carries on as if astrong bond of sympathy exists between us because we have this in common:
we were deserted by our mates
. During our chance encounters Marsha grips my arm with her painted talons and confides that, although Victoria is her friend, she relates to my “life situation.”
Marsha resembles a veteran airline stewardess. She displays the hard-bitten confidence, professional grooming, caramel tan, and jingling jewellery of such gals. Of course she isn’t a stewardess. The caramel tan and the jewellery are courtesy of her father, who sends her to Arizona every January to lollygag in the sun. He owns a condominium in Phoenix. The hard-bitten confidence is innate.
The only woman whom I fear more than Victoria is Hideous Marsha; yet Hideous is my last hope of reliable information. Since six o’clock I’ve been making phone calls to anyone who might know where Victoria is living. At the moment the total stands at eight. No one would tell me anything of any significance; almost to a woman they feigned ignorance. No, they didn’t have Victoria’s phone number. Had I thought to call information? Really? No listing? Living with another man? They hadn’t heard.
They were all lying through their teeth because of things I’d done to Victoria’s paramours in the past. Not that I ever did anything truly evil. Just light harassment. Telephone impersonations of collection agencies, that sort of thing. Although I did put one gentleman caller’s phone number and vital statistics in the personal column of a homophile tabloid.
The only scrap of information I managed to turn up was a Christian name: Anthony. I got this out of Miriam, an older woman with whom Victoria works. She is neither as wily nor as militant as some of the others I phoned; nevertheless, she knew she’d done a bad thing letting it slip. Nothing more was forthcoming. Anthony. It isn’t much more than a toehold but I’ll see what I can parlay the name into with Hideous Marsha.
It just isn’t working. Galloping pell-mell from room to room of my apartment hasn’t eased my apprehension. Elbows crooked and carried high like a racewalker’s, forearms sawing back and forth at my waist, I wriggle down the hallway, veer around the planter spilling plastic ivy, streak across the kitchen, and churn back upstream toward the bedroom like a 240-pound spawning salmon. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve thundered round the circuit, breaking stride only for pit stops to void my bladder in nervous, parsimonious spurts and dribbles, or to change the album on the stereo. Right now Creedence Clearwater Revival is belting out “Proud Mary.”
Trust Hideous. Trust Hideous Marsha Goddamn Sadler to make a bad day worse. The phone must have rung a dozen times before she deigned to answer it in that cool, distant way she has.
“Hello, Marsha Sadler speaking. I hope you know what time it is.”
“Marsha, it’s Ed.”
There was a slight hesitation while she decided whether to be civil. The possible interest of the call apparently outweighed the inconvenience of the hour. “Ed! How are you? So good to hear your voice again. It’s been ages, hasn’t it? But then I spent the Christmas holidays in Phoenix. You should see me. I’ve got the most glorious all-over suntan.” Said with a giggle. “But you’ll have to hurry, it’s fading fast. Drop by and
The peculiar thing is that when we meet she carries on as if astrong bond of sympathy exists between us because we have this in common:
we were deserted by our mates
. During our chance encounters Marsha grips my arm with her painted talons and confides that, although Victoria is her friend, she relates to my “life situation.”
Marsha resembles a veteran airline stewardess. She displays the hard-bitten confidence, professional grooming, caramel tan, and jingling jewellery of such gals. Of course she isn’t a stewardess. The caramel tan and the jewellery are courtesy of her father, who sends her to Arizona every January to lollygag in the sun. He owns a condominium in Phoenix. The hard-bitten confidence is innate.
The only woman whom I fear more than Victoria is Hideous Marsha; yet Hideous is my last hope of reliable information. Since six o’clock I’ve been making phone calls to anyone who might know where Victoria is living. At the moment the total stands at eight. No one would tell me anything of any significance; almost to a woman they feigned ignorance. No, they didn’t have Victoria’s phone number. Had I thought to call information? Really? No listing? Living with another man? They hadn’t heard.
They were all lying through their teeth because of things I’d done to Victoria’s paramours in the past. Not that I ever did anything truly evil. Just light harassment. Telephone impersonations of collection agencies, that sort of thing. Although I did put one gentleman caller’s phone number and vital statistics in the personal column of a homophile tabloid.
The only scrap of information I managed to turn up was a Christian name: Anthony. I got this out of Miriam, an older woman with whom Victoria works. She is neither as wily nor as militant as some of the others I phoned; nevertheless, she knew she’d done a bad thing letting it slip. Nothing more was forthcoming. Anthony. It isn’t much more than a toehold but I’ll see what I can parlay the name into with Hideous Marsha.
It just isn’t working. Galloping pell-mell from room to room of my apartment hasn’t eased my apprehension. Elbows crooked and carried high like a racewalker’s, forearms sawing back and forth at my waist, I wriggle down the hallway, veer around the planter spilling plastic ivy, streak across the kitchen, and churn back upstream toward the bedroom like a 240-pound spawning salmon. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve thundered round the circuit, breaking stride only for pit stops to void my bladder in nervous, parsimonious spurts and dribbles, or to change the album on the stereo. Right now Creedence Clearwater Revival is belting out “Proud Mary.”
Trust Hideous. Trust Hideous Marsha Goddamn Sadler to make a bad day worse. The phone must have rung a dozen times before she deigned to answer it in that cool, distant way she has.
“Hello, Marsha Sadler speaking. I hope you know what time it is.”
“Marsha, it’s Ed.”
There was a slight hesitation while she decided whether to be civil. The possible interest of the call apparently outweighed the inconvenience of the hour. “Ed! How are you? So good to hear your voice again. It’s been ages, hasn’t it? But then I spent the Christmas holidays in Phoenix. You should see me. I’ve got the most glorious all-over suntan.” Said with a giggle. “But you’ll have to hurry, it’s fading fast. Drop by and
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