Separate Beds by Lavyrle Spencer

fiercely.
    “I know. It's the girl I'm thinking of and the fact that it's Clay's child. Suppose she takes it back home to the same house with that—that vile man. He's violent. He's the kind—”
    In the darkness he kissed her and felt her cheeks were wet. “Angie, Angie, don't,” he whispered.
    “But it's our grandchild,” she repeated near his ear.
    “We have to have some faith in Clay.”
    “But the way he talked tonight . . .”
    “He's reacting like any man would. In the light of day let's hope he sees his obligations more clearly.”
    Angela rolled onto her back, wiped her eyes with the sheet and calmed herself as best she could. After all, this was not some reprobate they were talking about. It was their son.
    “He'll do the right thing, darling; he's just like you in so many ways.”
    Claiborne kissed his wife's cheek. “I love you, Angie.” Then he rolled her onto her side and backed her up against him again, settling a hand upon her breast. Her hand crept behind to cradle the reassuring warmth inside his pajamas. And thus they drew strength from each other in the long hour before sleep eased their worries.

    It took practiced skill to outwit the caginess of Herb Anderson. He had the sixth sense that inexplicably thrives in alcoholics, that uncanny intuition which can make the hazy brain suddenly work with alarming clarity. The next morning Catherine carefully maintained her customary routine, knowing any small change would trigger his suspicion. She was standing at the kitchen sink eating a fresh orange when Herb came shuffling into the room. The fruit quenched some new taste she'd developed lately, but it seemed to amuse him wickedly.
    “Suckin' on your oranges again, huh?” he grated from the doorway. “Lotta good that'll do ya. If you wanna suck something, go suck up to old man Forrester and see if you can get something outa him. What the hell's the matter with you anyway? The way you stood there like some goddam lump last night—we won't get nothin' outa Forrester that way!”
    “Don't start in on me again. I told you I'd go with you but I won't back your threats. I have to go to school now.”
    “You ain't goin' anyplace till you tell me what you got outa lover boy last night!”
    “Daddy, don't! Just don't. I don't want to go through it again.”
    “Well, we're gonna go through it, soon as I have me a coffee roy-al, so just stand where you are, girlie. Where the hell's your mother? Does a man have to make his own damn coffee around this dump?”
    “She's gone to work already. Make your own coffee.”
    He rubbed the side of his coarse hand across the corner of a lip. Catherine could hear the rasp of whiskers clear across the room.
    “Got a little uppity since you talked to lover boy, huh?” He chuckled. She no longer tried to stop him from using the term lover boy. It pleased him immensely when she did. He came to the sink and started slamming parts of an aluminum coffeepot around, dumping the grounds out, leaving them to stain the sink, wiping his hands on his stretched-out T-shirt. She stepped back as the stream of water hit the grounds and some came flying her way. He chuckled again. She leaned over the sink sideways, continuing to eat the pieces of quartered orange. But, at close range, he smelled. It made her stomach lurch.
    “Well, you gonna spit it out or you gonna stand there suckin' those oranges all morning? What'd lover boy have to say for himself?”
    She crossed to the garbage can beside the ancient, chipped porcelain stove, ostensibly to throw away the orange peel; actually she could not stand being so near the man.
    “He doesn't want to marry me any more than I want to marry him. I told you he wouldn't.”
    “You told me! Hah! You told me nothin', slut! I had to search my own goddam house for any fact I wanted! If I wouldn't've had enough brains to go lookin' I still wouldn't know who your lover boy is! And if you think I'm gonna let him get off scot-free, well,