The Woman Next Door by T. M. Wright Page B

me? You understand that, I'm sure." She moved her left hand backward a few inches to indicate the piece of paper she held. Her tone became crisp, demanding: "I see from this . . . this obscenity that you have started to destroy me already, to put me out of your heart. And I don't blame you , Greg; it's the animal in you that I blame. And that animal has to be brought under control. Do you understand that, Gregory?"
    "My hand hurts real bad, Mommy."
    "I'll explain it to you; you'll understand. You're a smart boy. You're my son." She crumpled the piece of paper slowly as she talked. "You are going through what's called puberty . It means you're becoming . . . a man." Her tone softened very slightly. "It's a natural thing, Greg. But it's evil, too, because it destroys the child in you, my child. Do you understand?"
    Greg did not understand. He mumbled something unintelligible, then fell silent.
    "I am letting you come up from the cellar, Greg, but only under one condition." She held her hand out behind her, the crumpled piece of paper in it. "This is the evil in you coming out, Greg—an evil we must keep inside you. So, it's clear what you must do, isn't it?" She turned halfway, looked Greg squarely in the eye. "It's clear," she repeated, her tone crisp, demanding, "what you must do, isn't it?"
    Greg said nothing. He moved quickly across the room, took the piece of paper from her. He glanced out the window. The snowfall was much heavier now. A storm was coming.
    He put the crumpled piece of paper into his mouth, let his saliva work on it.
    "That's right, Greg. I told you you were a smart boy. You're my son." She walked halfway across the room, stopped, turned. "There'll be nothing about this to your father."
    Greg nodded.
    "Good." She paused, then continued: "Supper will be ready soon, and I want you nice and scrubbed before you come to the table. That cellar is filthy."
    Greg nodded again.
    Marilyn smiled and left the room.
    Five minutes later, Greg swallowed the ball of mush that his letter to Coni Weeker had become.

Chapter 8
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    C hristine tried to make herself comfortable, but realized the room wouldn't allow it. She had felt the same way several days before when first entering the Courtney house with Tim, that it disliked visitors, that it was a showpiece not meant to be lived in. Entering this room today, she had been aware of the paths the wheels of her chair made in the expensive oriental rug, and she caught herself glancing at Marilyn Courtney for signs of disapproval. But the woman had been almost cloyingly gracious from the moment Christine appeared at the side door.
    Now, regardless of Marilyn's apparent cordiality, Christine sat very stiffly, the corners of her lips turned slightly upward in what she knew was not really a smile.
    There was a cup of tea on a spindle-legged cherrywood table to her right, but, in fear of spilling it, she knew she wouldn't touch it. Marilyn sat cross-legged on a velvet rococo couch between the living room's two front windows.
    "It's really very good to see you again, Christine. I very much enjoyed you and your husband's visit the other day. Your husband's a charming man." The condescension in Marilyn's tone was almost palpable.
    "Thank you, Marilyn. I think he's all right."
    Marilyn grinned; her teeth, Christine noted, were large, straight, and healthy. "That's a nice thing to say, Christine. You and your husband seem to have—what's his name again? Tim?—you seem to have what I call a playful marriage. And that's all right. In time —you're both quite young—I'm sure your relationship will mature."
    Christine's lips moved nervously, trying to form a reply. Marilyn went on, as if in apology:
    "That is in no way a judgment of you and your husband as individuals, Christine. I'm sure you are both very fine people, a real asset to the district, unlike some I can name. But that's another matter. No, when I say your relationship will mature, I mean only that it will