The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (61 page)

 

 

Trees swung in the wind. Above the throb of the engine, he could hear
the snap of breaking branches. This blizzard was going to set some new
records. He hadn't seen another car in more than an hour. Obviously,
most people had more sense than to be out on a night like this. The car
skidded out of control for a split second before he got it back onto the
road. He had a quick vision of himself in an overturned convertible with
no one to find him until morning; dead or dying from exposure.

 

 

And Cynthia -- she would live, of course. Probably never realize that
he was dead. Death in an automobile in Connecticut. He would simply
be a statistic, among the many casualties that were bound to result
from this storm. Cindar would think he had simply run out on a bad
situation. Yale shrugged. The smartest thing to do was not to go back
to Boston, anyway. Inevitably, he would create another mess.

 

 

He slowed the car to a crawl, fearful of missing the turnoff, and then
realized that while he was thinking his gloomy thoughts he had actually
passed it. He peered out the right-hand window and caught a glimpse of
the fieldstone fence that encircled the entire Marratt land. He estimated
that the road into the house was about a hundred yards back. He backed
slowly, the car door open. The wind and snow blew against his face and
neck. The snow was drifted several feet high in front of the gateposts
but the gate itself had been swung back by the wind. The road into the
house wasn't plowed and it was exactly a mile and six-tenths to the
house. He'd freeze to death if he tried to walk it. Maybe he could plow
the Ford through. He slammed his foot on the gas, swinging the car into
the entrance. For about a hundred yards the car whipped and skidded,
and then, suddenly, the dark outline of another car stalled across the
road sprung up before his headlights.

 

 

Yale gripped the steering wheel as he crashed. For a moment he sat
trembling, catching his breath. Who in hell had left a car like that?

 

 

He jumped out into snow up to his knees. Plodding toward the car he had
hit, he noticed that it was a Cadillac convertible. He pulled the door
open. The head and arms of a woman tumbled toward him, falling on the
edge of the car's seat. Yale was so startled that it was seconds after
he had grabbed the girl's head and shoved her body back into the car
that he realized it was his sister, Barbara.

 

 

Pushing in beside her, he was overwhelmed with the odor of whiskey that
permeated the interior. He leaned over her. She was breathing. Drunk,
he thought. Jesus! Drunk! How do you like that?

 

 

"Bobby!" He shook her. "Bobby, wake up for God's sake. You scared a
lung out of me. What in hell are you doing here? Why aren't you in
Texas? Where's Tom?"

 

 

Barbara opened her eyes and looked at him. "Whaddya know," she muttered
drunkenly. "My baby brother, Yale. Now I'm in luck."

 

 

"You damned fool," Yale cursed. "Sitting here in below zero weather.
Drinking yourself cock-eyed. What the hell's the matter with you?"

 

 

"Got fed up with my darling husband," Barbara muttered. "Left him. Came
home to Mother, after six stupid years. To hell with him! To hell with
the kids!"

 

 

Yale pushed her into a sitting position. "Well, I've got news for you,
chum . . . your darling mother and father are basking in the sun in
Miami. The house is practically closed up. Whit Jones has gone into
town while they're in Florida. Amy has gone to see her daughter in North
Carolina. It's bachelor diggings for the next month." Yale pulled on the
dash light. He looked closely at Barbara. She was wearing a mink jacket,
with the collar flung high in back, providing a frame for her face. In
the faint light from the dashboard her features were heavily shadowed,
but Yale could notice a half smile on her lips.

 

 

"Okay, so I'll drive to Miami . . . I've driven from Dallas in four days.
Get a plow, darling brother. Get me out of here!" She shivered, "Ye gods,
I'm freezing. Used up all my gas running the heater. What time is it?"

 

 

Yale looked at his watch. "It's eleven-thirty."

 

 

"Christ, I've been here since eight o'clock. Good thing I had the bottle."

 

 

Yale picked it off the floor of the car. It was three-quarters gone.
He took a swallow. "I don't suppose you have any overshoes?"

 

 

She held up her legs, showing silk stockings and high-heeled shoes.

 

 

Yale shook his head. "That's great. You're going to have a nice long walk,
practically barefoot, in the snow."

 

 

"The devil I am." Barbara shriveled into her coat. "If I was going to walk
I'd have done it hours ago. Anyhow, I'm too damned tight . . . couldn't
put one foot in front of another."

 

 

"You can't stay here, you'll freeze to death."

 

 

"Who cares? I've heard it's an easy death. You just go to sleep like
this." Barbara put her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Yale
realized that when she had discovered her car was stuck in the snow she
had probably started drinking, not caring what happened. Whatever was
wrong between Tom and her must be a real mess, he thought. Was this what
happened to all modern marriages? Too much money. Too much booze. Maybe
he was just as well off.

 

 

Yale shook her and got no response.

 

 

"Come on, Bobby! Come to! You may feel like croaking but I'm not going to
have you on my conscience." He slapped her face. It made a stinging sound.

 

 

She looked at him bitterly. "Just like my goddamned husband . . ."

 

 

Yale leaned across her and pushed the door open. He shoved her into the
snow. She screamed, "Leave me alone. I want to die. Who do you think
you are . . . God?"

 

 

Yale grabbed her arm and pushed her toward what looked like the center
of the road.

 

 

"Okay! Okay! Stop pushing. I'll try to make it."

 

 

They lurched against the wind, the snow whipping and smacking against
their faces. At first it felt clean and good, but in a few seconds it
stung as it melted and froze on the skin. Yale half-led, half-dragged
Barbara. It was impossible to talk. The wind was so cold it was difficult
to breathe without gasping. Yale tried to gauge the depth of the snow
on the road. For a few minutes they would walk on bare road. Then they
would be confronted with a wide expanse of drifted snow, in some places
waist high. Yale plowed ahead. He tried to trample some sort of path,
waving his arms to keep his balance. He sank beyond his knees. His
overcoat dragged across the top of the drifts.

 

 

Barbara tried to follow him. Stumbling, she nearly fell forward on her
face. Finally, the only way she could walk was to hitch her dress around
her hips, hooking it under a large gold belt she was wearing. But in a
few minutes her legs were raw and freezing cold. They felt numb beneath
her. Staggering, trying to keep up with Yale, she suddenly tripped and
plunged face down into a drift.

 

 

"Yale," she moaned.

 

 

He turned back, caught her by the back of her coat, and pulled her to her
feet. She tottered against him, and he nearly lost his balance. "Are you
all right?" he yelled.

 

 

She tried to nod, and he heard her say, "Oh, Yale, I can't make it. I'm
done in."

 

 

Yale leaned over her. "Come on, Bobby! You've got to make it." He saw
her bare legs for the first time. Her dress was still gathered around
her waist. Her stockings, wet and sleazy, supported by a garter belt,
made her look both ridiculous and somehow very feminine and fragile.

 

 

Half pulling her to her feet, he slid his hand between her legs, and
felt the wet hair of her mons, and then the curve of her buttocks. With a
tremendous effort, he twisted her across his shoulder in a fireman carry.

 

 

"You can't carry me!" she screamed. "I'm too heavy!"

 

 

"Shut up." Yale groaned. "I'm doing it, aren't I? If we ever get back,
you better dig out your red flannels. This isn't any weather to be
walking around without panties."

 

 

For the next few minutes Barbara's weight, balanced as it was, felt
light enough. Holding her calf to keep her from falling, Yale's hand
slipped back again to the curve of her buttocks. "Your fanny feels nice
and warm," he teased her. Her voice in a weak "Cut it out," seemed to
come from some distance behind him.

 

 

The fury of the storm seemed to be increasing. The pines that Pat had
planted years ago were the only clue to the turnings of the road.
It had been years since he had walked the distance between Route 6 and
the house. The turns, familiar in an automobile, seemed strange and
intimidating on foot. As he struggled against the wind he tried to look
into the biting onslaught of the snow to see if he could distinguish
the outlines of the house. He prayed that it wasn't much further.

 

 

His foot struck bare road for a minute, and then he started to plow
across what seemed to be an unending drift. Almost up to his waist,
he plunged forward into the snow, Barbara half under him. For a minute
he lay still, listening to the heavy sound of his own breathing. He
wondered at Bobby's silence. He pushed himself to his feet, and looked
down at her, half buried in the snow. He shook her and she sobbed:
"Yale, I'm sick. I'm so sick."

 

 

He could see that she was retching. He grabbed her roughly. No matter
how sick she was, she couldn't stay here. "Snap out of it!" he said
sharply, in a voice that reminded him of his Army days. "You can be sick
in the house."

 

 

Half carrying, half dragging, a sickness of exhaustion in his bowels,
he finally got her to the porch.

 

 

Gasping for breath, he fumbled with his keys and swung the door open.
He snapped the switch. The front hall light didn't go on. The wires must
be down. Barbara collapsed on the floor with a sigh.

 

 

"Come on, stupid! You've got to get those wet clothes off."

 

 

Groping in the dark, he found the stair railing. He hoisted Barbara to
her feet and carried her upstairs to her bedroom. Although Barbara hadn't
lived in Midhaven for six years, Liz had left her room untouched. It
was occasionally used as an additional guest room. He dropped Barbara
on her bed.

 

 

The house was bitter cold. This was going to be a pretty mess. Snowed
in . . with no lights and no heat. He fished cigarettes out of his pants.
They were soaked through. He shook Barbara. She moaned. God, she had
really tied one on. She was so drunk she didn't care whether she froze
or not. He wrestled her out of her coat, undid the zipper on the back
of her dress and pulled it over her head. In the blackness of the room
it was almost impossible to see what he was doing. He remembered Liz had
a candelabra in the living room. He fumbled his way downstairs, finally
located it together with some matches. Barbara was still lying face down
on her bed; naked except for her brassiere. She was shivering violently.

 

 

He searched in the bathroom and found a turkish towel. He quickly took off
his own wet clothes and gave himself a quick rub-down. Still shivering,
he took off Barbara's bra and massaged the towel vigorously over her
body. He flopped her over and she groaned.

 

 

"Cut it out! Cut it out!" she kept repeating blearily. She opened her
eyes and looked at him. She giggled. "You're naked! Look at that big
thing sticking out of your belly."

 

 

She grabbed him and held him hard. "Stick it in me, Tommy. Come on!
Come on! I want it. I haven't had it in such a long time."

 

 

Yale grinned. Barbara was so drunk, she thought he was her husband.
He pulled away from her grasp. The thought crossed his mind that all he
had to do was to lie down on her. She wanted it, didn't she? It had been
almost eight months since he had loved a woman. He observed himself for
a moment with interest. Obviously nature didn't differentiate even if
the woman happened to be your sister.

 

 

He scooped the blankets out from under her. She fell back on the sheets.

 

 

"Push over, Bobby," he said, lying beside her. He pulled the sheets and
blankets over them.

 

 

She snuggled against him. He blew out the candles, and thrashed his legs
to warm the bed.

 

 

"I know who you are," Barbara whispered. "You're Yale!"

 

 

Yale slapped her on the calf. "Turn over, dearie," Yale said, amused.
"This isn't for passion. This is just a practical way to keep from
freezing to death."

 

 

She turned over and curved her buttocks into his stomach. She felt damp
and cold, and yet, he thought, it was nice to have female flesh pressed
against you.

 

 

Outside, the snow, half ice, splattered wildly against the window. The
frames rattled and groaned as the wind struck against them in furious
gusts. Barbara moaned several more times that she was sick, and then
fell asleep.

 

 

Listening to the wind, Yale trembled. This was a day to top them all,
he thought. Right now he could be lying in Cindar's bed in Boston. They
would be as they were years before in New York. Cindar, hungry, demanding;
kissing him persistently, and then shy . . . wondrous . . . embarrassed
at the fury of her passion and her unknown self . . . she would snuggle
against him the sharp ecstasy replaced by a warm need for him.