Whispers by Bill Tope

Whispers by Bill Tope

“Shit!” hissed Marilyn as she stooped to grab at her heel. She rubbed it tenderly. Although she had suffered from diabetic neuropathy for years, it was manifested now only in her left foot. The ankle sometimes throbbed as well. A shadow fell across her.

“Miss Simmons,” said Mr. Bundy dourly, “what are you doing down on the floor? Please, stand up. Our staff must maintain a modicum of decorum,” he scolded. The principal remained standing over Marilyn, frowning unhappily.

“Yes, Mr. Bundy,” said Marilyn, staggering a bit as she replaced her shoe and climbed to her feet.

Without a word, Bundy proceeded on down the hall of the junior high school, his daily display of intimidation now complete.

& & &

Ensconced in the teachers’ lounge, Marilyn batted away the effluvium of cigarette smoke with her palm and tried to enjoy the tasteless PB&J she’d packed that morning. When the sandwich stuck to the roof of her mouth, she stumbled to her feet and made her way to the soda machine. Plunking down her 15 cents, she waited expectantly as the 12-ounce glass bottle rattled around in the machinery of the vending machine and then fell with a thunk into the delivery bin. Marilyn retrieved the bottle and fitted it into the opener and with a “whoosh” opened her bottle. She took a great swig.

Ah, she thought, that really hits the spot! She murmured, “Umm,” then looked up and into the disapproving eyes of Cletus Bundy. Hurriedly she averted her eyes and hastened back to her table. The handsome principal and Marilyn, almost alone among the staff of Riverview Junior High, didn’t smoke. When she first learned this, she thought a bond might exist between them, but she was mistaken. Bundy was, she thought now, among the most distant, critical and unfriendly persons she had met in her nearly 9 years of teaching.

According to Maryann, Cletus Bundy was a sexually perverted, joyless martinet of the old school of pedants who clearly was out of place in 1972 America. As they discussed him further, it came out that Maryann had actually dated the man–once.

“That one time was sufficient,” Maryann had remarked, sniffing at the memory.

“What did he do?” asked Marilyn.

“Well,” said Maryann pointedly, “not what he wanted to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took me to a movie,” said Maryann.

“That seems harmless enough,” observed Marilyn.

“We went to see Deep Throat,” explained the other woman.

“Oh.”

“Right.”

“Did you like the movie?” asked Marilyn, who had a vast unfamiliarity with X-rated fllms.

Maryann rolled her eyes. “Half-way through the film, he put his hands on me!”

“No!”

“On. My. Knee!” said Maryann, enunciating each syllable.

“What did you do?” asked the other woman.

“I spilled my Pepsi in his lap.” She shrilled laughter. “That cooled him off,” she crowed. She lit another cigarette.

“When did you date Mr. Bundy?” asked Marilyn.

“Two years ago. During my first semester. Bundy always preys on girls when they first start out, usually in their first year of teaching.”

Marilyn looked at her friend, now only 24-years-old. “Well, I don’t think he’ll ever ask me out,” she said without regret.

“But, you’re gorgeous, Marilyn,” said Maryann.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m hardly in my first year. “I’ll be 31 before school is out for the summer. I taught 8 years at Sumner before they hired me on here. Besides,” she went on, “I heard in a lecture in a psych class that men don’t take advantage of women because of lust or because they’re attractive, but because it’s a power thing.”

But, Maryann wasn’t buying it. “Watch your ass, kid; the man’s a satyr!”

& & &

“A word with you, Miss Simmons?” requested principal Bundy at lunch a few days later.

“Yessir,” Marilyn replied, and in the process dropped her sandwich to the tile floor of the teachers’ lounge. “Damn,” she cursed mildly.

“I beg your pardon?” said Bundy with furrowed brow.

Marilyn brought fingers to her lips contritely. “Excuse me, Mr. Bundy,” she apologized. “What would you like to discuss, sir?” she asked.

“Not here. In my office. After fifth period. Enjoy your meal.” And he stalked off.

Marilyn stared down sadly at her ruined sandwich. She sighed.

By the time Marilyn arrived at Bundy’s office, at the end of fifth period, it was past 3 o’clock. Having missed out on lunch, her blood sugar had plummeted and she was feeling a little shaky. To forestall a hypoglycemic episode, she had drunk a bottle of sugar-laden Pepsi, but it had not had the desired effect. She hoped she could hold it together until she got home.

She paused at the desk of Bundy’s secretary, Mrs. Costello, but the woman had already left for the day. Bundy’s door was closed. Drawing a breath, Marilyn knocked.

“Enter,” a voice summoned her.

Marilyn pushed through the door, where she found Cletus Bundy sequestered behind his large desk, poring over a ledger.

“Thank you for stopping by,” said Bundy, looking up and actually smiling!

Marilyn blinked in confusion. Had a space alien landed on the campus of Riverview Junior High and changed places with the principal? Bewildered as she was, she did not suspect what was to come.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Bundy?” she asked, closing the door behind her.

“I won’t keep you long, Miss Simmons,” said Bundy. “I only wanted to ask what you’re doing Sunday night.” He smiled. Again.

Marilyn drew a blank for a moment, then replied, “I’ll probably be grading essays from my 8th grade composition classes.”

“Well,” said Bundy, “do you feel you can absent yourself from that task for a few hours? I’d like to take you out,” he added, with yet another of what Marilyn’s father had always called a shit-eating grin.

Suddenly Marilyn felt light-headed and staggered a step, only just catching herself on the edge of Bundy’s desk before she could plummet to the floor. Bundy reacted instantly, steadying her with an arm about her shoulder. “There,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Marilyn’s mind flashed back 20 years, to when she felt this way for the first time.

“I don’t know what to do, Doctor,” wailed Marilyn’s mom, speaking to the physician over the telephone. “She just passed out. What? No, we haven’t had supper yet. I see. Thank you, I’ll try it.”

The next thing that 10-year-old Marilyn knew, her mother was trying to pour a glass of acidic, overly-sweet orange juice down her throat. The juice was going everywhere but in her mouth. At length, Marilyn had consumed enough juice that her blood sugar regained equilibrium and she sat up.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, Marilyn!” admonished her mother. “I liked to died from fright,” she went on.

Since that afternoon two decades ago, Marilyn had experienced dozens of low-blood sugar episodes and it never failed to terrify her. But from that point on, she always took precautions, beginning with a roll of Lifesavers or some other candy that she always carried with her.

Digging into her purse, Marilyn turned up a small candy bar, tore off the wrapper and clandestinely took a bite. Bundy stood looking at her, unsure what was happening. In a few seconds, Marilyn had regained her poise. She yet had double vision, but the infusion of sugar was having an impact. She said, “You want to take me out…like on a date?” she asked.

“I would like that,” he said. “You’re not engaged or anything, are you?” he asked.

“No,” she said breezily, her blood sugar now restored. “I would enjoy that as well, Mr. Bundy.”

“When we’re alone, Marilyn,” he said, startling her with the use of her given name, “please call me Clete.”

She nodded, smiled a little.

“I’ll make reservations for dinner,” he continued. “The Spotlight,” he said, naming what passed for an upscale restaurant in Riverview township. “How about we meet up there on Sunday, say 7-ish. That sound good to you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Marilyn. “I’ll see you there. Thank you, Mr….Clete.”

As she let herself out of his office, Marilyn thought, at least they weren’t seeing a porn flick.

& & &

The next day, a Wednesday, Marilyn met Maryann for lunch. She told her about her upcoming date with principal Bundy on Sunday night. The other woman frowned.

“You know he’s counting on scoring, right?” asked Maryann.

“Why would you say that?” asked Marilyn. “We’re only having dinner. And we’re meeting up at the restaurant. It’s not like I’ll be a prisoner in his car.”

“That’s sharp thinking on your part,” said Maryann with approval.

“It was his idea,” explained Marilyn.

“Most likely,” opined Maryann cynically, “he feels that with a woman like you, he’s in-like-Flynn.”

Marilyn didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“Well,” said Maryann, “when a woman reaches a certain age, a man thinks that, if she isn’t already married, then she may be damaged goods.”

“Explain that,” said Marilyn coolly.

“They think they’ve been through the mill or are, you know, ‘progressive’; oh, Marilyn, do I have to spell it out?”

“Please,” invited the other woman.

“Either that she’s been raped and really is damaged goods, or is a whore or a lesbian,” explained Maryann.

“And is that what you think about me too?” asked Marilyn, narrowing her eyes at her friend.

For a moment, Maryann said nothing. Then she denied feeling that way, but the effect of her hesitation had been felt by her companion.

“Excuse me,” said Marilyn, climbing to her feet. “I seem to have lost my appetite.” Without another word, she walked off. She didn’t look back.

& & &

For the rest of the week, Marilyn avoided the cafeteria, instead opting to eat her lunch on a green-painted bench in the small city park adjacent to the school. She considered all that her erstwhile friend Maryann had told her, and thought about her upcoming date with principal Bundy. He seemed so straightlaced that she had a hard time envisioning him as a pervert. But, why would Maryann lie? Marilyn shook her head, munched her sandwich.

When Sunday night rolled around, Marilyn dressed in her all-purpose little black dress and at 6:30, feeling hungry after her fast, drove to the Spotlight and handed over her Mustang to the loving hands of the parking valet. She peered at her wristwatch: it was quarter of 7. She needn’t have hurried, however, inasmuch as the next time she checked the time, her date was already more than 30 minutes late. As she sat in the Brass Lamp Lounge, nursing a beer, she wondered what could have happened to Mr. Bundy. And her blood sugar continued to fall. Owing to her body chemistry, she became somewhat peevish at Bundy’s apparent lack of consideration.

When he finally turned up, at a quarter after 8, she was feeling very out of sorts. Touching her gently on the elbow, he steered her to the maitre de, who led them to their table. The maitre de seemed to know Bundy well.

“Let’s order, Marilyn,” urged Clete. “You’re probably hungry. Sorry I’m late,” He went on to explain what had kept him. But Marilyn heard none of it; she was determined to salvage the evening by just not passing out. The waiter handed them menus. But Marilyn couldn’t read hers. Her blood sugar had dropped so precipitately that her eyes refused to focus.
“What looks good to you, Marilyn?” inquired Clete robustly.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” she replied, closing her menu.

After Clete had ordered for both of them, he suggested a little wine. In the back of her mind, Marilyn knew that drinking wine resulted in still lower levels of blood sugar, but she cast caution to the wind and joined her date in two glasses of white.

By the time their food arrived, Marilyn could see spots before her eyes and was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. As Clete sliced into his Dover sole, he looked up to find Marilyn making a little squeaking noise and falling face-first into her plate.

“Is Madam ill?” the maitre de asked Clete.

Clete reacted sharply. “She seemed alright,” he said anxiously.

“Perhaps too much wine?” pressed the other man.

“She had 2 classes of white, same as me,” replied Clete. Then he remembered that he smelled alcohol on Marilyn’s breath when he found her waiting for him. Was she an alcoholic? he wondered. He attempted to rouse her, but his efforts were unavailing.

Taking no chances, the restaurant summoned an ambulance and Marilyn was lifted onto a gurney and taken outside the dining room. As Clete stood by, the EMTs began asking Marilyn questions. She was only somewhat awake.

“Are you a diabetic, Marilyn?” asked one of the men.

She nodded.

Do you take your insulin today?” he asked.

She nodded again.

“Have you eaten tonight?” he asked next.

Marilyn seemed to focus intently on the question before, her eyes half-closed, she shook her head no.

“Can you do anything for her?” asked Clete, feeling remorse for arriving late and delaying their meal.

In response, one of the men turned up an IV and fitted a line into Marilyn’s forearm.

“What’s that?” asked Clete.

“Glucose,” replied the EMT, checking Marilyn’s blood pressure. After a few minutes, like magic, she began to come around, and looked up into the concerned eyes of her dinner companion.

Clete’s face flushed with relief.

“She’ll be alright now,” said the emergency tech. And to Marilyn he said, “eat something, okay? You can’t not eat, alright?”

Marilyn smiled her thanks.

& & &

 At first, Marilyn wouldn’t countenance remaining at the restaurant and dining, after her embarrassing episode. Clete, however, would not be deterred. Management was eager to please, and the kitchen prepared their food anew. And it was delicious! Other diners were kind too. Some of them approached Clete and Marilyn’s table to ask after her.

“I know just how you feel, Honey,” said an elderly, white-haired woman dressed to the nines. “My husband’s had sugar for many years.” When questioned by another, Marilyn replied that she had had Type I diabetes for more than 20 years, since she was 10. The concern expressed by complete strangers, as well as the solicitousness of Clete, who was himself practically a stranger, made Marilyn feel good about herself and others.

Over their meal, they discussed many things, including their respective academic careers. Clete had been an honors student at his alma mater and had always longed to run a school. For her part, Marilyn was an aspiring writer who was naturally drawn to her vocation as a teacher of composition. She took note of what appeared to be Clete’s total commitment to academia.

He wanted to know more details of her medical condition, although he appeared put-out not at all by what Marilyn’s mother had always referred to as her “disability.”

“You’re a fine teacher,” he acknowledged, “and that’s all that counts. All the rest,” he insisted, “is just noise.”

When dinner was complete and Marilyn and Clete drifted through the parking lot, Marilyn felt much better, but not quite back to normal. Picking up on this, Clete insisted she spend the night at his place, so that he could keep an eye on her. She protested, but to no avail. At 6 o’clock the next morning, Clete woke her from the sofa and told her he would drive her home.

“You’re sure you’re alright, Marilyn?” he inquired several times.

She assured him each time that she was. She was touched that he seemed to really care.

Through the early mists of morning, he drove her back to the restaurant where she’d left her car and followed her home, just to be sure. She waved to him from her driveway and Clete sped away.

& & &

Because this was a school day, Marilyn hurried through a shower and her meds and made certain to eat a reasonable breakfast.

That day at lunch, Marilyn sat, once again, with her friend Maryann. Maryann asked how the date had gone.

“Give me details,” she demanded.

Marilyn, who’d never been very open about her diabetes, having been made to feel guilty about it by her family, now felt comfortable discussing her condition. She told her friend what had happened at dinner. Maryann’s response was not what she had expected.

“You mean you spent the night with him?” she asked incredulously. “On a first date?”

“No,” said Marilyn, “I spent the night on his sofa.”

Maryann sniffed. “Same difference,” she muttered darkly.

Marilyn stared at her.

“You know what Bundy will be saying, don’t you?” Maryann asked.

Marilyn continued to just stare.

“He’ll say you were easy,” said Maryann. “He’ll tell all his guy friends that he got a piece of that.”

“But, he didn’t,” Marilyn said simply.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Maryann. “It’s down in the books that you spent the night with a man–unchaperoned. You’ve got to think of what this will do to your reputation, Marilyn.”

“But, nobody even knows about it but Clete…Mr. Bundy, and you.”

“Well, I certainly won’t say anything,” insisted Maryann. “But, as far as Bundy is concerned…” She left the sentence dangling. “You have to consider your position,” continued Maryann. “You teach seventh and eighth graders–innocents!”

Marilyn was unconvinced. “They probably know more about sex than I do,” she said.

& & &

Clete’s reaction to her was not what she had expected either.

“Would you stop by my office today, after fifth period?” he asked Marilyn, pausing by her classroom for a moment.

Marilyn smiled and nodded. Following her last class, she arrived at the administrative offices with happy expectations. When she entered the anteroom of the principal’s office, Mrs. Costello was at her desk outside the office this time. She regarded Marilyn appraisingly.

“Mr. Bundy asked that I stop by this afternoon,” Marilyn said.

Mrs. Costello pushed a button on the intercom and announced the other woman’s presence. A buzzer sang out. “Go on in, Miss Simmons,” said the secretary.

Once she was inside, Marilyn closed the door and smiled up at the principal. “What’s going on, Clete?” she asked brightly.

For just a moment, Bundy looked stricken at the casual address, but he didn’t correct her.

“I was wondering if you would consider chaperoning at this year’s senior prom,” said Clete. “I know you don’t have any classes at the senior high this year, but both institutions are co-dependent and…”

“I’d be glad to,” said Marilyn with a smile.

Clete studied her expression for a moment and then said, “good. Good. The prom committee will be meeting on Thursdays this coming semester; I’ll see that you receive all the paperwork, the itinerary and so forth. Okay?”

Marilyn nodded.

“That’s all,” said Bundy curtly, dismissing her.

Gone was the friendly, caring man of a few hours ago. As she walked back through the office door, under the truculent glare of Mrs. Costello, Marilyn asked herself, what just happened?

& & &

Through the week, Marilyn quite dismissed the events of Sunday, and the aftermath, from her mind. She conducted her classes and, as usual, enjoyed teaching her students. But on Wednesday, after giving the class an assignment, Marilyn glanced at the doorway and there observed Clete and Dan Peterson, the math teacher. They were staring at her. She did a double take and the men laughed at some private joke and moved on.

During Marilyn’s free period, Peterson appeared in her doorway once again and entered. “Hello, Mr. Peterson,” she greeted the man.

“Dan,” corrected Peterson suavely.

“Dan,” she amended. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he murmured softly, as if to himself.

“I beg your pardon?” said Marilyn.

“How would you like to go with me to the varsity football game this Friday?” he asked without preamble.”Afterward, we could maybe have a drink.”

This was a surprise. Dan Peterson had never so much as spoken to her in the 3 months she’d been on the faculty. Maryann had said he was “tweedy,” whatever that meant.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Marilyn. “I was going to work on my writing this weekend.” She explained that she was enrolled in an MFA program at the university.

“C’mon,” coaxed Peterson. “Live a little. Let your hair down.”

Marilyn looked at him queerly.

Then Peterson said, “Clete doesn’t mind sharing. He said to go for it.” And he grinned, showing off large, ugly white teeth.

“Oh,” said Marilyn, “you cleared this with Clete, did you?”

He nodded.

“Well, that’s very white of him,” she said sharply.

The smug smile fell away from Peterson’s face. Now it took on a harsh aspect. “Try slumming, Marilyn,” he said. “You can’t confine your talents exclusively to academics.” His face revealed a cruel smirk.

“Thank you, Mr. Peterson,” said Marilyn, “but no. If you’re anxious to act out your twisted fantasies, then perhaps one of the JV cheerleaders is the answer.”

Peterson shot daggers at the teacher, turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

By Friday, Marilyn had begun receiving crank telephone calls at her home. Her number was unlisted, but she supposed that it could be had by anyone determined enough to get it. The number was in her personnel file at the school, however. This gave her some food for thought.

By the next week, her fellow teachers began treating her differently as well. Besides Peterson, several other male instructors made questionable remarks or stared provocatively at her, undressing her with their eyes. The women were even worse: off-hand remarks were made and scornful glances were cast her way. Worst of all, at mid-week, shortly before she was to leave for the day, Marilyn encountered a manila envelope lying atop her desk. What now? she thought. She ran a letter opener under the flap, upended the envelope and several condoms tumbled out. They had been used!

Using a pencil, she pushed the prophylactics back into the envelope and marched determinedly to the principal’s office. Mrs. Costello was manning her post, but Marilyn brushed past her without a word and pushed through the door unannounced.

Bundy looked up in surprise.

Mrs. Costello was close on Marilyn’s heels, but Bundy dismissed her.

“It’s alright, Shelly,” he said, nodding at the door. The secretary let herself out and closed the door behind her.

“What is it, Miss Simmons?” Bundy asked.

“Cut the shit, Clete,” she replied angrily.

“You’re upset?” he said.

“Ooh, how could you tell?” she asked sarcastically.

“I think enough damage has been done,” he said.

“To whom and by whom?” she asked. “What did I do?” she demanded. “I went out to dinner with my boss. I had a medical episode. You were wonderful about it. You showed you’re more than just a regimented, uptight scold. I was touched,” she said, her tone softening for a moment. “But, ever since then, I’ve been harassed, vilified, accused, suspected, ignored and now I got this!”

She upended the manila envelope onto Bundy’s desk. The spent condoms tumbled out.

He reacted with a cringe. “Why did you bring that…to me?”

“Who should I take it to, Peterson?” Marilyn asked.

“Dan? What’s he got to do with this?”

“Maybe nothing,” said Marilyn. “Maybe everything. He came on to me and I turned him down. We had words.” She fell into a seat.

“Dan would not do this,” Bundy stated categorically.

“How can you be so sure?” asked Marilyn.

“Dan Peterson and I go way back. We were in college together, I know him well.”

She let the matter drop.

“I believe I know the origin of this…incident,” said Clete. “A student observed you leaving my home Monday morning, before I drove you to get your car.”

“Do you know who it was?” she asked.

“I’ve a pretty good idea.”

“Then, why didn’t you set him straight?” she asked. 

“Look at it from where I sit,” Clete said. “I’m principal of a public school, a very responsible position where everything I do is under constant scrutiny…”

“But, what…” she interrupted.

“Let me finish. I’m 41 years old. Unmarried. Never been married. That raises doubts in the minds of some people.” He chewed his lip.

“You’re afraid people will think you’re gay,” said Marilyn, using the term for homosexuality which was newly in vogue at the college.

Bundy didn’t say anything.

“That’s it, isn’t it, Clete? You’re afraid people will think you’re gay.”

“That’s only half of it,” said Clete.

“There’s more?” asked Marilyn. “What’s the rest?”

“I love education, both teaching and administration. I feel I’ve found my niche, you know?”

She nodded. The enthusiasm of the young educator she’d seen the week before reappeared before her.

“Did you ever have a…lover?” she asked, wondering why she was asking and if he would answer her question.

“I did when I was in school. But now I dare not. The Board couldn’t bear a faggot leading their children. I have to watch every move I make. I love women, Marilyn. I just don’t fall in-love with them, do you understand?”

“But, why did you let the dogs loose on me, Clete? I didn’t deserve that.”

He shook his head with self-disgust. “I felt I had to protect myself,” he said lamely.

“To what end?” asked Marilyn.

“Um?”

“I mean, if you can’t be honest about what you are, then what’s the point of even being an educator? If it’s all a lie?”

Bundy shook his head. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“It has to be very lonely, Clete,” said Marilyn, suddenly finding great sympathy for the man. “Does anyone else share your secret?”

“One other person at the school knows the truth,” said Clete. “Dan.”

“Was he the lover you had during your college years?” she asked.

A brief flash of humor raced across Clete’s face. “No,” he said, “Dan, as highly as I regard him, is as he appears: a bit of a sexist cad.” Clete smiled sadly. “Now you know everything.”

“What would happen if you came out…of the closet?” asked Marilyn.

“I would be summarily fired,” replied Clete. “So would my confederates, anyone with whom I was on good terms. We’d all be tossed into the dustbin of moral turpitude and the slate erased.”

“One day,” said Marilyn dreamily, “we’ll be free to be who and what we are.”

They were quiet for a moment, lost in their thoughts.

“Did you ever want to be a father, Clete?” asked Marilyn out of nowhere.

Clete smiled. “Of course. I love children. It’s the reason I became a teacher.”

“I have a student in my 8th grade composition class whom I believe is gay,” she said.

“What do you base your assumption on?” asked Clete.

“The things she’s written, the way she dresses, the way she behaves and interacts with other students. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.”

Clete said nothing.

“I’ve tried to reach out to her, draw her out and gain her confidence, but so far I’ve been unsuccessful. What this girl, and children like her, needs is a role model, someone who is gay and living a successful, uncloseted life. You could be that person, Clete.”

“This isn’t Stonewall, Marilyn,” Clete pointed out.

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t stand up for me, Clete,” said Marilyn. “I am an innocent party.”

“You’re such a beautiful woman,” he said with feeling, “that it didn’t seem believable that I wouldn’t have slept with you had I had the chance.” He smiled wanly.

“That’s utterly sexist,” she said.

“Touche!” he said.

“Now I feel like Hester Prynne,” remarked Marilyn. When Clete didn’t reply, she said, “Not up on your Hawthorne?”

“I was a Chemistry teacher,” he replied.

“So now what?” asked Marilyn.

“I could take an ad out in the Riverview Press,” suggested Clete, referencing the student newspaper, “saying that I did not touch you.”

Marilyn looked into his eyes and was uncertain if he was serious. She felt they had covered a lot of ground and that it was time to make her exit. She stood up.

“Did we settle anything here today, Marilyn?” asked Clete, likewise coming to his feet.

“We’ve settled that there’s more to Clete Bundy than meets the eye,” said Marilyn. “I feel closer to him; that perhaps I’ve found a friend. He’s not altogether a bad fellow,” she continued lightly. “He has potential, I think, but…”

“Nothing that a good woman couldn’t straighten out?” ventured Clete with a twinkle.

Marilyn returned his smile.

“Could I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

She nodded. Fair was fair, she thought.

“Why has a beautiful girl your age never been married?”

“You’re not married,” Marilyn pointed out. “And you’re a very handsome man.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but we’ve established that I’m queer.” You’re not…you’re not a lesbian, are you, Marilyn?”

“Ah, but that would be telling,” she said. “Call me again, Clete, whenever you feel you need a beard.” She smiled warmly and walked out the door.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2025