nut-girl in this town, he thought, one lovely shiksa nut-girl and I had to pick her. Turnbull bent uncomplaining to his
new labors. Gillian's knees were well fleshed and dimpled and
certainly not unattractive, if one happened to be a kneeman. For ten
long minutes he improvised on the knee theme – it wasn't his
specialty, but he was always flexible in such matters – and he
was rewarded by the sounds of irregular breathing and little growls.
He felt her knees starting to part and he rose, but she stiff-armed
him neatly.
"More," she cried out.
Oy, oy, oy. Trying to preserve his patience, the rabbi returned to
the knees. The growls deepened. It sounded to Turnbull almost
animal-like and, in some uncanny way, as though the noise was coming
from behind him. A moment later, in horror, he realized it was coming
from behind him. It was Rolf. The dog. The dog who had somehow
escaped from the garage, from the lawn mower, and now he stood in the
bedroom doorway growling at what must have been an incomprehensible
sight.
During the instant of recognition, Turnbull, buttocks exposed,
knelt frozen in terror. And that one instant was all he had. Rolf
leaped. Turnbull felt a searing pain flash through his right hip.
Then a clamped set of needles dug into his rump and held fast.
Gillian at first felt the rabbi had been transported into a state of
exultation that beggared her past experience, and it was only his
wild bellowing that made her realize there was an intruder. She
crawled around Turnbull, pulled Rolf by an ear and smacked him.
"Naughty dog!" she said, slapping him repeatedly. The beating did
no more than cause Rolf to seek an even tighter grip on Turnbull's
rump. Finally, tugging at both ears, Gillian managed to pry him from
his prey. It must be said to the dog's credit that he did not loosen
his grip. It was simply that a portion of the rabbi came free with
the dog. Turnbull collapsed on his stomach, moaning, holding his
wounds.
"Naughty, naughty dog," Gillian continued. "Now drop that."
Rolf refused to discard his small prize, and Gillian led him to
the garage and once again locked him in. Turnbull had not moved.
"I'll get rabies," he moaned.
"Rolf's had all the shots," she assured him. "And it's not all
that terrible. William's been after me to throw out this bedspread
for an awfully long time."
She found bandages in the bathroom medicine chest, returned and
patched Turnbull up.
"You mustn't worry about Rolf," she said again. "He may seem a
little testy, but he's certainly not insane. There, that should be
better. Well, what did you have in mind next?"
Gillian was sitting cross-legged on the bed before him. The view
was too much, even for a newly wounded man. He reached out for one of
those magnificent legs, then the other, and he propped himself up on
them. Her thighs, he noticed, were springy and firm, the haunches of
a lioness. He embraced her in a clumsy bear hug, pushed her heavily
down on the bed. He was through with the game playing. He grabbed at
her moving thighs and kneaded her swift buttocks. He bit her neck,
then her shoulders and pressed himself down on her. Her lips were
open in a small smile. Her eyes were closed. The sweat of her body
made him weak with desire. Her legs were parted in a wide welcoming
arc. The moment had come. Turnbull mounted over the throbbing,
waiting woman.
The doorbell rang.
"My God, what's that? What now?"
"Oh, drat," she said. "It must be the girls from the bridge club.
I wasn't expecting them until nine."
"Bridge club?"
"I just joined last week," she said. "They meet Wednesday
nights."
"Don't answer the door," he pleaded. "Tell them you weren't
home."
"The lights are on," she said. "The car is in the driveway. My,
wasn't it fortunate you didn't park your car in the driveway. We can
be thankful for that."
The bell rang again and Turnbull rolled off.
"Mrs. Blake," he said, "if you knew you were going to have
company, why this?"
"It might have worked out," she said.