Free 13 French Street by Gil Brewer

showed energy. His eyes were bright.
    “Things went good?” I asked.
    “Terrible, Alex. I only came home because you were here. Got to leave again Sunday night.”
    A kind of hot rage of triumphant satisfaction hit me.
    We went into the living room and Petra fixed drinks. She smiled at me from behind his back and touched me whenever she passed. I wanted to hit her, smash her. But I knew I wouldn’t. To me she was becoming a woman who had been denied the things she wanted; a woman of great life and laughter who had been cooped up here, where she didn’t want to be. Some of this feeling gradually died as I talked with Verne.
    “The whisky’s good,” he said. “I want a lot of it tonight. And a good dinner.”
    “I’m going to fix it myself,” Petra said. “Steak. You like that?”
    “How come?” Verne asked. He seemed slightly suspicious, and his eyes looked queer.
    I said, “Petra gave Jenny and the cook some time off.”
    “Oh,” he said. “Why, Petra? Did you pay them?”
    “I paid them Monday morning.”
    “They haven’t been here since?”
    “No.” She became defiant; her eyes darkened. “If you must know, Verne, I fired them. Both of them.”
    He said nothing. But from that moment on I watched him sag again. Inside of an hour he was a shell again, gray-faced and forlorn.
    I tried to talk with him after we ate.
    “I’m bushed,” he said finally. “We’ll make a day of it tomorrow.”
    Tomorrow …
    He went to bed, a tired, unhappy man.
    “Why did you fire the help?” I asked Petra. We were in the hallway.
    She put her arms around my waist. “Why do you think?” she said.
    Tomorrow …

Chapter Ten
    V ERNE wasn’t up yet at ten-thirty Sunday morning. I had spent another night thinking of Petra. After breakfast I went into his study and began hitting his bottle of whisky. I got a little drunk, I think.
    “Alex, come here. She’s out in the kitchen.”
    Petra stood in the study doorway. She wore white rayon shorts and a flimsy halter and her red sandals.
    “You’ve been drinking,” she said softly as I took her in my arms. “He’s leaving tonight.”
    “Did he come near you last night?”
    She laughed. “No. Goodness, no.”
    My hands strayed along her hips; I held her tightly against me. Then she whirled away and ran up the stairs. I knew this was it. I started after her, the whisky pounding in my head. It was all right now. I’d found an escape. I would tell Verne the truth, tell him I was in love with his wife. That she no longer wanted him. It had to be that way.
    She moved into her room along the upstairs hallway. I followed, and closed the door. The windows were open and a cool breeze blew in, billowing the curtains.
    As she looked at me, something like fright came into her eyes. “Go ahead and scream,” I said, as I came up to her. The whisky swarmed in my blood.
    “I don’t want to scream, Alex. Alex!”
    Reaching out, I ripped the halter away from her breasts, baring them. She backed away, tripped on the leather couch, and sat down. I pulled her up against me. At first she tried to yank away, twisting in my arms. Then abruptly she was with me, helping me. We went wild.
    “You see!” she gasped. “The waiting. It’s best!”
    Her lips were against mine she was talking around a kiss, and I didn’t hear the door open, I heard nothing, wanted to hear nothing until the old woman said, “I caught you! I knew I would!”
    We sprang apart. Petra didn’t try to cover her breasts.
    “I’m going to tell my son,” the old woman said in her dry voice. “Harlot—sinners!” She came farther into the room, and shook her cane in the air. I wondered crazily how she managed to hold such a heavy cane in her vine-like arm.
    “No, you won’t!” Petra whispered. She rushed from my side across the room.
    I watched, rooted to the floor—feet sunk in the thick, soft rug.
    Petra grabbed the old woman by the front of her dress and they scrambled at each other. Verne’s mother