Marrying Up - Part XI
“Marrying Up” is a fictional story set in 1950s Manhattan revolving around Frances Riley, a difficult and ruthlessly ambitious young woman who moved from one social class to another—Irish immigrant off the boat to high WASP— when she married into the aristocratic Woolsey family.
THIS IS PART 11 of a FOURTEEN-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14
Image: Ivan Stern
The vase bounced off Jack's shoulder and crashed to the floor. "Jesus, what's the matter with vou?" he yelled. Water and flowers were everywhere.
"You were with her!" Frances screamed. If she'd had a knife she would have slashed his face.
"With who? What are you talking about?" In two steps Jack was across the room, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her to stop her hysteria.
"Nancy! You slept with her!"
"Nancy's not here, Frances. Now stop this! Calm down!" He loosened his fingers, began to stroke her as he would a frightened horse.
"She's in the room down the hall. I saw you."
"You saw me?" His voice was soft, amused. "Well, then you must think I'm having a romance with Hitchins. And I have to tell you: he's not my type."
By now he had her on the bed and was caressing her neck and shoulders. She was breathing hard, trembling all over. He slipped off the straps of her nightgown, and she grew still and sat up as straight as she could to minimize the sag of her soft, large breasts. It had been a long time since Jack had seen her naked; usually she undressed in the bathroom and was already under the sheets, lights out, when he came to bed. "Hitchins is in that room down the hall?" she whispered, drawing her stomach in as far as it would go. She couldn't even remember the last time Jack had made love to her.
''Mmm hmmm," Jack murmured. He put his face between her breasts, and slowly pushed her back till she was lying flat on the bed and he was on top of her.
A dog whined and scratched at the door and for some reason that sparked the memory of a warm evening two months ago just after she'd taken a pill to go to sleep, and Jack, returned from a trip to the West Coast, had reached for her under the covers.
She must have been dead to the world as he entered her. This time, she thought a little grimly, she would remember the act in perfect detail.
They fell asleep with the light on, and a mess of broken china and dying flowers on the soggy carpet by the door. Frances's nightgown was up around her hips. Jack lay naked, a bruise the size of a baby's fist forming on his shoulder. Just before dawn the phone rang. The ringer was off on the phone by their bed, so they didn't hear it, but Helen did, and she had to come in and step over the scattered pieces of china and clothing and reach over Frances to shake Jack awake. Her white haggard face looked every inch of its seventy years. "Jack!" she shouted, although by now his eyes were open and he was groping for the sheet and trying to sit up and see the clock. "It's Frances! You have to wake her up! Her father's dead."
Cover Image: Anastasia Shuraeva