Judge — September 1937 — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CUCKOLD’S REVOLT I HAD been working for the Bain. bridges six months before I could make up my mind about Mr. Bainbridge. He was the weirdest man. The second day I was there he walked into the kitchen while I was getting breakfast, wearing nothing but an old pair of B.V.D.s that had definitely seen better days. I just stood there with my mouth open, probably looking very young and stupid. After all, I wasn’t used to seeing strange men in dishabille. But he just looked at me with a sort of far away ex. ression in those strange dark eyes of fis as if he didn’t quite see me. As time went on, I got so used to seeing him roaming about, like a sleep. walker in his underwear, that I thought nothing of it whatever. In a way it was nice because he was no trouble at all. He never snapped out of the fog except to phy the piano or make love to his wife. Those two things he managed with quite a good deal of abandon. He could knock off the most inspired swing tunes, all out of his own head, though I must say I could never reconcile the man with the talent. If he had gone in for the classics, yes. But for such an odd creature to know about jazz was some. thing I didn’t attempt to figure out. His passion for his wife was under- standable enough—it's a sin for anyone to be as beautiful as she was—but I had no patience with it. Rather, it infuriated me because I grew to feel quite maternal toward him, and she did boot him around so. She had no abundance of brains, but with her sex appeal they would only have been an encumbrance anyway. She loved to surround herself with a male audience and then bowl them over en masse. The technique was always the same, but it never missed. It was like a game of tenpins played by an expert. NEARLY every night she asked a crowd of people over, and with the arrival of the first guest, Mrs. Bain. bridge's charm would start reaching out for fodder. Single men, married men, divorced men; young, old, fat, lean, handsome, or ugly, there was no petty discrimination. I had to give her that. They were all her meat and how they loved it. Meanwhile the women of the party stood by, helplessly watching the massacre, suffering and hating and en. tirely impotent. Lord knows why they came in the first place. Mr. Bainbridge never drank or joined in the general mélée, and no one paid much attention to him, which he appar- ently didn’t resent. He sat at the piano most of the time, caressing the keyboard and coaxing out the most startling thythms, all very pianissimo, sending shivers down my spine. I don’t know how they affected the others. And all the while his eyes, black and brooding, would be on his wife. Heaven knows what were his thoughts. September 1937 When the night was finally spent and the last guests had staggered homeward, Mrs. Bainbridge’s animation would col- lapse with a dull thud along with her sparkle and charm, and she'd shout at her husband, ‘‘For God's sake! Get away from that damn piano!” Then he'd go over to her and put his arms around her and say, convulsively, “Avis, I love you!” It was revolting to see anything as stark and naked as his passion for that trifling slut. But there it was, She'd stand there a moment, en- during him, and then shake him off and go up to bed, with him following dog- like at her heels. ie was in April that Mrs. Bainbridge decided to go to New York for a week ostensibly to shop. But the fact that she had me pack all her best lingerie and most seductive clothes made me wonder a little, knowing her as I did. Besides she was too gay about everything, too eager, to be anticipating a mere shopping trip. It was no concern of mine, so I did as I was told and kept my mouth shut, though I was boiling inside. Mr. Bainbridge saw her off on a Tues- day and came home to his piano with such a beaten look that I cried a little in the kitchen. I have a very gentle disposi- tion and can't bear to see anyone suffer like that. For a couple of days after that he went around in more of a daze than usual, mumbling to himself and not eat. ing much of anything. It was heart- rending. It was the third night after Mrs. Bain- bridge had gone that he came bursting into my room—I no longer bothered to lock the door—raving like a lunatic, He gtabbed me by the shoulder and dug his fingers in so hard I screamed. “Julia,” he said, and his voice was so tight and harsh it frightened me half out of my wits, “I’m going to kill my wife!” He ran his tongue over the word “kill” as though he relished the sound of it more than anything else in the world. I gtew cold all over but for the first time I really admired him. It was at that moment that I came to the definite conclusion that Mr. Bain. bridge had a tortured soul. I was glad he was going to do something about it. After declaring his murderous intent, he left the house to catch, so I supposed, the next train to New York to carry it out. Sleep wasn't for me after that. I lay awake all night. WHEN he showed up for breakfast the next morning, I felt that I had been completely duped. “T thought you went to New York last night,” I said, and it was on the tip of my tongue to add, “To polish off Mrs. Bainbridge.” “New York?” he said, with that familiar vague look of his, “New York?” I was so disgusted that when his wife came back I gave notice and left. —Marcaret DiaMonp. "What a wonderful night! I spent forty bucks, got a ticket for speeding, smashed up my car and then she kissed me! Gosh!” comicbooks.com