The Sign of Scorpio

At first she was startled by the ringing phone. But then, moving into the hallway, humming a little nursery rhyme, she thought that even a ringing telephone was something on this hot, dreary afternoon.

"Helen?... Maury Coates. I'm in town for a few days, and just wanted to make sure you were home before I drove over."

"Maury," she said, and the phone became slippery between her fingers. "Listen, Maury--"

But he'd hung up before she finished.

She put down the receiver and sat twisting her wedding band in an old nervous habit, then rose and moved slowly to the bedroom. She drew a well-read book, Life by the Stars, from her own "secret" drawer, and looked up today's date under Scorpio. Her horoscope warned her to be wary of strangers. Maury was not exactly a stranger. But even so ...

She stared at her blonde hair, her pouting red lips, her baby-blue eyes in the bedroom mirror. "It's been seven years," she told the eyes, "and he's not a stranger, so what are you afraid of now?" Then she turned away and slipped into a cool, ice-blue afternoon dress. It was too tight across her full breasts, but it was cut very conservatively at the neck and shoulders, and she thought, accordingly, that it would do.

Maury arrived at 10 minutes after three. He was dark and lean, wearing slacks and a gay sport shirt that displayed the chocolate tan on his corded arms. "I'd have come before," he said, "but didn't know where you lived until today." He looked at her with those black, knowing eyes, then moved slowly about the room inspecting the furniture, the drapes, her prized collection of tiny dolls along the mantel.

"Would you like a drink?" she asked.

"You still haven't grown up."

"Maury?"

"The little girl playing house." Then, "I'd love one, if you'll have one with me."

She tried to control her naturally sensuous movements as she walked to the bar and pulled open the doors. Inside there were two decanters, one marked Ned's and one marked Others. She drew out the Others and poured them both a drink.

"I'm one of the Others?" he said, amused.

"Ned -- he doesn't like anything but this very special -- very expensive Scotch."

"I remember," he said. "Ned always lived on schedule -- liked everything just so." He raised his glass, smiled, said, "Well, sometime I'll have a taste of Ned's." Then he sat on the sofa watching her as she stood motionless, twisting the ring on her finger. He was dangerous, she thought in the long silence. Attractive and charming and very dangerous, as other young girls had discovered too late -- as she had nearly discovered too late herself, until a gypsy fortuneteller had warned her barely in time, and she'd rushed wildly to the safety of Ned's big steadiness.

"How is Ned?" he said finally.

"Fine."

"I always liked him, you know. Steady, hard-working. Maybe a little dull--"

"Stop it, Maury!"

"But OK by the sign of Scorpio."

"Now that isn't funny."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"After all, it doesn't hurt to believe in the stars and omens and things like that."

"No ... And what's your future?" he said with his eyes looking into her, through her, undressing her, so she dropped her own eyes to the gold band, twisted constantly between her fingers. She took it off, put it on again, took it off again and stared at the inscription inside the ring. Till Death Do Us Part. It had been her own idea, that inscription. Her idea, and after the ring had come back from the jewelers, she'd actually taken an oath on it, as she'd taken oaths as a child, kneeling in the grass of the back yard under the light of a full moon:

"I swear, I swear,

By the bright full moon,

To keep this vow,

Or I die too soon."

"Something written in there?" said Maury.

"Something private," she said. "You'd think it was silly." And she was not so frightened now. "He can't touch me now," she whispered to the row of little dolls. "I have a wonderful husband, and I made my vow, 'Till death do us part,' and Maury can't possibly touch me now."

Maury left at 4:30, and she felt an overwhelming relief when he'd gone. She fixed Ned his favorite dinner of corned beef hash, and when he finally arrived home exactly at 5:30 as always, she threw her soft curved self against him, then sat watching him with a touch of wifely irritation while he went through his nightly routine, a routine that never varied, she knew, even on those few occasions when she had been shopping and had not been there to greet him when he arrived home. He hung up his hat; he took off his coat; he said, "There's a ball game on TV." Then he opened the cupboard and made himself his routine drink from his own personal decanter.

"See you had company," he said, lifting the Others.

"Yes, some of the girls." And she wondered why she lied, and thought that it didn't matter because Maury had come and gone and it was all over now.

That night, passionate, she tried to coax Ned to bed at 9:30. But he preferred watching the ball game, and never went to bed until exactly 10:15 in any case.

The next day was even hotter. She worked lethargically in the morning, dressed in halter and shorts. Then, after lunch, she studied her horoscope. It told her to have confidence. "I have confidence," she told her dolls, and sipped iced tea until the doorbell rang and Maury stepped into the hall before she could protest.

He strode to the bar and made himself a drink. "Someday," he said, tapping Ned's decanter. "Someday." Then he turned and smiled and appraised her body beneath the shorts and halter. "It just doesn't make sense," he said. "A beautiful face -- luscious face -- and yet you don't even seem to realize it yourself. A little girl collecting dolls."

"Maury," she said firmly. "I don't want you to come here again."

"I'll be leaving town in a couple of days. Maybe tomorrow."

"I don't want you here," she repeated, remembering to have confidence.

"We're old friends," he said, "so where's the harm?" His eyes moved over her bare legs and bare midriff and suntanned shoulders. "A waste," he said.

"A terrible waste."

She started to protest, then finally sat wearily on the sofa and twisted her ring and stared at the row of little dolls.

"Seven years ago," Maury said, "I asked you to run off with me. At the last minute you went to some crazy gypsy, who told you to beware of a tall fellow with black hair. Now wasn't that kind of silly?" Then seriously, after a moment: "I still love you, Helen."

"Till death do us part," she murmured.

"I'm leaving town tomorrow. If you could only understand how I feel -- if you could still feel the way you used to -- well, we could pick everything up where we left off."

"I swore by the full moon."

"Please think about it," he said. "You're a real woman, Helen, and you need adventure in your life. So stop suffocating yourself because of horoscopes and gypsies." He touched her bare shoulder, and she pulled sharply away. He said, "I'm sorry," really meaning it, she thought. "I'm leaving tomorrow," he said. "But I'll come by here first, and if you still don't want me, well -- I know where you live, so I'll come by again and again, because I won't be able to help myself."

"No," she said. "No, no!"

"Tomorrow," he said gently, and left.

That night Ned brought her a wooden doll, carved and painted in Mongolia. She named it Sin-Sin and told Ned she loved him and at 10:15 she showed him a passion that profoundly shocked him. "I made you a vow," she whispered, "and nothing-- nothing will ever make me break it. You'll see," she said. "He'll see."

"Who?" Ned asked.

"Never you mind."

"Lord, it's after eleven," he said, and went promptly to sleep, while she lay awake, restless, brooding in the dark.

The next morning, after Ned had gone off to work, she opened her secret drawer and checked her horoscope. "Express your feelings," it read, "but keep your promises." She laughed aloud. It was perfect. She drove to the next town and bought a small bottle of powder with a skull and crossbones on it. She took it home, opened the bar, made sure she had the right decanter, and emptied the powder into the brown liquid. She shook it well and placed it back in the bar. Then she put on a white low-necked linen dress that showed the curve of her breasts, and sat waiting near the little dolls.

The doorbell rang at precisely 20 after three. She held her breath as Maury's eyes found her moist, pouting mouth and then the smooth flesh that hinted at her body beneath the dress.

He said, "You're dressed for traveling," with a touch of disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, I read my horoscope, and it tells me to express myself today. And, after all -- if you're going to keep coming back -- keep wearing me down -- why should I fight it any longer? I mean if you still love me -- you still want me----"

He strode toward her eagerly, but she slipped provocatively away. "Later," she teased. "Later."

"Shall we get going then?"

"No, I -- I've got to pack a bag, you see, and -- I'll meet you at the corner of Main and Harvard at five o'clock."

"I'll pick you up here."

"No, it's safer for me to meet you."

"Well -- all right then," and he started for the door. But he turned back and said, "How about a little drink? Just one -- to sort of -- celebrate? I always wanted to taste that stuff of Ned's."

Her heart beat faster. "No," she said hastily. "He'd notice right away, you see, and he'd know something was wrong and it might spoil everything." She carefully selected the bottle marked others and poured him a large double drink. "Anybody know you're here?" she asked casually.

"Not a soul."

"Anybody know where we're going? I mean so Ned can't follow?"

"I'm a gay wanderer," he said. "He'll never find us."

"Fine." She smiled and gave him the drink. "It'll take about five minutes," she said.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Aren't you drinking?"

"No, I -- I don't care for one."

"Well, then -- here's to 'later.' " She stood back, twisting the ring on her slippery finger as he downed the whiskey at a gulp.

"Good," he said, "but I hate to do this to Ned. The way he'll feel."

"Now don't worry about Ned."

He started to sit, but she told him to hurry and go now. She'd meet him at five -- the corner of Main and Harvard. He said, "All right," and "Boy, that drink really gave me a jolt. The heat, I guess." And then, looking at her with great contentment, he said, "We'll just have to make up for all that wasted time."

"Yes," she agreed softly. She led him to the door, then went to the window and watched his car move up the street. It swerved slightly as he rounded the corner.

At a quarter of five she kissed all her dolls good-by. He was waiting for her. They drove fast out of town, and on the first stretch of open road, he pulled to a stop and tried to kiss her.

"Later," she said. "I'll never break my vow, you see. Till death do us part."

He drove on. But at exactly 5:35, after she knew for certain that Ned had come home and had his single special drink, then she laughed and said "Now" and he stopped the car again, and she threw the ring out the open window into a little patch of weeds.