Well Now My Pretty

Both of them were in for a sharp disappointment. Sheila discovered that Tom lived in a small, shabby bungalow, left him by his father, and that he was neither wealthy nor successful. Tom found she was completely incompetent to run his home. She was lazy; she was frigid and she was continually asking for money.

They had been married now for twelve months. They made the best of a bad job. It suited Sheila to have a roof over her head and regular meals. It suited Tom to have a glamorous- looking wife. At least, if he didn't get any satisfaction from his marriage, he did bask in the envy of his friends, who thought Sheila was sensational.

He turned off the Miami highway on to the dirt road that led through the pine forest down to the Paradise City highway. He switched on his headlights. The sun had gone down behind the foothills. It was now turning dark.

Sheila said abruptly, "About that watch . . . you may not know it, but any decent husband gives his wife a wedding anniversary present. There's nothing else I want so much. I should have something I want."

Tom sighed. He hoped she had put the goddamn watch out of her mind.

"I'm sorry, baby. We just can't afford that kind of money. I'll find you a watch, but it's not going to cost $180."

"I want this watch."

"Yeah . . . I know . . . you told me, but we can't afford it."

"I must have been crazy to have married you," she said with an outburst of bitterness. "All those lies about your success. Success? What a joke! You can't afford anything! We don't even get a decent vacation. Camping! God! I should have had my head examined!"

"Would you kindly shut up?" Tom said. "You're no ball of fire youself. Look at the way you keep house . . . like a pigstye. All you're any good at is watching TV."

"Oh, knock it off!" Her voice was strident and hard. "You bore me. Mr. Successful who can't afford $180. Mr. Successful . . ." She laughed. "Mr. Cheapie, I would say."

The car slowed and Tom pushed down on the accelerator. The car continued to slow, not answering to the extra gas.

"Do you mind?" Sheila said, heavy sarcasm in her voice. "I would like to get home. You may like this dreary scenery, but I don't. Couldn't we go a little faster?"

The engine gave a splutter and died. They were going downhill and Tom quickly shifted the automatic gear stick into neutral. They continued to coast down the road as he cursed under his breath.

"What's the matter now?" Sheila demanded, rounding on him.

"The engine's packed up."

"It only wanted that. What do you expect with a cripple like this? So what are you going to do?"

As the road began to climb, the car slowed and stopped. Tom stared into the pools of light made by the car's headlights. Then, shrugging, he took a flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car and opened the hood. He had had a thorough training in servicing G.M. cars and it took him only a few minutes to find the gas pump had packed up. There was nothing he could do about this. He slammed the hood shut as Sheila got out of the car.

"We're stuck," he said. "The pump's gone. It's a five-mile walk down to the highway. I might be lucky to catch the last bus. You had better stay here."

"Stay here?" Sheila's voice went shrill. "I'm not staying here on my own!"

"Well, okay, then you better come with me."

"I'm not walking five miles!"

Tom regarded her, exasperated.

"So what do we do?"

"You and your lousy car! What a vacation!"

"Will you shut up about our vacation? I'm sick and tired of you complaining."

"So we spend the night here. Get the sleeping bags out."

Tom hesitated, then went to the back of the car. He got the sleeping bags off the rear seat and found the picnic basket. He was hungry, tired and depressed. He locked the car, then threw the beam of his flashlight to right and left. Seeing a narrow path facing him, he went ahead, and found himself in a tree- surrounded glade.

"Sheila! This will do. We can sleep here. Come on. You want something to eat?"

Maisky, lying in his cave, heard Tom's voice. He sat up, his body stiff with apprehension.

Sheila joined Tom in the glade, muttering as she picked her way over the rough ground. Tom had put down the sleeping bags and was opening the picnic basket.

She sat on one of the sleeping bags, took out a cigarette and lit it.

"The end of a perfect vacation," she said. "Oh, boy! Is this something for my memory book! I've enjoyed every minute of it!

Tom found some dry slices of ham, a half loaf of bread that was brick hard and a half a bottle of whisky.

He poured two big drinks. He gave Sheila some of the ham and half the loaf. She promptly threw the food into the bushes.

"I'd rather starve than eat that muck!" she said furiously and drank the whisky at a gulp.

"Okay . . . starve," Tom said. "I've had about all I want from you tonight." Turning his back on her, he began munching the dry ham.