“Then you don’t know much about us McDonalds,” he said.
“Not a thing, I’m afraid.”
“Exactly why I came,” he said, beaming. Perfect—perfect… Now to add one more big lie to all the others I’ve been spreading, so far. “You see, Carla, I’m like you. Alone. I’m a widower.”
“Oh, Mort how sad.”
He sighed painfully, thinking of the fictitious death of his wife—and hoping that Agnes would kick the bucket in reality. “Yes, I’ve raised Eddie alone for three years now. Cancer.”
“How terrible.” Some of her resistance melted as she looked at his sad, handsome face, and she said: “Would you like a drink?”
“That would be very kind, Carla. Whatever you’re having.”
“Brandy over brandy,” Carla said lightly, and went to fetch another glass. McDonald sat down, drumming his fingers along the back of the chair, gloating to himself. How easy, how absolutely a push-over this young lonely mother was going to be—just like Eddie had hinted she’d be when they’d talked this morning. Like daughter, like mother, all right, and Eddie thought the idea of using the pictures was fantastic, even helped develop them before coming over to take the little girl away for the day. Yeah, McDonald knew that Eddie was probably banging away on the kid just like he was going to fuck her mother in a little while. Well, all of the soft soap would soon be over; he’d gotten in and an invitation to have a drink—now to make sure that the one drink turned into quite a few…
Carla returned and together they sat and talked, McDonald telling a fabric of lies about his life as a widower. There was a gradual relaxation of Carla’s natural defenses as she empathized with his plight, her own mind matching and dovetailing what he was telling her with her own sad loss of Arnold. She told him some about her marriage and the death of her husband, and that weakened her still more; she was putty in the hands of such a skilled manipulator, for inexorably he channeled the discussion to the intimate points of love and married life, sensing as he went the subtle mood changes, knowing when to retreat and advance, just as he could sense that he would eventually reach the moment when he’d produce a packet of pictures that would unlock the long too rusty doors to her pussy.
“I’m so glad you asked me to stay,” he purred over the table, “It’s so much nicer than sitting around all alone.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Carla responded, sipping her brandy. Her mind was slightly confused with the suddenness of his presence in her home and life. She was still a little intimidated by him—so masculine and handsome and magnetic, with some sort of musky pervasiveness which hit her with an animal attraction she hadn’t known since Arnold had died. Even now, as they drank and talked in a most respectable and civilized manner, she couldn’t help thinking of him in a detached way from the standpoint of a sex partner.
Sex! What a stupid thought! Still, it bothered her, and she had a hard time meeting his frankly brazen gaze, and she felt uneasy in an ethereal fashion, as if she was in danger. Which was a silly bother, for she was safe, and perfectly all right in entertaining him alone in her house; the age when such things were considered naughty was of her own mother’s Victorian age, not now. And Mort was the soul of discretion… but still the air of something wrong, something deliciously frightening clung to her, and she tried to put her finger on exactly what it was and failed.
***
It had been two hours now, the time simply flying, and while too many drinks had been consumed, nothing else had happened. She shrugged off her apprehensions as she drained her glass again, determining to enjoy this man’s company and stop being such a wet blanket, and chalked up the butterflies in her belly as being the result of too much brandy. What the heck, this was better than being alone.
And the hypnotically talking McDonald caught the almost imperceptible relaxing of her reflexes and grinned in satisfaction to himself. This was what he’d been waiting for, had with consummate skill worked towards for the last boring few hours—and it was just about time to strike. He said suavely: “I could use another refill, Carla. How about you, hmmm?”
“No, not right now, Mort. I better not.”
“Oh, come on. There’s still a little left in the bottle, may as well kill it off.”
“Mort, please. I’ve had a little too much as it is.” Carla’s eyes dimmed slightly from the slowly building effect the alcohol was having on her without her realizing it before.
“Carla…” McDonald’s eyes narrowed slightly as he lowered his gaze to the couch momentarily. “I think you had better go for one more. I’ve been putting it off as long as I could but I’ve got to get around to the real reason for my visit. And… I’m afraid it isn’t going to be very pleasant for either one of us.”