Chapter Sixteen

Nevertheless, to avoid fornication, let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband.

 1 Corinthians 7:2

Saturday 29th September: Baxter had been drinking Budweiser beside the pool in his back yard at 185 Longhill most of the afternoon. The night was coming and it was cooler now. The bugs were out. Midges always come along at dusk in Springfield, conducting their small acts of courage with the suicidal persistence of miniature ninjas. He smashed at them, irritated. It was Saturday.

Things were not good for Baxter. The family business, Merill Manufacturing, was an ancient one. The company had made the machine tools for the manufacture of the original Springfield rifles. It went that far back. Baxter had had new ideas. Baxter had shed much of the original machine tool business, sold it off in the belief that it was a liability when the high tech revolution had come in the early Silicon Valley days. Instead he had invested in electronics, making computer parts on contract for IBM. Not the chips. If only he'd invested in silicone chips, thought Baxter. He could have done well. No, he'd started making mother boards. Had tooled up for it. Invested heavily. Borrowed heavily. And he'd done well. At first.

Now those days were gone. Now Baxter drank. Especially on weekends. On the weekends he drank for America. Beer during the day, whisky and soda at night. Angie dreaded the weekends. It wasn't so bad Sundays when Baxter went to play golf with his friends. But Saturdays were bad. Baxter had all day to drink. Today was Saturday. Today he had consumed so much alcohol that the drink had overwhelmed his good side, exposing the raw, selfish animal that was Baxter on a dark day.

Angie was in the kitchen when Baxter came in from the pool. She was fixing supper. She'd made spaghetti with tomatoes and pepper and shrimp, the way Baxter liked it.

"Fix me a drink Angie."

Angie wondered what she'd do if Baxter were addicted to food the way he was to alcohol. What would she rather, that her husband was fat or that he was a drunk? "Give me obese anyday," she thought. Then aloud she said, "Supper's ready Baxter. Have supper first. It'll spoil."

"I said fix me a drink."

Angie did as she was told, pouring the whisky over the ice, then bringing it over, adding the soda. Just the right amount. Baxter was particular about his drinks. "Just a splash of soda," he always said. "Don't drown it."

He watched her as she started to move away, retreating towards the kitchen. She wore a loose blouse and a short skirt. Her fine legs went way up. Baxter had always thought her beautiful. Looking at her he felt the desire for her coming over him like a relentless incoming tide.

"Angie."

She stopped.

"Come here Angie."

She moved back towards him.

"Come here Angie."

She came over to his chair. Nervous.

He reached out then, running his hand up her thigh, stroking her higher, up under her skirt. "You wearing anything Angie?"

She shook her head. Baxter never liked her to have on underwear. He'd been on a trip once, to South India, to Bangalore, India's own Silicon Valley. There he'd discovered that there were Indian girls who wore no underwear. "My Ayah told me I shouldn't," one particularly pert Indian woman had told him as he'd reached up under her sari. "Knickers are dirty." And she'd been such a good lay. It had excited Baxter. It exited him now as he reached for Angie.

"Baxter, no. Please. Supper will spoil."

"Fuck supper. Come here."

Angie felt herself trembling. She was doubly annoyed with herself because she realised that there were many women who would be grateful for the kind of attention represented by Baxter's brutal brand of sexuality. But she so ached for something gentler. Seduction might be too much to ask but there were limits. She must stand up to him, or so she believed.

"No Baxter. Really. I don't feel like it now. I've been working in the kitchen. Can't we get supper out of the way. Then get cleaned up. Then I'll make it good for you Baxter. After supper. Really I will Baxter. Please. Later."

And Angie knew what making it good for Baxter meant. Baxter was particular about sex. Baxter was particular about everything. Sex with Baxter was all about pleasing Baxter. Which she didn't mind. Not at all really. It was easier in a way. But he expected her to enjoy it. Which she usually did. And if she didn't she pretended to. Of late she'd learnt to pretend well.

"Now Angie," Baxter growled.

She wasn't sure why she said "No" again. Maybe she was attempting to salvage some vestige of self-respect. The blow, when it came, was bad. Usually she saw it coming, had time to tense her stomach muscles. Not this time. It doubled her over, brought her to her knees like a slave girl.

She whimpered as Baxter grabbed her by her golden hair with one hand, slammed his fist back into her stomach with the other, and dragged her across the room to the rug. There he threw her down, lifted her skirt, and raped her. Raped her as he had done before, so many times. Except that in Baxter's mind this wasn't rape. For him marriage was a contract to which the woman brought sexual favors and the man brought financial stability. He didn't recognise this as institutionalised prostitution. He genuinely believed Angie was his to do with as he liked and she should know that.

Afterwards Angie resolved that this was the end. She told herself she would pack her things in the morning and leave him. Just as she had told herself before - many times.