Naked Came the Stranger

MELVIN CORBY

The afternoon sun caressed his face, drawing its golden fingers across his neck. In his mind, Melvin Corby was bronzed, muscled, a man – God behind the wheel of a Lotus-Climax at Le Mans. The Formula One motor throbbed and roared with loin-tingling power as he dominated the turns, conquered the straightaways. Women watched with excitement – the sun glinting on their tanned shoulders and the down-curves of their full breasts. Gillian Blake was in the front row, stretched forward on the tiptoes of her nylon-clad legs; her bust and behind snugly sheathed in white, her face eager, her pink tongue peeking out of her parted lips. RRRRRR . RRRR. RRR. ROWR. ROWP. His power mower stalled, and the daydream disappeared in a kaleidoscope of splintered images. Gillian, he thought. Gillian. Gillian. Gil-li-an. Gilly. Oh, Gilly, Gilly, Gilly. He was still excited as he got off the power mower and faced the fact that he was out of gas. Melvin Corby paid a gardener to take care of most of the landscaping, but running the ride-on mower was a treat he reserved for himself. It was one of Melvin's special joys; the power mower represented a pleasure he could revel in openly. Sitting astride the mower, Melvin Corby – myopic, curly-haired, thin-shouldered, soft-bellied – was somebody. The power mower symbolized his material, if heavily mortgaged, achievement – the front-to-back split-level home and the half-acre that went with it. The house had cost $32,850 – about $6,000 more than it was worth, but he was paying for the address. King's Neck. 69 Selma Lane, King's Neck. The builder had named the street after a daughter; probably, thought Melvin, in honor of her bathmitzvah. He wondered if it bothered the goyim who dominated King's Neck that the builder was a Jew.

It was some address, all right. King's Neck. It meant something. Last winter Melvin and his wife, Myrna, had followed the sun to Miami Beach. They had spent two weeks in that fabled land of papaya juice and potato knishes. Well, it had been worth every cent they had spent on the house to be able to say, "Yes, we live on the Island. King's Neck." When you said King's Neck, people looked up. People paid attention. They figured you were somebody. It didn't matter that Melvin lived in the southern section of King's Neck, that his property had once been part of a potato field, that there was a Negro slum strip on the edge of town less than two miles away. It was still King's Neck. An address like that, it was instant status. It was something you did for your children. In his case, for your child. David was only seven years old, and already he was going to a place where they taught horseback riding. Imagine, his son riding a horse. Only in America. My boy takes horseback-riding lessons.

It annoyed Melvin that his mother wasn't impressed by this. "Fancy, schmancy," his mother had said during one of their phone conversations. "Who needs it? Better he should get good marks." His mother still lived in the four-room apartment in Brooklyn in which he had grown up. Melvin was a good son; he called her every few weeks. He had even offered to come and get her one weekend and bring her out to see the house and David, but she had refused. "So what'll you tell the fancy neighbors? My name is Corby, and this is my mother, Mrs. Korbinsky?"

"Don't be ridiculous, ma," he had said, relieved by her refusal.

"Don't worry," she had answered. "I wouldn't embarrass you or Miss High and Mighty. Sadie Korbinsky don't go where she's not wanted. You could give me a million dollars, I wouldn't come."

Miss High and Mighty was Myrna. His mother and Myrna had never gotten along. "A Jewish girl who don't know enough to save chicken fat," was the way Mrs. Korbinsky had characterized her daughter-in-law. Whereas Myrna said that Mrs. Korbinsky, despite living in Brooklyn, was the "most East Side person" she had ever met.

"After all, Melvin, Myrna had once explained, "she simply refuses to change. You know I'm not class conscious. I mean how could I be? Doesn't my own mother play mah-jongg? So it's not that. It's just that your mother refuses to fit in. She acts sort of – well let's face it, she acts kikey."

Myrna, of course, didn't play mah-jongg. She played bridge. She also belonged to the PTA, she was in a volleyball league at adult education, and she was a member of the King's Neck Garden Club. Melvin was extremely proud of the way she was active in the civic life of King's Neck. She was making sure that they fitted into the community.

You had to hand it to Myrna, thought Melvin. Myrna Gold from Forest Hills, the dentist's daughter whom Melvin had drilled at Grossinger's. The first night, before they had even finished the peach soup, they had discovered their mutual interests – books, music, the fact that they were both Democrats. Later, they had cha-chaed together and that was it. Her parents were fine people; oh, maybe her mother was a little overbearing, but after all Myrna's father was a dentist. And the Golds had helped out financially in a number of ways; they had even helped with the house. And he loved Myrna, he owed her a lot. Besides, after nine years of marriage you know that nothing is perfect, that the thing is to do the best you can. Myrna was dark, intense, skinny; she was a good hostess and she could talk about Dostoevsky and Camus. At first, it had been her very nervousness that had attracted him – all that tension. It had held the promise of explosion, but that had never happened. Still, you kept trying. Even after nine years. He'd had great hopes for the two weeks in Miami Beach. A second honeymoon, he'd told Myrna. Just the two of them. But it hadn't worked out. Maybe it had been Myrna's bathing suit. A bikini, but she had looked bony in it, she had looked-well, neuter. And there was a stringiness about her hair. It hadn't helped the way she looked that there had been a couple of real good-lookers at the hotel. There had been one who had looked a little like Gillian Blake – a slim blonde with a good bust. He had watched her at the pool, at the beach, and in the dining room. In Melvin's daydreams, she had seduced him in her cabana – he imagined that she wore black lace lingerie and used alluring perfume. And, also, that she was incredibly skilled in sex. When he was on top of Myrna in their hotel room, he had tried to visualize the blonde. One night, the fiction had succeeded and he had functioned well. But usually it had been the same as at home – no good. The body beneath him was neither soft nor firm, and they achieved little that was mutual except perspiration. Afterward, when he was in the bathroom with a men's magazine that he had hidden in his luggage, he thought he heard Myrna crying. But he didn't let on. Nothing was perfect. And it wasn't his fault. And anyway, they had so much together that was good – the house, David, common interests. Besides, sex was overrated. It wasn't everything. And there were always the men's magazines – a harmless preoccupation.

He had read about men with worse fetishes than men's magazines. Whips, fruit jars, all sorts of things. He was no nut. He was a professional man. A lawyer. A junior member of a New York law firm who specialized in real estate work. At the garden club's party the previous weekend, Gillian Blake – oh Gilly, Gilly, Gilly! – had asked him about it. "It must take a great deal of intelligence," she had said. Imagine. Gillian Blake! The Gillian Blake who was on the radio, and whose picture turned up in the newspapers. He and Myrna had seen the Blakes around King's Neck, but they had rarely talked to them. After all, the Blakes were celebrities. You couldn't just walk up and talk to them.

But at the party, Gillian had been very nice. She had seemed very natural to Melvin. Of course, her husband, William Blake, had been a little snobbish. But then he had been a little high. "Corby?" he had said. "That's not a Jewish name, is it?" Melvin had blushed. He had tried to stammer a reply, but Gillian had simply taken his arm and walked him away.

"Don't mind Billy," she had said. "That's the Princeton in him. I mean, he still sends to some silly store there for his sports jackets."

Myrna had smiled at him from across the room, obviously pleased that he was talking to Gillian Blake. Other people had noticed, also. Melvin remembered how self-conscious he had been. In heels, Gillian Blake was about an inch taller than he was. He had found himself staring at her breasts, which had seemed to be beckoning to him through that low-backed green dress. She had leaned in front of him to put down a drink, and her hair, tawny and sweet-smelling, had brushed his face. He had been able to see that she was wearing a strapless white bra. Just talking to her, he had gotten excited. There had been a smile at the edge of her lips as if she knew. She was the most provocative woman he had ever seen. And she was very intelligent, she knew all about existentialism. She said she had majored in Far Eastern religions and existentialism at Bard. After she had left him, it had taken a while before Melvin was able to walk across the room.

Now, as he got the gas can and filled his power mower tank, Melvin felt himself becoming excited just thinking about her. What a woman! And those breasts! Melvin shivered as he imagined how she would be in bed. There was nothing wrong with thinking about it; hell, he was only human. And the important thing was that, in nine years of marriage, he had never cheated on his wife. Never. Not once. Unless, of course, you counted the men's magazines in the bathroom, but that wasn't, well, with a person or anything. Besides, he loved Myrna. It was a fact of which he frequently reminded himself. You live with somebody for nine years, and you build something together. He had once heard Gillian Blake say something similar on her radio show; something about the good and bad of everyday life building a solid foundation for marriage. But it was hard to believe that there was anything everyday about Gillian.

"Gillian Blake?" said Charlie Rider, when Melvin mentioned that she lived in King's Neck. "Yeah, I've seen pictures of her. Now that's what I'd call a piece of ass. And I bet she throws it around, too." It was Charlie's frequently cited belief that Melvin's faithfulness was doing him a great deal of harm. "What you need," he told Melvin, "is a good piece of ass."

"I never even think about things like that," Melvin had said on one occasion.

"Bullshit," said Charlie. "You think about it, but you're afraid. It's your upbringing. You're a victim of Judeo-Hebraic morality."

"That's nonsensical, besides being redundant," Melvin had said.

"No guts," said Charlie.

"I just don't believe in the double standard," Melvin answered. "I think fidelity should be a part of marriage."

"For chrissakes," Charlie said, "you knock something off and your wife'll respect you a lot more than she does now."

"Listen, I love my wife," said Melvin.

"What the hell has that got to do with it?" said Charlie.

"You don't understand," Melvin had said.

"Love!" said Charlie, and he had practically snorted.

"Hey, you don't have to love a woman to bang her. In fact, if you love her you're in trouble. You have to be cool. You never love 'em. You just screw 'em."

"That's disgusting," Melvin had said.

"Bullshit," said Charlie. He said Melvin should get blown. "I bet you never had a good blow job," he said.

"What the hell, that's not being unfaithful. It's not like you're getting laid."

Melvin didn't say so, but the idea fascinated him. Sometimes, when he was eyeing women, he stared at their lips and tried to visualize a good blow job. Myrna's lips were thin, and she had a faint mustache. Gillian Blake had firm, mobile lips. They were very sensual.

Melvin filled the power mower's gas tank and started to get back on the seat when the unbelievable happened.

"Hi there, home owner," she called. It was her! It was Gillian Blake!

Melvin got back off the mower. He felt as if he were in a dream. He trembled with excitement as he watched her coming up the walk. She was wearing a clinging white jersey, and white, tapered slacks. The slacks were sufficiently tight to afford him an impression of her love triangle as she came toward him. He just stood there admiring every inch of her.

"Do I really look that good?" she said.

"What?"

"The way you're looking at me. Do I really look that good?"

"Oh, uh…. Excuse me." Melvin was stammering.

"Don't apologize," she said. "You're just what the ego ordered."

"Well, uh, you do look very attractive, Mrs. Blake."

"Oh come on," she said, "call me Gilly."

"Gi-Gi-Gilly."

"Mmm, that's better. So, why am I here? Well, I must tell you that I'm being very civic today. I'm absolutely up to my you-know-what in good works. I'm collecting for dementia praecox."

Melvin gaped.

"Hey," she said, "that's a joke, son. Actually, I'm collecting for the National Parapsychology Association."

"Oh," he said. "Well, Myrna, uh my wife, she's not in right now. She's at the beauty parlor."

"We don't need her, do we? You can give me the donation."

"Right. Yes. Sure. Uh…," he said. "Uh, you'll have to pardon me, I just don't seem to be organized today. I mean, I was getting gas for the mower and everything."

"It's okay," she said. "I understand."

She probably did understand, thought Melvin. She probably understood everything there was to understand. She was wonderful.

Gillian smiled at him, and then started for the house. Melvin walked behind her. It was almost as if her rear end had a mind of its own, the way it moved in the tight, white stretch fabric.

Melvin wondered what reality was, as the object of most of his sex fantasies settled herself on a couch in his living room while he got out the checkbook. "My," she said. "you have a lovely home."

"You and your husband should come over sometime socially," Melvin said.

"Oh, let's not talk about him," she said. "My, isn't that nice." Melvin had given her a check for $25. He rarely gave more than a few dollars to causes but, after all, this was such a worthwhile charity.

"Listen, I'm glad to help," he said. She leaned back, smiling at him.

"Uh, it certainly was nice talking to you at the Garden Club party," he said.

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" she said.

"Yes," he said. "Certainly. I was just about to ask." His voice almost cracked with excitement. "What would you like?"

"A martini. Very dry. Nine to one. Lemon peel."

Melvin bustled about the kitchen making the drinks. Thank God, he and Myrna had started having an occasional martini at home. Of course, he usually made his two to one. Holy Christ! Nine to one! He made enough for a couple of drinks.

Gillian plumped the couch, and motioned to him to sit next to her. "Cheers," she said. Then she laughed. "No. L'Chaim."

They touched glasses. The first swallow brought tears to Melvin's eyes, but he stuck with it. Thank God, they had Beefeater gin in the house. He had been told that it was the best. He was sure someone as sophisticated as Gillian Blake could tell the difference.

"Really," he said, "you and Mr. Blake should come over some time."

"Please," she said. "I meant what I said before. Let's not talk about him. That would be much too dreary."

"But your husband does seem like an impressive guy."

"Believe me, Mel, you're twice as interesting."

The drink had hit Melvin almost immediately. "You're kidding me," he said.

"No, honestly," she said. She put her hand on his wrist.

"I should have married someone like you. What is it they say, a nice Jewish boy?"

"That's right," said Melvin, thinking that nine to one was a perfect ratio. "A nice Jewish boy. Nice Jewish boys make great husbands."

"Ummm, I'll bet they do," she said. "I'll bet they make great lovers, too."

Melvin tried for what he hoped was a nonchalant grin. She winked. "You know, Mel," she said, "You're a very attractive man."

"Listen," he said, overcome by her nearness and the nine-to-one ratio. "You're the best-looking woman I ever saw."

"Billy never tells me anything like that," she said.

"Well, he should," said Melvin, wondering what a woman like her had ever seen in a jerk like Blake.

"You're terrific."

"You're a doll," she said. And now her hand was caressing his wrist. "You're really very nice."

"Not half as nice as you."

"Mel," she said as she stroked his wrist, "I wonder if I could ask you something personal?"

"Ask me anything."

"Have you ever been unfaithful to your wife?" Melvin blushed. "Well, uh…."

"No, really. Have you?"

He blurted out the truth. "No!"

"Honestly?"

"I haven't. Not ever."

"Really?"

"I'm telling you, it's the truth."

"You honestly never cheated on your wife?"

"No," he said. "I love my wife."

"Sure," she said. "But have you ever cheated on her?"

"No. I told you. No!"

"Isn't that amazing?" she said.

"I guess I sound like a real idiot to you."

"Not at all, Mel. You're a doll. But tell me, why not? Are you afraid?"

"No, it's not that. I mean, I'm not a prude or anything. I just don't think it's right. I don't believe in the double standard."

"Ummm," she said. "You are a challenge."

The martini had anesthetized Melvin; it was as if what was happening couldn't touch him. Or at least he couldn't feel shock. But his physical feelings were intact. He'd had a stiff one ever since she'd put her hand on his wrist.

"Take your glasses off," she commanded. He obeyed instantly.

"You have very sensitive eyes," she said. "I'll bet you're a very sensitive man."

RRRRR. "That's Myrna!" Melvin yelled in alarm as he heard the car come up the driveway outside.

"How nice!" said Gillian Blake, and suddenly she was pressing herself against him. Melvin responded to her kiss, and she pushed his hand against her breast, and there was all the softness he had ever dreamed of.

"Gilly, Gilly," he groaned.

Gillian gently pushed him away as Myrna reached the front door. "You're a sweetie," she said.

How he ever got through the next half hour was a mystery to Melvin. Gillian told Myrna that she had been canvassing, and that Melvin had offered her a drink. As it turned out, Myrna's major reaction was one of excitement because Gillian Blake had been in her house. "I'm amazed that you had the sense to offer her a drink," Myrna told Melvin afterwards. She laughed.

"Although I think you're a little potted. You should be careful, you know you're not much of a drinker."

She asked Melvin what he had talked to Gillian Blake about. He said they had discussed King's Neck and the Blakes's radio program.

"She's a very sexy woman," Myrna said. "But I'm lucky. I know I don't have to worry about you."

That night, Gillian Blake filled Melvin's mind as he huffed over his wife. But Myrna just lay there, a broomstick. He tried to feign orgasm. "I love you," he said. Then he went into the bathroom with a copy of a new men's magazine called Modern Mammaries.

Myrna was still awake when he came back to bed. "You made believe," she said.

"No," he said. "I love you." But he was thinking about Gilly, about how she would be in bed. Christ, the way her breasts had felt beneath the jersey. Only he couldn't. It was bad enough that he had gone as far as he had. It was the martini that had made him lose control. And the fact that Gillian, for some reason, was attracted to him. But the way she had felt. And the way she had kissed. He had practically been unfaithful just kissing her.

It was a sleepless night for Melvin as his mind raced and plunged with thoughts of Gillian Blake. Gilly in a bra and panties. Gilly nude. Gilly undulating in front of him. He and Gilly on a tiger skin, with her on top of him. Oh, Gilly, Gilly, Gilly. They were on a balcony overlooking a moon-dappled sea, and she was touching his bare chest with her fingertips. They were in a rickshaw making love as they were pulled through the streets of Shanghai. They were aboard a train rushing through the silent night. They were on a white sand beach with breakers roaring in the distance. Gillian was whispering in his ear. "The trouble with you, Melvin," she was saying, "is that you've never been laid."

"But I have," he was saying. "Ask Myrna."

"Myrna!" The Gillian Blake dominating his imagination was laughing. "Myrna doesn't count."

The next day was Sunday. Melvin was guilt-stricken about what had happened between him and Gillian Blake, but he knew he could never tell Myrna about it. It was something he would always have to live with. It gnawed at him. Usually, he told Myrna everything. The slightest guilt bore him down. He was miserable. He wanted to be nice to Myrna, and he knew he was being nasty. There was no softness to her, no grace. She was annoying. Skinny, nervous, darting, bugging him all the time. He snapped at her, and she told him to watch himself in front of the boy. "I don't know what's gotten into you," she said.

They were sitting on the patio, and the May sun was giving Melvin a headache. He wondered what Gillian Blake was doing, and he thought about what it would be like with her on a patio. Gilly, Gilly. He looked at Myrna and tried to smile. "You're right," he said. "I apologize."

"I' m sorry I yelled at you," she answered.

"It's okay," he said. Damn her. She was wearing an outfit like the one Gillian Blake had worn the day before, but on Myrna it just hung. Melvin got up and went into the house. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said.

He was at his desk the following day, when Gillian Blake called him. Just like that. "Hi sweetie, this is Gilly." Wow!

"Look," he said. "Uh, about what happened Saturday. I, well, I…."

"You enjoyed it," she said.

"Yes, but what I have to say is that, um, well is, uh…"

"Don't say anything. Or better still, tell me at lunch."

"No," he said. "I couldn't, I mean…."

"Don't tease a girl, Mel. I said lunch and I mean lunch." She named a place in the East Fifties. "One o'clock," she said.

They had lunch. It was a French place. Even the vegetables were fancy. Sitting at a table with her, Melvin felt like a million dollars. He could feel the other men in the room looking at him enviously. He found himself drinking a Bloody Mary.

"We can't see each other any more," Melvin said.

"Nonsense," she said.

"You don't understand. I mean, you're the most exciting woman I've ever known."

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

"I know this sounds silly, but I just can't do something like that to my wife."

"I don't want you to do it to your wife," she said. "I want you to do it to me."

Melvin was shaking. He ordered lobster tails, but he was never conscious of tasting them. All he was conscious of was Gillian, who was sensational in a simple black dress with a strand of pearls. He had another Bloody Mary, and lapsed into half-stammers. He couldn't stop looking at her. She had ordered snails, and was popping them into her mouth.

In the taxi on the way back to her office, Melvin told Gillian once more that he couldn't see her again. She smiled. Then she took his hand and stuck it beneath her skirt, moving it up her leg to where the nylon ended and the flesh began. Then she kissed him, and their tongues were inside each other's mouths. Melvin remembered thinking that, if it wasn't for the Bloody Marys, he probably would have come.

"Jeez," the cabbie said afterward, as he dropped Melvin off at his office. "that was Gillian Blake, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Melvin.

The cabbie kept staring at him.

"Uh, she's a neighbor," Melvin explained.

That night was worse than the one before. Gilly never left his mind. Myrna had spent a difficult day: She had lost a garden club election, the cleaning girl had gotten sick and David had misbehaved in school. "You've got to deal with him," Myrna said.

"What's wrong with you?"

"You're the father."

"Look, I've had a hard day at the office."

"And what about me? That damn girl. You see how you like cleaning this house."

"Maybe you need a little work. Maybe then you won't be such a goddamn nervous wreck."

"Oh, is that what I am? And what about you? I don't think you've heard a word I said in the last three days."

"Dammit, Myrna, leave me alone, will you?"

"You really are upset, aren't you?" Myrna said as she looked at him. "All right, I'm sorry I snapped at you. So what's the matter?"

"For crying out loud," Melvin, screamed. "Get off my back, will you!"

"Melvin, what is it?"

"Aw, shut the hell up, you skinny bitch!"

Myrna ran upstairs crying. That night, Melvin slept on the playroom couch. Gilly, Gilly. God, but he wanted to make love to her. But he couldn't. He just couldn't. It was wrong. Wrong. It was against everything that mattered. It was, well, immoral. He just hadn't been brought up that way. He was no crazy Gentile. He just couldn't.

Poor Myrna, he thought. He did love her. They had so much else together, so much that was meaningful. But, oh Gilly – the feel of your body, the warmth of your flesh. Oh Gilly, Gil-leeeee.

He called her the following morning from work. "I've got to see you, " he said. "I've got to explain to you why it has to end."

"You don't have to explain anything, Mel," she said.

"You just have to do what you know you want to do."

"No," he said. "That's just it. I can't. I can't be unfaithful to my wife."

"Sweetie," she said, and her voice was purring into the phone. "Why don't you just shut up?"

"Gilly," Melvin moaned. "Gilly."

"Look," she said, "I'm leaving for King's Neck in an hour." She told Melvin to take an early train and come straight to her house. "And face it, baby," she said.

"You're going to get laid."

Melvin Corby was like a somnambulist all the way to King's Neck. When he got into his car at the station, the trance turned into tension. He drove seventy miles an hour all the way to the Blake home. She was waiting in the living room for him – the very incarnation of desire in a diaphanous peignoir, with her hair falling in loose waves to her shoulders, her perfume scenting the room. She was sex, excitement, eternal woman. She was all of Melvin Corby's daydreams rolled into one incredible bundle. She was all the men's magazines he had ever read, all the pieces of ass Charlie Rider had ever talked about. She was Gillian.

Melvin stared wildly at her, his face burning, his hands shaking. No! his mind screamed inside itself. No!

"I can't," he said. "I can't. Don't your understand?"

She was breathing rapidly, her breasts rising and falling beneath the silken gown, her eyes burning into him, her tongue caressing her lips. "Sweetie," she said in a voice that was pure provocation, "do it to me."

"No!" and he was shouting it out loud. "No!"

Slowly, softly, her eyes never leaving him, she undid her robe and let it fall to the floor.

She simply stood there, the embodiment of Melvin's fantasies – a sex goddess in a black lace bra and panties, bikini-style underthings that overwhelmed Melvin with loin-swelling desire.

"I won't do it!" he shouted. "I won't do it!"

Gillian Blake stood in the center of the room, lithe and soft, the ultimate in ecstasy on a fluffy blue carpet. Then she started moving. First the bra, then slowly, ever so slowly – Oh Christ! – the panties.

"Please," Melvin cried. "Please!"

Her eyes were half closed, her body was alive as she moved toward him, twisting and undulating.

"I won't!" Melvin yelped. "You can't make me!"

She was directly in front of him now, her hands cupping her rose-tipped, thrusting breasts, her thighs and belly moving back and forth, her soft golden muff pulsing to take him.

"No!" Melvin screamed.

She reached out and unzipped him. "Now," she whispered, as her hands stroked and massaged his treacherous organ.

"No!" Melvin yelled. "I love my wife!" He pulled away and ran for the door. He was groaning and sobbing as he galloped down the walk to his car. Somehow he got inside and started the motor. Gunning the car home, he was without coherent thought – his mind was a twisting, turbulent whirlpool. He was still moaning as he rushed into his house. He was a nightmare apparition, his hair wild and his jacket open.

Myrna was at the stove. "Is that you?" she called. "I hope you're in a better mood. The girl is still sick. And David hurt his knee, and…."

Then she saw him. "What in the world?"

Melvin Corby stopped for a moment, and stared at his wife. She was perspiring from the heat of the stove, her hair was in curlers, her eyes bugged at him from behind her glasses, her body was an obstacle course of sharp angles, and the thought of going to bed with her made him sick.

"My God, Melvin," she said. "Zip your pants up!"

Snap! Something broke inside his head, and it seemed to Melvin that the sound must have filled the house.

"Goddamn you to hell!" he screamed. Bang! His first punch caught her in the mouth.

Neighbors on Selma Lane heard the shrieking and called the police. They stood outside their houses in groups and watched the police car drive up. Then they watched the ambulance. The ambulances – two of them. One for a battered, bewildered Myrna Corby, the second for the screaming strait-jacketed figure of Melvin Corby.



EXCERPT FROM "THE BILLY & GILLY SHOW," JUNE 5TH

Gilly: Did you notice the article in Time this week about homosexuality, Billy?

Billy: Yes, I did, dear, and it was shocking to find out how rapidly the number of homosexuals in our country is increasing.

Gilly: It certainly makes you wonder about the way we're bringing up our children. I mean, that's when it starts.

Billy: Well obviously, it's an illness, and it should be treated as such.

Gilly: I think the trouble is they haven't found the right way to treat it, yet.