Bedlam and Other Stories Read Online Free

look, in his colored beach shirt, his swim trunks that showed off skinny legs white from a New England spring. He felt utterly freakish. The wrinkled member between his legs seemed without warning to hang down enormously, heavy and prominent, as if Hartley was dragging around some kind of dinosaur whose tail was roped to his waist.
    â€œYou never wanted me to come here.” He spoke to Garbeau but kept his eyes on the actor. “You did everything you could to keep me from seeing this.”
    â€œJust let them sing,” Garbeau said. “Just let them start . You’ll see.”
    Hartley’s chin dropped to his chest.
    It seemed that the actor playing him had already struck the opening chords. There was some dialogue Hartley didn’t catch, as the kid strummed. Then they were into it, “Silent Night” of course. They sang with a wonderful shivering raggedness. Hartley found he could lift his head, they sounded so good. He saw a man by one camera holding up a cue card with the lyrics printed on it. He saw that the actor who played Hartley sang looking just enraged. The kid sang with a look as if he were ready to tear somebody’s guts out. And by “holy infant, so tender and mild,” Garbeau had pressed up close to Hartley, pinning one of his arms against his side.
    â€œNow tell me,” she murmured in his ear, “doesn’t this feel right?”
    All he could feel was the uneven gentleness of her body against his arm. His knuckles dangled in the cushioned opening at the top of her thighs. He thought: I must be in love . Only if he were in love, he reasoned, could he have let her play him so easily for a sap.
    â€œHartley, you’re such a natural,” she whispered. “You’re such an apeman. You must see this is true to life.”
    And to hide his feelings, to pretend another explanation for the tears that had started to stream down his cheeks, Hartley opened his mouth and crowded it with song.
    The next morning he made an honest effort to get resecured. He’d been unable to resist spending the night with Garbeau again, unable to resist yet another bout of roughhousing come morning. But when she went out to swim he drank coffee at the coffee bar. He wore his fatigues, long sleeves and all. After his second cup he knew what he’d do. Yes, really get resecured. He climbed the stairs back to Garbeau’s room. Her company had set up a couple business lines, so a person could talk as long as they wanted. He double-checked the DO NOT DISTURB sign. Then Hartley let down his pants and settled himself once more in the bed. He didn’t bother with his boots, only pulled his pants and shorts down round his knees. He and Claire had done this before. Took so much concentration, so much give and take, it always wound up clearing his head. He dialled the number and then held the phone in one hand.
    No answer. Hartley tried twice more. He had the switchboard operator try a third time.
    â€œAfraid no one’s home, sir.”
    Hartley tried to think. He’d thrown the pillow on the floor and lay at ramrod attention.
    â€œOperator. Ah, could you tell me. I was wondering what day it was?”
    â€œThe 15th, sir. Father’s Day.”
    â€œGood, good.” What ? What was good about that? “But I mean, operator? Ah, I’m from out of state. What day of the week is it?”
    â€œFriday, sir.” Obviously the woman handled this kind of question all the time. “Friday, June 15th, 10:06 A.M.”
    Suddenly Hartley was furious. His insides were going on spin-dry for the third day in a row and this headphone jockey downstairs was showing off her watch.
    â€œ Operator ? Hey, operator, I’m in love. I came down here to see my life story and now I’m in love.”
    â€œVery good, sir. Would you like a newspaper?”
    â€œHuh? Hey, operator, never mind that. You know what Willy Peter is? Willy Peter, Make you a buh liever. You