Falsely Accused Read Online Free Page B

we couldn’t believe the numbers. Especially coming from D.C., where we were practically sharecroppers. So we figured while we were flush, and who knew how long it’d last, we’d better fix up the place. And there it is.”
    Sounds of giggling floated through the open door. Lucy was entertaining a friend.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t it last?” asked Stupenagel.
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” replied Marlene. “It doesn’t seem right, somehow. All that dough. And Butch is not a happy camper, not really. He was born to put asses in jail. One day he’s going to come home and tell me he’s quit Bohm Lansdorff What’s-his-face and gone for a job with the Brooklyn D.A. or the Feds, and it’ll be back to genteel poverty and the joys of public service. Meanwhile, hi-ho!” She poured herself another glass of Moët.
    â€œWhy doesn’t he just get his old job back?” asked Stupenagel. “Assuming he wants to be a D.A.”
    â€œLong story,” said Marlene dismissively.
    â€œMmm,” said Stupenagel, for whom no story was too long, and shot Marlene an interested look. When this prompted no revelation, she changed tack. “Well, you certainly seem to have taken to the life of a bourgeois matron,” she observed in a needling tone. “I never would have thought it, the way you used to carry on at Smith. Little Ms. Feminist—”
    â€œFuck you, Stupe,” replied Marlene amiably.
    â€œSupported by a man. Dependent. Want to go shopping? We could buy slipcovers. We could play mah-jongg—”
    â€œWe could strike one another over the head with empty champagne bottles, me first.”
    â€œOh, is it all gone? That’s almost as bad as your pathetic domestic slavery,” said Stupenagel, and then she called out, “ Marcel! Encore de champagne! ”
    â€œI notice you don’t mind sharing in the tainted largesse,” Marlene observed.
    â€œLeeching off friends is completely different. There are numerous other people I could leech off of; I choose to leech off you from a position of absolute freedom. You expect nothing from me in return.”
    â€œI’ll say!” said Marlene dryly.
    â€œThat did not come out precisely as I intended. As you know, I would give you the shirt off my back, speaking of which …”
    â€œI’ll check the dryer. You can get your own wine. There’s another bottle in the fridge, but you’ll have to drink it yourself. I have to make dinner.” She got up and walked out of the bedroom.
    â€œOh, yes, God forbid hubby won’t have his meat and two veg on the table,” Stupenagel called after her. Then Marlene heard the sound of a bottle being taken out of the refrigerator and the pop of the cork. She sighed as she removed her friend’s dry clothes from the dryer. Ariadne was going to get pissed, and she could be a mean drunk. The last thing she wanted right now was to have to handle a gigantic drunken woman, two seven-year-olds, and a hungry and unhappy husband. Maybe Ariadne would just pass out. From habit, Marlene sniffed the warm clothes and wrinkled her nose. Personal hygiene was clearly not one of the journalist’s strong points and hadn’t been at college either, Marlene recalled.
    â€œI could have washed these,” Marlene said as she tossed the clothes (black jeans, red Solidarity T-shirt, underpants, and socks) on the bed where Stupenagel was reclining, now swigging champagne directly from the bottle.
    â€œOh, God, never! Not a jot will I add to your domestic slavery,” exclaimed Stupenagel in ringing tones, and then, dramatically, “I’d rather wallow in filth.”
    â€œYou are,” said Marlene. “Get dressed. You can help me cut stuff up.”
    Stupenagel groaned and put her bottle on a night-stand, then stood shakily and dropped her robe. She staggered nude to a full-length mirror, struck a pose with her chest