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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS
The Astral: Till the Day I Die
Avalon: An Historical Novel
Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions
Color Him Gay: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Curse of Bloodstone: A Gothic Novel of Terror
Darkwater: A Gothic Novel of Horror
The Devil’s Dance
Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde
The Earth and All It Holds: An Historical Novel
Fatal Flowers: A Novel of Terror
The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Gay Haunt
The Glass House
The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror
Goodbye, My Lover
The Greek Boy
The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)
Kenny’s Back
Life and Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings
The Lion’s Gate
Moon Garden
The Pot Thickens: Recipes from Writers and Editors (editor)
San Antone: An Historical Novel
The Second House: A Novel of Terror
The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
Spine Intact, Some Creases: Remembrances of a Paperback Writer
Stranger at the Door: A Novel of Suspense
Sweet Tormented Love: A Novel of Romance
The Sword and the Rose: An Historical Novel
This Splendid Earth: An Historical Novel
The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.
A Westward Love: An Historical Romance
The Wine of the Heart: A Novel of Romance
The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror
The Why Not
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1966, 2012 by Victor J. Banis
Originally published under the title The Bronze and the Wine, under the pseudonym J. X. Williams
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.
And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.
CHAPTER ONE
Glen Sanford lay for a moment in the warmth of the body near his, as though soaking up its life substance. Then, with an almost silent sigh, he moved away, swinging his long, firmly-muscled legs over the edge of the bed to the floor. In the darkness he fumbled on the nightstand for a cigarette, lit one, and stood, crossing the room to the open window. A few short feet away was the open window of Mrs. Devraux’s bedroom. For a fleeting moment he wondered if Mrs. Devraux might not be at her window, staring across at his naked body illuminated by the moonlight.
The bed behind him creaked as his wife sat up in it and he heard her reach for a cigarette of her own. “I don’t have any matches,” she said into the darkness. Her tone was one of reproach, as though the simple fact were in some way his fault.
He turned, moving lightly across the room, and stooped down to light her cigarette with his. He was uncomfortably aware of his nudity, despite the darkness, feeling somehow as though she were staring at him, examining the long, hard surface of his body for some flaw to criticize.
Damn it, he thought angrily, impulsively drawing away from her, she’s my wife. Why should I be embarrassed? But he was, nonetheless. He stood, returning to his post at the window, his back turned deliberately toward her.
“It isn’t any good, is it?” she asked finally, speaking to his back.
Glen swallowed, no longer sure whether he was angry, or embarrassed, or simply unhappy. He would have preferred silence, even the angry, petulant silence that so often followed these sessions. “No,” he admitted finally, in answer to her question. His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “It isn’t.”
“Why?” Her voice had that hungry, driving insistence that he most disliked, a tone that told him she was determined about something—determined, this time, to talk to him, to question him, maybe to try again...determined, at least, that this time there would be no silence.
“I don’t know why,” he answered flatly, leaving his post at the window to pace tensely about the bedroom, the hard floor creaking beneath his feet.
“Is it me?” she pursued, her determination becoming more blatant, more insistent.
“I don’t know,” he snapped, regretting at once the tone he had used. “No, of course it isn’t,” he added quickly. He sighed, louder than before, and came back to the bed, sliding beneath the sheet on his side, as far from her as he could be and still be in the bed. “I’m sorry, Ann,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette in the ash tray on the nightstand. “I try, you know that. It just isn’t there, that’s all.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“He said...damn it, he didn’t say much of anything. You know how doctors are—a lot of gibberish about setting the mood, relaxing—do we have to talk about this?”
“We have to do something.” It was her turn to snap, the anger crackling her voice and making it harsh and unnatural. “My husband is impotent. Don’t you think I have a right to wonder why?”
Glen said nothing, shrinking down into the bedclothes, hating the word and hating her for using it. The silence, so desirable before, became an agony now, hovering about them, hammering at their senses.
“I want a divorce,” she said finally, her voice calm again. He admired her that, her mercurial changes of mood flashing on and off like the brilliance of a neon sign, so unlike his own temperament.
“Is it that bad?”
She put out her cigarette, propping herself up against the headboard. “It’s
