"Wait," Race told the cab driver as he opened the cab door. The Vinchelle residence was a two-story Georgian colonial, with a straight flagstone walkway leading to the door. Race walked it like a last mile. He pressed the doorbell with trepidation. He was somewhat relieved when the door opened, and a bearded white man, maybe an inch or two taller than him, appeared. The man was wearing a bathrobe, quite an expensive one Race noted, and was evidently wearing nothing else. The man stared at him, then pass him at the cabbie, now standing outside his cab.
The man looked at Race again. "You must be Mr. Blackmon."
Race nodded. "And you're Mr. Vinchelle?"
"Professor Vinchelle," Jacques replied with Gallic haughtiness.
"Is Dean Vinchelle here," Race asked, ignoring Jacques' attitude.
"Yes."
"May I see her?"
"She is ... indisposed."
"Look, Prof. Vinchelle. I have just received a very frightening call from Dean Henning. If I do not see Dean Vinchelle right now, I'm going to the police."
Jacques looked intently at Race, then relented, opening the door. "I'll be right back," Race said. He returned to the cab, spoke to the cabbie, then returned to the house, following the Frenchman up the stairs.
Jacques led the way into the bedroom, where Race found a naked Sharon on the bed, her wrists back in the wrist restraints. Race looked at her, then at Jacques, then back at Sharon. In explanation, Jacques removed his robe and turned his back to Race. It was covered with several welts, some bleeding. From the pattern of four parallel scratches per welt, Race surmised that they had been inflicted by Sharon.
"Look, you two," Race said. "I don't know what's going on here, and I don't care. But I told the cabbie that if Dean Vinchelle is not at that doorway in five minutes, to call the cops."
The two Vinchelles looked at Race, then each other. Jacques pulled his robe up, then went to the bed and released his wife. She grabbed a satin kimono style nightgown from one of the chairs and stepped into a pair of open-toed slides with pom-pom puffs. The three then headed downstairs, Sharon leading. As they reached the foot of the stairs, they saw two uniformed officers and the cabbie standing just inside the doorway. Both Race and Jacques mentally noted that five minutes had not elapsed.
Jacques spoke first. "Samuel, David, is there a problem?"
The two officers looked at each other, then at the Vinchelles, then at Race, then at the cabbie, then each other again. Samuel spoke for them. "George called," indicating the cabbie. "Said that there was trouble here, that a nig ... a colored gentlemen had told him to call the police if Dean Vinchelle didn't show up at the door."
Sam, Dave, George, and Jacques all stole glances at Race when the racial epithet was sounded. Race gave the cops a standard I-won't-forget-what-you-nearly-said-and-you- will-pay-I-am-somebody look. Instantly Samuel knew he was in trouble. Race then looked at the cabbie. "I thought I said to give Dean Vinchelle five minutes."
"I know, sir," George blurted, "but things just didn't look right. And I didn't use that word, sir."
Race stared at Samuel again. Samuel stared back, belligerently.
"Well, gentlemen," Sharon intervened, "we can all see that I'm all right." She pranced over to Race, placing his hand on his arm. "I really appreciate your concern, Mr. Blackmon. Makes me feel like some princess being rescued by her knight." She sneered at Jacques then exited into the kitchen.
The men watched her go, all except Jacques noting how the nightgown clung to her hips, revealing the dimples and globes of her ass, and how the skirt of the nightgown swished back and forth as she walked. As the door between the two rooms closed, the men looked at each other awkwardly. Samuel again spoke.
"Well, Prof. Vinchelle, I guess this was a false alarm."
"No, Samuel, no." Jacques replied. "George here did the right thing. Better to err on the side of caution. Very grateful, George. Very grateful."
The police officers backed out of the doorway, leaving the three of them standing there. Race looked at George, realizing the cabbie was waiting to be paid.
"Prof. Vinchelle," he said firmly, "I think you owe this man money."
Jacques looked at Race in confusion, as did George. Since Race had called him, he thought that Race would pay him. Jacques understood. Race had come on a mission of mercy, a mission he did not like, and had not liked what he found. He wasn't going to pay for the experience. He also wasn't about to leave.
Jacques looked at himself. Barefoot. Naked beneath the robe. "George, could your father just send me the bill?"
George Brubaker looked at the professor, then at the African-American, then back to Vinchelle. The sole cab company was a family affair: his father, uncle, himself and his cousin. Two cabs. Most of their fares never paid direct. The Brubakers kept a log of their fares and sent a bill to the appropriate home, sorority, or dean. If there was any dispute, which only occurred with freshmen, the college settled the bill. By the time the freshmen were sophomores, they realized that being able to have a cab pick them up and drop them off any time of the day or night, including weekends, was a convenience well worth the fare. And the Brubakers were reasonable in their fares. George nodded and backed out of the door, closing it.
As soon as the door closed, Race turned on Jacques. "Get your wife out here!"
The tone and sharpness of Race's command caught Jacques by surprise. He looked at Race, instantly realizing the Black man was very, very angry. "Sharon, mon cherie, I think you better come here," he called.
Sharon had been sitting in the kitchen, fuming. She had only began to claw Jacques' back when he managed to throw her off, overpower her, drag her to the bed and restrain her. The arrival of Race and the others forced her to revert to the persona of a dean, but a wronged wife sat there seething. She would not answer the beck and call of her philandering spouse.
Race waited for several minutes, then went into the kitchen, followed by Jacques. He looked at Sharon, then around the kitchen until he spied the telephone. "Dean Vinchelle, call Dean Henning," he ordered. She didn't move. "Now, woman!" he shouted.
For the first time in their relationship, Jacques saw fear in his wife's eyes as she practically jumped out of her seat, grabbed the phone and dialed.
"Hello. Adelie? Sharon Vinchelle here. ... Yes, yes, everything's all right. I think Mr. Blackmon wants to speak to you." She held the handset to Race.
"Hello, Adelie. ... No, things are not all right. Nothing deadly. At least not yet. I'll call you tonight. Bye." He hung up the phone, and turned to the errant couple.
Sharon and Jacques now began to comprehend the enormity of their actions. The first dean of a prestigious academic organization, a dean at the state's largest public university, had called the visiting scholar at their college to rush to their home to see if a deadly act had occurred between them, followed by police, witnessed by one of the few people who readily moves between townies and academia, and who would surely gossip about it, to his father, uncle and cousin, if not to others. And that visiting scholar was standing in their kitchen at that very moment, a scowl on his face, a sneer on his lips, and evidently very, very angry.
Race looked at Sharon, his glare withering her anger at her husband. She looked down at her lap, very much the chastened woman. Looking at Jacques, he said. "Mr. Vinchelle, I think you better have that back attended to." He then looked at Sharon, "Do you have any antibiotic ointment, Dean?"
Sharon nodded, then silently got up and headed for the door. Watching her move, Race decided that he definitely would be fucking her this night. Jacques followed his wife, followed by Race as the trio went up the stairs to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. Race sat on the bed watching as Sharon applied the salve to the wounds she had inflicted. Whatever had led to this contretemps, it was clear these were two people very much in love with each other.
