Chapter 2
He jogged down the three flights and came out into the crush of five o'clock traffic. Giddy voices of office girls freed for a whole weekend jarred his own shell of silence. He wangled through to the curbing and proceeded along the edge of parked cars, moving steadily, rapidly cross town. It was a relief to be away from her. He strode as though to escape from the memory, as though to reaffirm his own being, his own freedom. The canvas bag with shorts and sneakers felt satisfying in his grip. That he hadn't allowed her to bug his routine felt even more satisfying. She hadn't liked the idea of going, of course. She wasn't accustomed to being anything less than the fascinating center-piece of a man's existence. Recalling her look of disbelief as he'd changed his clothes and thrown her the spare key was his only fragment of real success for the day. He congratulated himself on remembering the gym and using it to slap her face. That he would run into Hilda at the pool was certainly the lesser of the two evils, for once.
Lights recently snapped on in brownstone apartments silhouetted uniformed maids preparing dinner. He enjoyed surveying these mechanics of the comfortable East Side. A sense of solid values pervaded him. In another year or so, he too could afford this comfort. He had been successful in drawing the fine line between earning bread and earning a living. The thought made him relax a little.
The quagmire of drifting was not his trap any longer. Yet he remembered the days of public Johns, of hands reaching under from adjoining booths. He remembered trying to sleep in cheap movie houses and unconsciously he pulled himself up straighter as he walked, in an effort to withdraw himself physically from these thoughts. Too much of Cee-Zee in his blood and he could slip back so easily. The twelve years between then and now telescoped into a feeling of ten minutes. He recognized that Cee-Zee carried with her the flavor of his past and the recapturing of it fascinated him with a perverse attraction.
Turning off on Lexington Avenue, he went up the three steps and pushed himself through the revolving door, hurried across the lobby and down into the locker rooms. The close odor of perspiration and steam was something real, helping him to concentrate on the realities of his life as it was now. He laced the sneakers over heavy wool socks and tested the springy action of rubber soles on wooden floor. Then he went upstairs to the gym. The sight of girls flabby in their clinging black leotards grazed his consciousness. He sometimes paused to watch them working out, some with pathetic industry, others with vain attention focused on their bodies' reflection in the mirrored walls.
Now he skimmed by them, intent on his own body, the refuge of flexed muscles, the knowledge of lean good health, of a strong heart still in its prime. He stepped into the pink and chrome gymnasium. The red carpeted floor always gave him a little start of amusement. Dull, soft music seeped in to mingle with the well-oiled machines. He felt suspended in time here beneath the long fluorescent lights. For as long as he would exercise, he did not have to think about anything. The dumbbell felt cold and smooth and the room was not too crowded yet. He caught the reflection of a mustached old man straining to do sit-ups on the slant board. He saw the milk white skin of chest and arms peculiarly hairless. How many bodies there were which never saw light or air, imprisoned always in the uniforms of the wage earner. He could imagine the little wife and the three kids running the poor bastards on their treadmills to oblivion. His own skin, thank God, was still tan, if only from the quartz lamps downstairs.
At the tenth dead lift, a familiar scratchy voice said, "Hey there, Eric, what brings the boy on a Friday night?"
He finished the five remaining lifts and put down the bar. "You're looking pretty good yourself, Nat," he said, taking his towel from the bench and slinging it around his neck to mop up the perspiration.
The little wiry guy did half a dozen knee bends and yawned. "There's poker goin' on Houston Street later, if you're interested. We got some new blood."
"New green blood, you mean."
"Are you complainin'?"
"Nope." He had taken money from the table four consecutive weeks now. A peculiar run of luck that he wished would overlap into the rest of his life.
"See you there later?"
"Maybe."
Eric strolled away, not wanting to muddy his workout with talking. He couldn't seem to throw off a veil of irritation that clouded even his attitude toward poker. The small Puritron machine hummed busily, fighting to clean the air. He lay down on the slant board beside it and licked the dampness on his upper lip, unaccustomed to this resdessness that seemed to float beneath his skin. He hooked his toes beneath the leather rollers and began a rapid succession of sit-ups.
Half an hour later he had succeeded in tiring himself enough so that his thoughts lay quiet as a subdued pup. His belly felt flat and spare, neatly aligned beneath the expanse of his chest. The room had filled up now as he was leaving. He looked forward with pleasant, simple delight to lying in clouds of wet, cleansing steam.
When he reached the pool, he felt sure of himself again. Concern over Cee-Zee had somehow dissolved or stolen away to a place that he could not reach. The cold slippery tiles felt good beneath his feet and the elastic trunks hugged his flanks like tight admiring hands. He jackknifed off the spring board and glided beneath the pale, chlorinated water to surface at the shallow end. He hoisted himself up with a rush of bubbles and flipped around to sit with his ankles still in the water, shaking his wet hair back off his forehead. He sat thus for a moment gaining his breath, then stood up ready for a shallow dive.
In that instant he saw the white bathing cap, her small pointed chin held high above the water as she did her ladylike sidestroke in the shadow of the diving board.
Apparently she had seen him first because she was smiling at him while she swam. This meant she'd had time to prepare the proper expression on her features. He stood watching her move slowly toward him with her quiet, almost Oriental undulation of the body. She hardly rippled the water and her nose was still dry and powdered. She was certainly a strange fish in this water where men and women bounded around and splashed occasionally with good nature. The sight of Hilda engaged in something he knew she detested pained him. And he realized without satisfaction that she came here because it was the last thing they had ever done together. To join the gym had been her suggestion. A final attempt to build something in common. But it had failed as all her attempts had failed. It was nobody's fault, merely a simple, unfortunate lack of rapport that gave Eric a sense of being cheated which he did not want to live with. Hilda, for the sake of convention, had been willing to overlook this. Perhaps for the sake of love. But he, for the sake of life, had been unwilling to go on that way, unable to find a compromise that could rout his frustration.
He tilted his head in a polite smile of acknowledgement, knowing there was no way to avoid meeting, to avoid conversation. Automatically he walked around to the hand rails and waited there to help her up the steps.
"How nice to see you here, Eric." She stood beside him now, carefully lifting the cap away from her ears and the short dark hair. The fine texture of it curled slightly as she fluffed it out with the tips of her polished fingernails. "You haven't been here for so long, I thought you gave us up."
"I usually come on Thursdays."
He followed her to the bench against the wall, standing away from her as she patted her arms and shoulders dry. Oddly he had the sensation of not wanting to splatter her, though of course she was certainly as wet as himself.
"Well, I'm glad you decided to come tonight." She unzipped a plastic bag and took out a package of cigarettes. "I've been looking forward to seeing you. It's been so long." A note of false casualness under-lined her words.
He sat down on the bench and took one of the proffered cigarettes. Her compact body seemed tense, almost shivering beneath the clinging suit. As she brought the match to her cigarette, he saw the end of it jar through the flame to touch the burning tip. This nervousness was familiar to him. He remembered the nights of her pleading in the darkness. But her sex life was none of his business any longer. He did not want to think about it nor ask if she had any friends. Yet the tight way she moved, the overbright eyes, these revealed too plainly that she was no doubt sleeping alone. He knew the havoc a year of starvation could wreak on a constitution like Hilda's. It was a tragic irony of life that so hungry a body had been graced with the morals of a small town old maid. Eric shifted his position away from her.
"Keeping busy?" she said. "You look very well, you know. The bachelor's life must be agreeing with you."
"I'm getting along."
She laughed with a brittle sound like the shattering of glass. "You're certainly not very talkative, Eric. Such modesty implies many conquests."
He thought: Can the crap, old girl. Go out and have yourself a ball for once. Become a human being like the rest of us slobs. No one's going to feel it if you suffer except you.
Out loud he said, "I've been busy working, believe it or not."
"Oh, I believe it." She looked him full in the face. Her pupils dilated slightly in the glaring yellow light The thick fringe of her lashes seemed to weigh down the lids as though veiling obscene, forbidden thoughts.
"And you? I suppose you've been pretty busy yourself?" He didn't want to ask, yet there was nothing else he could find to say.
"Yes, I'm fine. Very busy, as you say. To suddenly have so much freedom and no responsibilities. It's a breath of fresh air."
The lie of it gagged him. He brought one foot up onto the bench and draped his forearm on the knee, watching a fellow illustrate the Australian crawl to three young girls more interested in his blonde crew cut than in the stroke.
"I'd like to ask you over for a drink," she said. "But I do get up so early on Saturday mornings. I'm teaching French now, you know. Privately." She let the word drop with implied meaning. "Still, one must respect the schedule."
"Supposing I take a rain check on it, then."
"It's such a beautiful view of the harbor. I imagine you've forgotten that already. And only four minutes from New York."
"No, I haven't forgotten."
"If we go right away, I think it will be all right."
Before he had a chance to object, she had stood up. A voluminous smile engulfed him. "Meet you outside in fifteen minutes. I have the car."
"Hilda, I don't think...."
"Good. You shouldn't think. I know you have dozens of women waiting for you. But an hour spent with an old friend can be just as satisfying, can't it?"
Her semblance of light amusement, the effort she was making to maintain the precious pride made Eric consent. Their divorce had beaten her down so completely that he couldn't kick her again about something so meaningless as an hour or two spent in the old house.
"All right," he said. "I'll see you in the lobby."
When he came upstairs, she had not yet arrived. He went over to the candy counter and bought a magazine. No doubt, she would keep him waiting on purpose, pretending that she wasn't anxious. A year had changed her in many subtle ways, now that he thought about it. Or perhaps he was seeing her more clearly, more objectively. She seemed to be drying up, like an olive in the sun. Her slimness, her petitely youthful appearance was contradicted by the gauzy meshing of lines around her mouth. He could imagine how desperately she kept trying to buoy herself up, to maintain the gracious optimism characteristic of well-bred women. But he could see that she must be suffering from an increase of bad moments. Of doubt, of loneliness, of the fear that soon she would be old and no man would see her with the love that makes ugly oldness disappear. He wished that she could have some of Cee-Zee's nonchalance about living. And that Cee-Zee might gain some of Hilda's concern.
Hilda came upstairs ten minutes late, carrying a scarlet purse and gloves which added a touch of hopeful color to her black suit. She moved across the room with a sprightly energy that could attract many men, he thought. If only she let herself believe this.
"You look grand," he said with sincerity, as she took his arm.
"Why, thank you, sir."
They went outside and across the street to her Buick convertible. The scratches on the fender had been covered and a new black canvas top gave a smart appearance to the old car. For the first time, it occurred to him that she might not be making as much money as she pretended. When she'd turned down his offer of alimony, he hadn't tried to force it on her. Perhaps now she regretted the hasty decision of her pride. But even if she were starving, he knew she would never let him know it.
She put the key into the ignition and slid over to let him drive. The familiar feel of the brake catching low toward the floor was gone. His old car, which had seen him through thousands of dusty and rugged miles across the country, was no longer the car he remembered, as the tightened brake and adjusted clutch pedal responded with a bright new reliability. And yet there were little things still the same. The corner of the glove compartment door still extended out of alignment, reminding him of the time he had pounded it with his fist because the lock had stuck. The pair of loaded dice still swung from the rear view mirror. She had not taken them off. Somehow he felt good to be driving the old jalop again. He rested back against the sagging leather and inhaled the sweet odor of gasoline.
"City driving still scares me," she murmured, crossing her legs. "I wanted you for an excuse to take me home, you know."
"Good reason." He observed that she didn't bother to tug down the hem of her skirt and it irritated him that he noticed this. The rectangular outline of her knee cap glinted from the sheen of her stocking. He tried to convince himself that she wasn't displaying her legs purposely. They were very fine legs, well molded with full calves that seemed to contradict the prudishness of her hands folded neatly on her lap. He could smell the odor of Lilac in the closeness of the car. Her subtle femininity irked him. He had no intentions of making a pass at her, she should know that. He wondered if he were driving himself into a trap by going with her.
The convergence of traffic into New Jersey moved slowly but with a steady flow. A couple of drinks, he told himself, then out. Gone, lost. Away from her. His own relaxation began to ebb and he gripped the wheel firmly, promising himself not to lose his temper with her. Funny, the way he always lost his temper with the wrong woman. Cee-Zee would appreciate a whack in the face, no doubt. But Hilda wouldn't. And yet it was always Hilda, the sweet one, the demure one who got the knocking around. He switched on the radio and let it blast too loudly.
In a few minutes she turned it down to a soft rhythm. "You seem preoccupied," she said. "I really hope I'm not taking you out of your way."
"Just one of those things," he said.
"I don't suppose it's so easy to relax in the heart of the big city. That's the lovely thing about Weehauken, I think. So far and yet so near. Always a parking space. Never too much noise."
"Look, I'm not a foreigner."
"Sorry."
He realized he was jumping at her for nothing. "Why don't you give me another cigarette?"
"Love to." She lit one for him and put it between his lips. "I've been thinking about giving up smoking," she said.
"What the heck for?" He frowned around the curling smoke.
"No reason in particular. One gets in the habit of giving up things and the habit begins to multiply all by itself. You must have given up some things in your time, Eric?" She pulled out the ash tray for him. "Remember how it felt?"
He didn't reply. She rolled down the window and put her ungloved palm up to the breeze.
"Or maybe you were always lucky enough to have something ready that could fill the emptiness."
"I don't know," he said because he had to say something. "I never thought about it."
"That's right. I forgot. You're the man who shouldn't think. Gets in your way. You're the active type, if I remember correctly. Do first then make other people think for you afterward."
He dug change out of his pocket to pay the toll. "We can spend an evening together without arguing. After all this time, we can, can't we?"
"Was I arguing, darling? I'm sorry if you thought so. I only meant to try to understand you better. And to understand myself in relation to you. I certainly don't wish to spoil our evening. After all, I'm still in love with you whether you care to hear it or not. Bold of me to say so, isn't it? Well, just take the compliment and let it pass on. There's nothing wrong with my telling you how attractive you are, is there?"
Definitely he knew now that he had made a mistake by coming with her. He could feel her desire clawing toward him from the pert little body. And he didn't want to touch her. Didn't want to become involved with her endless needing that focused on him in a burning point, magnified by the distorted thinking of her conventional mind. He threw the car into second gear to climb the steep hill to the house.
When they turned the corner and drove down the block, he felt a strange jump back into space and time.
The old brick house, ten rooms of it, stood discreet, yet expectant as though it had been lying in wait for him all through the year. He felt tricked, that he had been running in circles on the end of an invisible rope which was all the while drawing him slowly in. He parked in front and sprang out, reaching instinctively into his pocket for the key to the door. A sensation of relief touched him when he realized that he didn't possess that key. He waited as Hilda took hers from her bag and turned it in the lock.
Inside the woody odor of pine walls felt good and countrified to his nostrils. She had not changed any of the furniture. The same leather chairs were in the same positions around the living room and the drawn curtains admitted the same view of the Manhattan skyline which had endeared this cliff house to him.
Without asking, she got the Johnny Walker and poured a double shot over two ice cubes and handed him the glass. He took it and went to the window to gaze out on the violet backdrop of sky. Sipping at his drink, he realized that he did not really feel he belonged in this house. Something had clicked over in his mind which closed the door against his feeling at home here. Imaginatively he stretched himself out across the river to think about his own apartment. He recollected the vision of Cee-Zee swaying drunkenly. This image stopped him from feeling at home on Second Avenue also. He seemed like an inflated balloon floating over everything, belonging nowhere.
Hilda had taken off her jacket and was sitting in the gray wing chair, her feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the matching hassock. "Beautiful, isn't it?" she said softly, sipping at her drink.
"Hm?" And he remembered that she was talking about the view. "Yes. Very beautiful."
"You know, I've never been to your new place. What is it like?" She pushed herself back on the cushion, sitting very straight, almost at right angles to herself.
"Just an apartment. Three rooms. Some chairs. A bed. What could it be like?"
"You must enjoy it."
"I do. At least I did." He turned and sat down on the windowsill. "Right now a friend of mine has taken over. I feel like an expatriate or something." He heard himself talking and wondered what was making him share these thoughts with her. The one quality about Hilda that differed from most women was that she always listened. Not with the top of her mind only, but with all of herself. She had a way of making what he said sound as though it were worth considering. This was a luxury he hadn't been able to indulge for some time.
"I hope you get your privacy back soon."
"So do I."
"You always were a softy."
"Use the right word. Sucker."
"No, I don't agree. There are limits even to your patience. I ought to know about that."
She held out her empty glass to him and he came to take it from her. He could trust Hilda not to get drunk. In all the time they had been together, he had seen her out of control only once and that was the night they had separated. A horrible experience for them both. Having seen Hilda with all her emotions showing, he understood why she never dared let herself go. A frighteningly violent person lived beneath her cool exterior. The kind of violence that did not scream and rave, but could use a knife with devastating results. Almost he could feel the small scar across his neck open again and gushing.
She got up as he took her glass and both of them went to the bar of varnished pine that he had built. "I know a lot of things now that I didn't know once upon a time," Hilda said softly.
"Let's not become analytical." He refilled his own glass.
"I don't want to analyze anything," she said. "I just want to be friends. That shouldn't be impossible, Eric. We've known each other a long time. And well." Her licorice black eyes were two wells filled to brimming with intimacies shared between them. "I don't see that there's anything wrong with two people being ... friends." Her gaze seemed to reach out to him. She tried to smile. But her look was beseeching. She drew a quick little breath. "I'm not as busy as you are. Not really. Oh, there are things and people. But I don't seem to have your knack for getting close."
He turned away from her and put his hands flat down on the bar top. It's surface felt slick and cold.
"I don't seem to have any knack at all." Her voice reached round him, warm and suffering.
"Hilda, let's be honest with each other." He spoke without turning. Not wanting to see the imploring in her eyes, he spoke toward the walls. The photographs he had taken on their cross-country trips seemed dark and haunted in the fading twilight. "We couldn't make it then. There's no reason to think we can now. I'm very fond of you and I respect what you are." He shook his head slowly. "But we don't meet anyplace. We just don't meet."
He felt her hand on his back. His skin prickled in the area of her touch. "I was selfish," she said breathily. "I've learned not to be selfish anymore. It's no fun being alone, darling. I lie in the huge bed every night." Her voice choked off.
"You're a young and beautiful woman. If you'd give yourself the chance to accept people...."
Her hand began to move downward along his spine. "I want to give myself that chance. I want to accept you. As you are. I don't want to change you and try to make you conform to silly rules of behavior that don't make any difference. Can't you understand me, Eric? You were the first man in my life. There can never be another one who means as much to me. When I think of love, when I think of belonging, I think of you. Only you." Her arm slid around his waist. She opened the button of his shirt and he felt the edge of her nails gently against his belly.
He pulled away from her. "I'm sorry, Hilda." Now he turned to speak straight into her begging, upturned face. "I believe you and I appreciate your loyalty. But I can't."
"You never really did find me attractive, did you, Eric?" Her voice was a trifle shrill. "You didn't go for virgins. They bored you. And I'm still a virgin because no other man has touched me. So I still bore you." A pale blue vein stood out on her forehead. "I know how it is with my Eric. He needs violence and profanity. He needs sluts who spit on him afterward. He needs to pay for abortions he isn't even sure are his own." She whirled and strode off to the window, flinging it up and breathing deeply as though all the air had been cut off from her. "Sometimes I wonder why you aren't dead of some filthy disease." She rapped her knuckles in anguish against the window frame. The wind lifted her hair in little whisps and wafted her perfume back toward his nostrils.
"Good-bye, Hilda. I'm sorry." Buttoning his shirt, he started toward the door.
"No, don't!"
Her heels clicked rapidly on the floor and she stood blocking his exit, her thin arms extended.
"I didn't come here to fight with you. Let's cut this thing clean," he said. "It's no use. You see that."
"Let's make believe," she said desperately. "We never met before. We don't know anything about each other. Two strangers. I asked you in for a drink." She took his hand and tried to pull him back to the bar. Her skin felt clammy. With trembling movements, she poured his glass full. "There. Now I'll say, Mr. Spokane, you sound like you're in a very interesting business. Tell me about life insurance. I've been thinking about taking out a policy, only I don't know which one would be best for me."
He felt all curdled inside. "I don't want to drag this out, Hilda. Please let me go."
"Why, Mr. Spokane, don't you enjoy selling insurance? Doesn't it fascinate you, all those millions of dollars that pass through your hands every month?"
Her mouth was slightly open and she spoke as though her tongue were thick and dry.
"Hilda, I want to go."
"Well then, we can talk about photography, shall we? I'm thinking of buying a Rolliflex. Would you advise it?"
"Hilda."
"You're not giving me a chance. You're not. You're not! Do I have to throw myself at your feet and bleed? Do I have to lower myself beyond humiliation?" She reached out and clutched the collar of his jacket. "Stay with me just this once, Eric. I'm begging you, can't you see that?" Her voice splintered away into silence. She rested her cheek against him now. Her arms hung helplessly at her sides as her body shook with sobs that she could not control.
He put his hand on her hair and began to stroke it The knowledge of Hilda's body forcing her to do this thing, so shameful in her own eyes, made him gentle. Sometimes in the past, he had wondered if there were any woman so cursed as Hilda by cravings she couldn't bear to face. Yes, he could stay with her this one night, but what would it solve? She would need it again and again. Her nature demanded it. She could not direct her energies sufficiently into other channels. Heaven alone knew how hard she must have tried. But he must not make the mistake of getting involved with her again. He did not want to be a stud horse for her.
"I need you," she sobbed into his jacket. "God help me, but I need you."
In a sudden flash of anger, he wondered what kind of catastrophe would make Cee-Zee say these words to him. He closed his eyes for a moment and Hilda became the tanned careless creature who had drifted into his world. He put his lips down to her head and held her close.
"Honey, it's all right," he whispered. And the Lilac perfume became the soapy smell of Cee-Zee.
He pulled himself out of it with a jolt but Hilda was already in his arms, her lips reaching eagerly up toward his own.
I must be nuts, he thought.
But he began to kiss her. His body stiffened, wanting to thrust her from him.
"I knew you would be good to me, darling," she whispered against his neck.
The words made him feel nauseous and stupid. Something was all twisted, all wrong. He had no business letting himself get so out of hand about Cee-Zee. He certainly had no business allowing this with Hilda.
Phoney, selfish bastard, he thought. And weak. God damn it, weak. Where were his rules, where were his guts? He wanted to kick his own teeth in and get on a tramp steamer and disappear someplace into Asia.
"You're the one thing that can protect me from myself," Hilda whispered.
Yeah, sure, he thought, and wondered how one woman could be so far off.
"Kiss me, darling, just a little."
What the hell, he thought. The world goes round anyway. Cockeyed round. Daisy chain round. Peter loves Mary who's hot for a fairy....
"Eric, hold me tight. Squeeze me."
The wind rusded a magazine on the table. He put his arms around her fragile body. He could break her in half without trying. The muscles of his forearms flexed, pressing into her back. He heard the breath go out of her.
He bore down on her open mouth and felt her lip go back hard against her teeth. A sound grunted deep in her throat. She struggled but he held onto her, bending her head back on her neck almost hoping it would snap off. Lifting her from the floor, he lay her down on the hassock so that it supported the small of her back.
"On the couch, darling," she muttered. "More comfortable."
"Shut up."
She twisted away and rolled onto the floor. He grabbed for her. The material of her blouse shredded in his hands. "Eric, you're wild," she rasped. "You wanted it, bitch."
He dragged her to him and flung all of his weight on her small frame. Without care, he yanked at the skirt and her underthings till she lay naked and bruised on the hard cold wood. Her compact breasts quivered, her stomach heaved. She spread her legs. Her eyes seemed to roll up dizzily. "You need me, you need me," she grunted.
He could have killed her. "I don't need you for anything." The words were hardly audible. "You need me."
Sparks of electricity seemed to be shooting out from him in the echo of this he. He knew it was so. He didn't need her, not for anything. But it was she who needed him, craved him, and was lying there sick with this craving. A surge of power filled him. His insides felt phosphorescent with the strength of command over her. For a moment, he held himself away.
"Eric. Take me."
"I'll take you. In my own good time."
The cruelty broke through his dam of reserve. He held himself away as she arched her body toward him, her white skin taut and rippling with eagerness. Her hand groped blindly till it found his neck. She tried to drag him down to her but he held himself away, running his hands all over her body, biting these same paths of flesh and feeling her quivers of pain and delight blending into each other and chasing her high to the peak of desire.
Her hips began to move in an arching circular motion. The speed increased as though she were mentally obtaining what he withheld from her.
"Damn you, Eric. I want it now!"
"Savor it, baby. Give yourself a chance to appreciate."
"You're driving me crazy."
"We're all crazy," he muttered to himself.
The shadows of night covered their nakedness and they lay as though in the Garden of Evil.
He felt her body shudder and heave as he moved into her. Her voice tore on a long intake of breath and she laced her arms and legs around him. Rhythmically and hard, he heard her buttocks slapping with dull thuds on the unyielding floor. Her body raced on faster and faster. Then with a little cry, she became rigid, her back poised in mid air. Slowly her bruised thighs relaxed away from him.
Sometime, it felt like hours later, she rolled away and lay beside the legs of the couch. He had gotten up and was standing, still naked, at the bar, drinking alone.
"You think I'm a tramp, don't you?"
The words were too profoundly ridiculous. He didn't bother to answer.
"I said, you think I'm a tramp, don't you?"
"I don't think anything. I'm in no position to judge anybody. Least of all you."
She sat up slowly and rubbed her hips. "I'd be better off dead, wouldn't I?"
He finished the Scotch in two large gulps, feeling it burn down his gullet. But it could not burn away the isolation that smothered him. "Stop torturing yourself," he said. "You're making a big thing out of nothing."
"I'd be better off dead if I didn't know that I could count on seeing you again." Her words were dull with conviction.
He saw her breasts out-lined in the window.
"Close it," he said. "It's getting chilly in here."
"I don't know why it has to be you I love," she said, pulling the window down slowly. "But nobody else could do what you've just done for me."
"Have you tried?" he answered matter-of-factly.
"There are some things a woman knows instinctively."
"Rot."
"I don't expect you to believe me."
He moved in the darkness to find his clothes and pulled them on slowly. All of him ached as though he had stood up for a month. A slight throb was beginning in his temples and something seemed to be pushing from the insides of his eyeballs. He got himself dressed, jamming his tie into the pocket of his jacket.
"Are you going to leave me, just like this, in the middle of nowhere?" she said.
"Believe it, baby, you're not alone." His words came out with unexpected bitterness.
"Do something for me," she said, coming close to him.
"Sure, if I can."
Her hand moved among the glasses and bottles on the bar and he heard her rings clink against them. Then he felt her hand drop something into his shirt pocket. He reached up to find the outline of a key in it.
"Whenever you want to," she said. "I'm not the kind to play hard to get."
He swallowed, thinking he would drop the damn thing into the sewer when he got outside. "But I don't want you to sit here waiting for me."
"What else have I got to do?"
"Teach French."
He didn't wait for further conversation, but got the hell out of there, knowing that Hilda at least would have a good night's sleep.