Chapter 9

HELEN HEARD THE CAR PULL UP in front of the house, but thought nothing of it. The time was three-fifteen, too early to be expecting Joe. Besides, he always came on foot and she heard his footsteps from afar.

Then suddenly she heard his voice, muffled but unmistakably angry. He was talking to someone-it seemed-a woman. A woman whose voice rose and fell bitterly. They were arguing, Joe and a woman!

Dread gripped Helen's soul, but she took hold of herself, steeled herself for what must come. It had happened: the other woman had come into the picture. She had been hoping, offering up silent prayers, that the Fates would delay this moment; but deep in her heart she had all along known that sooner or later it must come. She had vowed to fact it calmly, to hold on, to fight with every fiber of her physical, every wile of her mental being; and if at last she must give him up, why then she would see! ... She could no longer conceive of going on without him-eating, sleeping, washing, combing, cooking her food, caring for herself. These things would not matter then. Nothing would matter.

He entered the house, not noisily as he always did, but silently. His face was cut and swollen, one of his eyes was blackened and almost shut. Her breath hissed through her teeth, but she did not cry out and rush to him, as her every instinct bade her. The girl, slim, long-haired, thin-faced, stood beside him in the doorway, sullen, making no attempt to disguise her boredom. He came towards her, forcing his thick broken lips to smile.

"Helen, I want you to meet a friend of mine. Her name is Fran. She has no place to stay, so I invited her to spend the night here."

She nodded, but said nothing.

The forced smile faded, the lines of his jaw hardened. "I promised her you'd tell her she was welcome, Helen. Tell her it!"

Not looking at the girl, she murmured, "If you're a friend of Joe's, you're welcome." The words stuck in her throat and she had to swallow to get them out.

Joe turned to the girl impatiently, "dome on in out of the door. Don't stand there like a zombie!"

"I'll make some coffee," Helen offered, in confusion. She could not bear to stand there, facing the smug creature.

Joe nodded, "Fast as you can. I need the shuteye bad."

They drank the coffee silently, sitting at the kitchen table, avoiding each other's eyes. Even Joe, brazen as he was, seemed unsure of himself. Who was this girl? Why did Joe want her here? How did he get beaten up like that? She wanted to ply him with questions but couldn't in front of the girl. She felt low, degraded, shamed to the core. She had thought she had been mistaken. Even a worm had pride, she supposed. She had to swallow hard to keep from sobbing ... Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions. After all, he had been honest enough to bring his friend home. He could easily have kept her ignorant of the existence of this ... She was just the kind of shameless little hussy she had tried to shield Sue from. And now Joe had brought her here. Why? Why didn't he explain? For perhaps there was an explanation. There must be! Joe had defended her in a brawl somewhere, that would account for his face. That must be it, Helen thought. He had said he wanted to sleep, poor boy. She must control herself, not jump to conclusions. But ... how would they sleep'.' There was only one bed....

And how would he arrange it, she wondered? There was only the kitchen and the one room. Who would lie have sleep on the couch? Would he expect that of her in her own house? That she let him share the bed with that-that smug young hussy! I Oh, God, no! Not in the apartment for which she paid the rent! Would they dare ask her? And if they did, would she do their bidding? ... Good Heavens! She was becoming confused. The coffee cup trembled in her hand and she was compelled to set it down.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Joe announced that he would sleep on the couch. She and the girl went into the bedroom together, while he smoked a final cigarette in the kitchen.

"Hurry it up, you two. I can't keep my eyes open much longer!"

Standing on either side of the bed, they shed their clothes. She slipped into her nightgown quickly, embarrassed at the thought of having to expose her body to a stranger, even for a moment. Fran un dressed slowly, carefully folding her skirt, blouse and underclothes, each thing as she removed it, placing diem neatly on the chair beside the bed. She seemed to be doing it purposely-to show her more youthful body in the hope this would discourage her, weaken her resolve to fight for Joe. If this was her intention, she failed to achieve it. Helen did not think herself in the least inferior to Fran, for all the difference in the age. In fact, if anything, seeing Fran in the nude encouraged her. The girl's breasts were a bit too small, her hips a bit too narrow, her legs a bit too sturdy And her skin-why, it was not at all as smooth as her own! All she had was youth. That, and nothing more.

Later, when Joe came into the room and stretched out on the couch, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep. It was a vain effort. She knew that sleep would not come. She could not stand the thought of another girl in bed beside her. When Fran as much as stirred or took a deep breath, a wave of repulsion swept her. She was so used to sleeping with Joe, with his head on her breast and her fingers in his hair, that it seemed a part of her was not there, she was incomplete ... It was dark and-but for their respirations-silent in the room. Joe and Fran were not asleep, either. She could tell from their occasional impatient stirrings, and from the sound of their breathing. Soon, in an hour or so, the dawn would break. She wished to hurry it, to bring it here. Oh, if only the light would shine through the drawn blinds and the darkness be disspelled!

But she knew the dawn would not come in time. She had sensed that something would happen in the darkness. Soon. In a minute or two, or five perhaps, or ten at the most. Something dreadful. And unseen, she blushed in the darkness, blushed to the roots of her hair.

Joe was not asleep. He tossed restlessly and shifted to get his aching ribs in a more comfortable position. He kept reliving the moments when he lay helpless on the sidewalk in front of Mique's, with the three toughs showering blows and kicks down on him; brightness exploding, and then darkness and no more pain. He had the pain now. More than enough of it to make up. His head felt as if it had been cracked oepn, and his mouth as if every tooth had been jarred loose. Served him right! No more playing the hero for him! If only he could fall asleep, everything would be all right.

He wasn't worried about Helen, she would forgive him anything, even his having brought a strange babe into the house. As for having caused the breakup of Fran and Charley Grant, he wasn't worried about that either. Fran was a hard babe. As she had said, she could take care of herself. Yeah. Yeah, everything would be all right, if only ... Damn! Listen to that alarm clock tick away!

Suddenly the bedside lamp was lit. His head was to the back of the couch, he turned to see what was happening. It was Fran. She got out of bed, without a stitch of clothes, and was coming towards him. Helen sat up in bed, was watching her. So was he-he couldn't help himself. Her slim white body passed close to him. There was a knowing little smile on her lips. In the doorway of the kitchen she paused, and looking back over her shoulder asked, "Is the bathroom in here?"

"The door on the right," he said.

"Bitch!" he thought; she didn't have to go to the bathroom. Not this soon after getting into bed. She was doing it to hurt Helen, make her think things that weren't so. And maybe she was doing it for another reason too-to get him worked up. Why? So he would get into bed with her, and she could get at Helen that way. Bitch! Well, he wasn't that desperate, he had seen a few babe's bodies in his time! And hers wasn't that hot, either. Far from it. Fact was, if he had never seen either of diem before, her or Helen, he would probably have preferred Helen. He went for them short and with a bit of meat on them, not tall and slim like her. He glanced to Helen, wishing to reassure her; but she had lain back and shut her eyes.

When Fran returned, got under the covers and clicked off the light, Joe was still thinking of her. Previously he had thought only of her purpose in exposing herself to him like that, in front of Helen. But now he was thinking of the act itself, of the knowing little smile on her lips, of the way she had paused in the doorway with her back to him, of the slim figure, the tiny shapely breasts, the small hips which had swayed seductively as she had come close. He kept comparing her to Helen, assuring himself that it was only youth that favored her. Youth and the novelty of her-the contrast between her body and Helen's, which by this time he knew as well as his own.

Whatever it was, he could not get her out of his mind. He grew warm, his wounds ached him more than ever, he shifted from side to side. Listen to that clock tick, just listen to it! He would never fall asleep. Not here on this couch.

And suddenly a new thought: he would fall asleep if he were next to Helen, lying with his head on her breast. He had become used to sleeping this way. It would comfort him. He was human-there were times when he needed comforting. And he would behave, he wouldn't touch Fran, wouldn't hurt Helen, He had that much self-control. Suppose he were to get into bed with them? ... The idea caught fire in his brain, and the flame spread through the fibers of his being.

He got up, in the darkness stepped out of his trousers, rationalizing mat it would be too hot under the covers with his clothes on. Fran wouldn't mind. How could she, after showing herself in the nude that way? As for Helen-well, she would forgive hint tomorrow. She would have to!

He got into bed on Fran's side, climbing over her. She moved aside to make room for him. Helen, pretending to be asleep, did not stir; but she was breathing heavily, unevenly.

He got under the sheets between them. For a while he lay flat on his back, staring into the darkness, waiting. He was in contact with them on either side, his arms and legs touching theirs. Helen was warm and damp, Fran surprisingly cool. Suddenly Fran's hand was on his arm, stroking it gently. "Tramp!" he thought, in disgust. He drew free, turned to Helen, put his arms around her and lowered his head to her breast. She was still pretending, not letting on she knew he was there.

He tried to sleep. His mind was wandering hazily. He couldn't get her out of it. Her, the bitch, the tramp, on the other side of the bed, whose icy feet were touching his, rubbing, signaling.

Then he felt her hand on his thigh. She touched the skin so lightly at first that he thought he was only imagining it. Then the pressure became more definite, the hand bolder. It strayed all over him, touched just the right spots, the nerve centers. At last he could hold out no longer. "Bitch!" he muttered under his breath-"Bitch!" He raised his head and turned it to her, then moved into her waiting arms, and kissed her so savagely that a crack broke on his lip and he could feel the wetness, and taste the salt, of his blood. She moaned and sighed, bit his shoulder and dug her nails into his flesh. "Dirty bitch!-dirty bitch!" he kept muttering. He wished to hurt her, to avenge Helen for the hurt they were doing her; yet he knew that he could not hurt her enough, it was the very savagery of his onslaught that she craved.

He did not think of Helen till later, staring into the darkness, listening to Helen's choked sobs, feeling the bed tremble under him. Pity surged up in him and he turned to her and said, "I'm sorry, Helen. Forgive me! I didn't mean-listen, will you listen-!"

For Helen it had been like some terrible nightmare. She willed Joe to remain where he was the minute she heard him move. But he was coming and a moment later his head was on her breast. Oh God, she couldn't! And yet she wanted to run her fingers through his hair and hold his hard muscular body close to her! Not in front of Fran. She couldn't. It would be like taking part in an orgy. Even as he turned towards her ... thank God he had done that ... she felt the blood mount to her cheeks. She was pretending to be asleep. She couldn't encourage him. She couldn't have stood it if he began to make love to her beside Fran.

And then suddenly she felt him shifting. Helen froze. He was turning away from her. "Bitch," he was saying, "bitch!" She heard the girl breathe outwards and then inwards quickly as though she had been struck. A foot struck her ankle ... it was Fran's, the girl's ... At that point Helen held her breath and listened. Every groan, every shudder, every muffled movement came to her. How horrible! Oh God, take me away from here! How could she ever have had anything to do with him! He was a tramp, like the girl. She had known it all along! They had probably planned it all! To shame her! In her own bed!

A strangled grunt came from her lover. "Dirty bitch! Dirty bitch!" he gasped. Don't touch me! something shrieked inside Helen. Joe was turning, his forearm struck her elbow. No! It burst from her lips in a desperate whisper, and then her whole body began to cave in, her knees fell apart, crooked high, her large cream-soft thighs forming the gaping maw of a silken crocodile....

Joe was too mixed up to take cognizance of her just then. He stared up at the darkness silently. The little bitch! She made me do that! She taunted me! And then suddenly I wanted it just like she did, and I forgot about Helen. What a bastard I am!

Oh hell, I made every more for her to overhear. I was holding Helen, not Fran; both, gosh, them both! I wonder if she got hot? At that moment Helen's left thigh fell like a soft kitten on his right kneecap.

Helen felt herself open up in a huge snarl at Fran....

And Fran, after listening to his lousy pleading! He was going on to Helen! That fat old bitch! Probably sends him out every night like this to get a girl like me back for extra thrills! Who does he think he's kidding?

Joe and Helen didn't seem to be kidding. He was moving over her....

Fran listened too. She could not help it. She heard Helen's sobs, heard him beg her forgiveness, heard diem embrace and kiss. And then she heard Helen's sighs and gasps and moans, felt the bed shake and move, knew just what was happening; and she couldn't stand it, she'd scream if it didn't stop!

But was it really happening? Was it happening to her? She couldn't believe it. No man would do this to her, move from her arms to those of another woman, beg that other woman's forgiveness for having made love to her, and now this!

She pressed the pillow around her ears to shut out the sound, but that didn't help. She dug her nails into her palms till she felt blood, but that didn't help either. And she couldn't leave, she wanted to but couldn't; she must stay it out, must drink the bitter draught down to its dregs.

She stared into the darkness as the bed moved under her. She did not shed tears or sob or tremble as Helen had, yet her weeping was no less for its being dry and silent and immobile. She wept within-the only way she could. The unshed tears were stored inside, turned rancid, became a vile and poisonous brew. She would never forget the one who had done this to her, would never forgive. That one was not Joe, but Helen. She had forgiven Joe; in her own hard fashion she loved him-had loved him from the night they had met in that smelly motel in Jacksonville where she had danced for him.

Despite her youth and vivacity, Frances Mullins' soul was small and warped. Life had spat on her, laid her down and stepped on her. Much as she might try to disguise it from others, and even from herself, she hated the world of men.

Such hatred, were it concentrated and focused on a symbol, might be a most dangerous thing....