Chapter 6
THE HEADLIGHTS OF THE RED convertible pushed a swath of brightness into the night. Below them the tires hummed a tune, beside them the wind moaned threateningly, like a cat about to leap. Approaching lights blinded her momentarily, she shut her eyes and held her breath. How fast they were going! Was it safe? A subway rider all her life, she had never driven a car, had no driver's license. In fact it was only on rare occasions that she had sat in the front seat.
"Joe, the speedometer says ninety," she murmured timidly. "Don't you think you ought to-"
"It's all right, Helen. Stop worrying. I'm the one that's behind the wheel." He grinned and tightened his hold on the wheel. His eyes stared into the windshield, following the swath of light ahead. He seemed to be thoroughly engrossed, tense, happy-like a boy who has found a new, if dangerous, toy. She smiled in spite of herself. Oh well, let him enjoy himself, he would be young only once!
"Look at the speedometer now. I've got the gas pedal down to the floor."
"Ninety-five."
"Hm-m. Not bad for a second-hand jalopy."
Joe realized the danger, knew that tires did blow even if they were practically brand new, knew that curves did come up unexpectedly now and then, and that once in a while a truck going in the opposite direction did cross the white line. The danger was part of it-if it weren't dangerous there would be no excitement. Vet the danger seemed unreal. Death was inconceivable to him, as it usually is to the young and vigorous of the species. It was a misfortune that might befall others, but not himself.
"Let's stop and get some sleep, Joe. I'm awfully tired." For the past two or three hours she had been putting out the suggestion.
"Soon," he said, "-another half hour."
In a little while he heard the even rise and fall of her breathing and knew that she had dozed off. ! He eased up a bit on the gas pedal and held the wheel less tightly. Seventy-that was fast enough when you were getting drowsy. No cops had given chase yet, though he had been half-hoping this would happen. The red convertible would give a prowl car or motorcycle a run for the money.
His mind wondered. He thought of his mother, how she had looked when he had kissed her goodbye-so unhappy, and trying not to show it. She was the one person in the world whom he genuinely I loved. He had been cruel to her, leaving her so unexpectedly three years before, neglecting to visit or j write ... But he'd had to leave her. And he couldn't have written, because he must lie in his letters and j he did not wish to lie to her.
And his father had come to hate him-he had seen it in the old man's eyes. Well, let him! He felt sorry for the old guy. He had been proud, honest, and hard-working all his life, and what did he have to show for it? A few thousand in the bank maybe, to keep him going after he reached sixty-five. If he ever did. But his strength was gone, he was a bald, I bent old man. What good was money in the bank, what good living that long, if you looked like that? You were only prolonging the suffering. Himself, he had already decided when he would cash in.
When he reached forty. By then he would have got all the fun that was to be had out of life, and what was left-the slow agony of aging-would not be for him. He had even decided how he would do it. He had thought it all out.
Later, in a motel with the silly sounding name "Sleep-E-Zee Grove," he fell asleep with his head on Helen's breast. He seldom admitted it, even to himself, but sometimes at night it was a relief to give himself up to her ... it was as though he were admitting his ultimate dependence upon her in the only way consistent with his male pride. Some times, he knew he was hard on her only because it hurt him to be financially dependent on her. At night when he was tired the pretense fell away and he communicated his knowledge of this to her in this particular physical way.
Helen also was very tired but she couldn't doze off. Her fingers were lost in his thick wavy hair. It was so soft and silky, like a child's rather than a man's. David's hair had been like that. It occurred to her that if Joe had been a few years younger he might have been David's son. Sometimes she wondered it would have been if Joe and Sue had got together. She could have given them money and Joe would not have been driven by guilt to hurt her as he did. But would she have done so? And would Joe have been happy with Sue? His hair was so soft ... She recalled Henry Kohler's dry skimpy hair. Ugh! And his scalp had always been moist and sticky. Then she thought of Henry, how beaten and dejected he had been at the end, when he knew for certain that he could not bring her to her senses. He had loved her-probably the one man who ever had ... Joe? Well, he said he loved her, tried to convince her of it, and sometimes, because she so badly wanted to, she believed him. But deep in her heart she knew better. Joe was using her for his own purposes. Yes, but what of it? She had this night, and the night after, and possibly the night after that ... After then?-oh, but she wouldn't think of that!
All the same she did, and her thoughts made her shiver. Oh God, what had she let herself in for? She had forsaken everything-a career, a comfortable home, a man who loved her, a sister who needed her-to run off with this boy. This boy who sometimes reminded her of a fierce irresponsible child and at other times of a hunted animal.
They were on their way to Florida. Why Florida, why so far from home? Did he intend to steal her money and abandon her there, as Henry said? Could he?-did he have it in him? She continued to play with his hair. And what if she should become pregnant? It was unlikely, but it might happen. She remembered what the doctor had told her a few years back: "You're not exactly sterile, Miss Carter-hardly that-but if you wish to conceive...." But she didn't wish to conceive. In fact she wished not to conceive! Joe was her baby and she had room in her heart for no other ... But why had she thought of becoming pregnant?-why such a farfetched notion at this particular moment? ... She was confused, conscious of a vague apprehension. She would be falling asleep soon.
The following night they were in another motel on the outskirts of Jacksonville, and surprisingly, it was Joe who was unable to sleep this time. He sat up in bed, puffing a cigarette and reading the paper which he had picked up in town that afternoon. Now and then he glanced at the sleeping woman beside him and grinned. It was warm and she had thrown off the covers. He liked her asleep-liked her tousled brunette hair on the pillow, her full firm breasts jutting up, the smooth white skin of her If you looked close she wasn't bad. Not half-bad. And there was youth and pure tenderness in the small wan face-qualities which he saw only when she was asleep, probably because of the lowered lids and the lack of make-up.
A freight train passed, and the sound of it shattered the stillness of the night. The motel was on a highway that ran parallel with the tracks, and when a train approached it seemed to be headed for the very room in which they were.
He got out of bed, slipped into his trousers and shirt, stepped into his shoes. No use trying to sleep, it was just too noisy in this dump. What a place for a motel-right next to the railroad tracks! He looked at his wrist watch. Quarter of one-six hours to dawn. And he'd read the paper all the way through ... Maybe he ought to wake Helen and push on to Miami Beach. The earlier they started, the earlier they'd get there ... But no, he'd had just about enough of driving with the lights of trucks shining in his eyes, blinding him. Besides, Helen looked as if. she needed the sleep. He was more considerate of her than usual tonight.
He opened the door of the cabin and stepped out. The courtyard was oval-shaped, circled with cabins, and in the center of the oval was a bench.
At one end of this sat a girl smoking. She did not look in his direction, though he knew she must have heard the door open and seen him emerge. It was dark and he could not make out her face from where he stood. He could tell she was slim and of average height, but could not tell whether she was young or old, ugly or plain. "Young-young and ugly"-that was his guess. It would take a brave woman to be out there by herself, and the few brave women he had come upon had all been young and ugly.
He lit a cigarette and strolled towards the bench. As he drew close he recognized her. She had checked in about the same time he and Helen had. He recalled that she had been with a man, that the pair had arrived in a huge late-model car with an Ohio tag. It was the man who caught his eye first. A flashily-dressed man in his late thirties, puffing angrily on a fat cigar. He had a brisk businesslike manner, spoke rather brusquely in a hoarse guttural voice to the motel keeper. At first Joe assumed the girl was his daughter, but on second thought decided she couldn't be. The girl was coarse and hard, with eyes like flint-no, he wasn't anyone's father!
He sat down on the bench and puffled languidly at the cigarette. Another freight train went by, and somewhere in the noisy interim of its passage his thoughts took another turn. He had forgotten the girl who sat on the bench with him, she no longer existed. He was thinking of his mother again, of the wrongs he had done her. He had known all along, ever since he left her three years to go to Mrs. Gowan's, that he was doing wrong by her. He tried not to think of it. Sometimes you couldn't help it, though, like now. You had nothing to do, and memories kept pushing in.
His father, too-the old man's sickly face, his stooped figure-kept reappearing in his thoughts. "He's old and bent and bald-worn out, disgusted-so he hates me ... because I'm young and strong and healthy ... hates me!" But the more he tried to convince himself, the less certain he became. Maybe it wasn't so. After all, he was his son, his only child. It didn't seem natural somehow. " ... Maybe he's just bitter because I'm taking the easy way, because I'm not doing what he thinks is best for me."
Best for him, hell!-he knew what was best for him. It was this-having a classy car, a babe to support him, being on his way to Florida. The old man would have had him stay on at school till he was eighteen, slaving away at his studies, getting the best grades in his class. Why? What for? So he could get out and get some cheap job-like a clerk or a mechanic (or maybe a baker, eh?)-work hard for the rest of his life and eventually get to look like ... No, not for him! It was just that-watching his father age, watching him get bent and bald, knowing he was getting no reward for it, had nothing but a measly few bucks in the bank-that had made him pick up that day three years before and move into Mrs. Cowan's. It had been tough at first, because living by your wits-cheating, stealing, rolling queers-can be tough. But now he had it made, was being repaid for the lean years ... Why, he was only a kid, only nineteen, and already he had more to show of the better things in life than his father, for all his straightness, decency and hard work.
He lit another cigarette and inhaled a lungful of smoke. He felt better now, relieved somehow, though he could not have said why. The sense of guilt was gone. He was suddenly very tired, believed that if he were to get into bed with Helen he might doze off. The thought of being with her, next to her who loved him so much, was comforting. She was the only one in the world who did love him, outside of his mother. Too bad she was thirty-one.
He pushed himself to his feet and was about to start for his cabin when the girl at the other end of the bench said, "Can I trouble you for a light?"
He walked to her and handed her his cigarette. As she reached for it her hand touched his. She placed the cigarettes end to end, puffed several times till hers was lit, then returned his.
"Thanks, little boy," she murmured. Her expression was bored and disinterested.
There was something about her he didn't like. He would have walked off and never given her another thought if she hadn't spoken again.
"Don't go yet. You won't be able to sleep."
His curiosity aroused, he asked, "Why not?"
He was surprised upon looking to her again to see that her expression had changed. She looked anything but bored.
"Because those cabins were disinfected last night, and the smell is enough to choke you."
"I didn't notice it in mine." He told her he thought it was the trains that kept him awake.
"Oh, those-they don't bother me. I was born and raised next to the railroad tracks. But the thought of those bedbugs and cockroaches lying dead all over the place-ugh!" She grimaced and shook her head. "By the way, who am I speaking to?"
He told her his name, and she said that hers was Frances, "-Fran to you,"-she added; and smiling suddenly: "I only let the people I like call me that."
She was young, about his own age, had small even features and long straight hair which in the darkness appeared to be chestnut-colored. The thing about her that he disliked-he realized now-had been her eyes. There was a cheap, hard look in diem-knowing, wise beyond her years. They told him she was a tramp and like himself, lived by her wits. She had been through the mill and knew all the answers, you couldn't pull the wool over her eyes.
Her smile was nice, though, she had small, even white teeth. And when she smiled that look faded from her eyes.
It wasn't her smile that kept him, it was curiosity. He had come upon very few hard women in his life, and none of these had been as young as she.
"Where you headed for?" he asked.
"Miami Beach," she said. "And you?"
He told her, she nodded thoughtfully and said, "Good, then we'll be seeing more of each other."
"Maybe."
They chatted and smoked cigarette after cigarette. She was a good conversationalist, quick-thinking, wisecracking, snappy on the come-back. She didn't fall all over him either. She was friendly-yeah, and yet she kept her distance, was-well-aloof, you might say. Or proud. He liked that about her.
They had been talking of impersonal matters for the most part, so it came as a surprise to him when she suddenly asked, "Who's the old lady?"
He knew who she meant but pretended not to.
"You know-the one you're sleeping with."
"Oh-you mean my wife?"
"She's not!"
"You saw the ring on her finger."
"I've got one of those, also-" she raised her hand to show him-"but that doesn't mean I'm anyone's-" She broke off and laughed; then, on a note of finality said, "I don't care what she is to you."
Yet she continued to talk of Helen, bringing her into the conversation unneccessarily, commenting on her dress, her looks, her age, referring to her as "your Aunty." At last, much to his surprise, he found himself actually blushing for Helen, and muttered under breath, "Lay off, will you Fran. I haven't mentioned the flashy old bum you checked in with!"
"It's about time you did," she retorted. "I was waiting for that."
She was surprisingly frank and open with him. She told him that the man's name was Charley Grant, he was a gambler, she had met him in Columbus, Ohio, in a honky-tonk nightclub where she had been working as a stripper.
"If you had a job, why did you take off with him?" he asked.
"Did it ever strike you I might go for him?"
He laughed. "Who you trying to kid?"
Suddenly thoughtful, she shook her head. "No, I wouldn't try to kid you, Joe. He promised to take me to Miami Beach and keep me in style, all winter-that's why I went with him."
She went on to give him a quick resume of her life, from birth to the present. She spoke in a flat, detached voice, as if it were a stranger she referred to. She had been born twenty-one years ago in Kansas City, Missouri to a mother who did not want her and a father who was an alcoholic. She had known little love or tenderness as a child, been beaten mercilessly and made to suffer all sorts of deprivations. At fifteen she ran away from home, ever since she had been on her own, making her way as best she could. She had traveled through several midwestern states, working first as a waitress and later as a B girl in cheap bars and honky-tonk nightclubs.
"Experience has taught me that the easy way is the best way," she concluded. "So when Charley Grant came along just when I'd been thinking of going to Miami Beach...."
He asked her if she'd been to Miami Beach before, and she said, Yes, the previous winter. And added, "I intend to spend every winter of my life there, from now on. It's a fast town-my sort of town."
Then she confessed that she had a secret ambition, which she never told anyone about, except-well-except people like herself, whom she liked. She had lost her certainty and spoke shyly now hesitating, looking away from him. He thought she might even be blushing. She said she wanted to be a dancer.
"Oh, not a stripper-anyone can take her clothes off and grind her hips. I mean-well-a dancer. You know-ballet ... that sort ... I took some lessons."
She got to her feet, took a few steps, spread her arms, and humming softly began to dance. It was a weird sight at two-thirty in the morning, in the oval-shaped courtyard of a cheap motel in Jacksonville. There was something unearthly, unreal about it-the way she glided and spun with her skirt flaring, the patter and scratching of her shoes on cement, the muted song issuing from her. And all around the blackness, the silence. It seemed that all living things on earth had died and only the two of them remained-he the watcher, she the dancer.
Watching her, he began to feel sorry for her. She was hard and lived by her wits; like himself, he thought in a fit of self-recrimination, she had taken the easy way. But maybe there was more excuse for her, maybe there had been no other way open to her. He recalled the story she had told him, the flat detached voice in which she spoke. Now she danced for him, a stranger, exposing herself, laying bare her soul.
When the dance ended she drew close to him, and breathing heavy stood there, looking into his face, waiting.
He told her what he thought she was waiting for-that he had liked the dance. It was true. He knew nothing of dancing, had never been to the ballet, but he understood, felt with her, while she danced.
It was not his compliment she was waiting for, however; she remained where she was, continued to look up at him, searching his eyes. She moved a step closer, so that their bodies touched. She reached up, put her arms around his neck, drew his face close to hers. Their lips met for just an instant. Then they broke apart and stepped back, as if by mutual consent.
He was suddenly weary, anxious to have another try at sleeping. It was three a.m. and he planned to get an early start.
She seemed to sense his change of mood, there was a note of humility in her voice as she asked, "Will I see you again?"
"I guess so," he said.
"Where?"
"On the beach-the sand, where people lie about in their bathing suits."
"Do you?"
"No, I just go there to swim."
"The beach is big-where on the beach?"
"I don't know," he said impatiently. He wished to be rid of her.
"The part of the beach nearest the dog track," she suggested.
"Okay ... But why there?"-he had been pricked by curiosity again.
"Because if I know Charley, he'll want to live close to the track as possible."
"See you, then."
"See you, Joe."