He made a great deal of noise with the ice trays so he wouldn’t have to listen, but every word came through clear as a bell. She might as well have been standing beside him whispering in his ear.
“I’d try to be beautiful,” she said. “I mean I’d really try. I’d work at it. I guess that sounds silly to you, that anyone could be beautiful by working at it. Especially me. Or that anyone would want to do it enough to make a full-time job of it. But that’s because you don’t know what it does to a woman, not to be pretty. It’s queer how early the realization comes to you, when you’re just a baby, really, when people say, ‘She’s a bright little thing,’ instead of ‘Isn’t she cute?’ And once you know it, the thing starts growing inside you like an ulcer, and you have to give it a special diet so it won’t ache. The build-up, soothing-syrup diet. Every compliment, every glance, every whistle, you mull over and cherish and spread it around like butter, and pass it out wholesale to your friends or anybody who’ll listen.”
“I can’t hear you,” he shouted. “Would you mind speaking a little louder?” He jerked the top off the soda bottle viciously. Would you mind, Beatrice, going home or falling out of a window or stepping neatly in front of a ten-ton truck?
“Of course I could never have been pretty, I know that. But there were little things that would have helped. Two of my teeth are crooked. Did you ever notice?”
“No.”
“I could have had them straightened. Perhaps I could even have changed my nose, and learned things—how to be—to be that way. You know the way I mean. I don’t seem to be like that at all. If I were, you wouldn’t look at me the way you do, as if you wished I’d go away or I’d never been born.”
The drinks were ready. He stood, holding them and staring at the cupboard door. There was nothing he could say to Beatrice that would make her feel any better, nor anything Beatrice could say that would change him. So there it was. Hopeless. It was also pretty damn silly. He began to laugh, and in a couple of seconds she appeared in the doorway.
She was quite composed. “Need any help?”
“No, thanks.”
He handed her her drink. She took it, smiling. He noticed for the first time that her two front lower teeth overlapped a little.
“They’re not very crooked,” he said. “Anyway, that’s not the kind of thing that matters.”
“I guess not.” She sipped her drink. A couple of drops fell on her dress but she didn’t pay any attention. “Steve.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a soft man, aren’t you?”
“Whatever that means.”
“Well, you didn’t want me to come here tonight but you couldn’t say no.”
He looked angry. “Why in Christ’s name couldn’t I say no?”
“Because that’s the way you are. I know how you feel about me, Steve. I embarrass you. I even think that some of the time you hate me. No, don’t interrupt—it’s really perfectly natural that you should.”
A car rattled down the driveway, with the engine wide open and the horn blowing. They both listened, as if it were very important.
“All right,” he said finally. “Where were we? I hate you, which is really perfectly natural. Go on.”
“It happened to me once, too, so I know. There was a man who wanted to marry me. He wasn’t very attractive but he was clever and dependable and steady, just the kind of man I should have married. The point is I couldn’t stand having him around. Every time I looked at him I hated him because he wasn’t you.”
“And?”
“And I’m not Martha.”
“That’s a nice, simple explanation from a nice, simple girl. Now, how would you like to forget the whole thing? Where are your gloves?”
She was puzzled. “In my handbag. Why?”
“You go and put them on and get your coat and go outside.”
“But why?”
“Then you can knock on the door and I’ll let you in and we’ll start all over again. We’ll spend a nice, quiet, civilized evening getting plastered. No explanations, no character-probing, and no words over four letters. Okay?”
“I’ve never been plastered,” she said thoughtfully. “It might be interesting.”
“Yeah, it might.” Too interesting, he thought. Women like Beatrice couldn’t drink very well. No matter how much liquor they had, they never wanted to go home or pass out like gentlemen; they stuck around and got maudlin or weepy and told tiresome stories about their childhood. Oh, well.
He reached for her glass. Someone was walking along the driveway and he listened, the way he always did, to figure out who it was, half-hoping it was someone coming to see him.
A swift, heavy step. Brown, maybe. Maybe Brown was getting thirsty again.
“Are you expecting someone?” Beatrice said.
He laughed to cover up his annoyance. “No, I wasn’t. I’ve been away for so long, there isn’t anyone to expect.”
The doorbell rang. So it wasn’t Brown. Brown just knocked a couple of times and walked in.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Beatrice said, a trifle acidly.
“Sure. Sure, I am.”
“If it’s anything personal, I can always hide behind the door and put my fingers in my ears.”
The bell rang again. Avoiding Beatrice’s eyes, he went out and crossed the living room. He heard Beatrice shut the kitchen door very softly behind him. The gesture irritated him. It made him feel furtive, as if he were dodging the police instead of merely having a drink with his own cousin.
He opened the front door. Martha was standing there. She had on a long black dress with sequins on it and a little black sequined hat. As if to counteract the sequins, she’d put on her glasses.
“Anything I can do for you, Mrs. Pearson?” he said.
“You can send Laura back to her party.”
“I’d be glad to, if I could.”
“People are beginning to wonder where she is.”
“You, of course, knew right away.”
She was furious, but she was controlling herself pretty well. She even attempted an appeal to his better nature. “She’s only sixteen, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I think I’ll take her back with me right now.”
“By all means.”
Neither of them moved. The room was silent.
Suddenly she raised her voice. “Laura! You’re to come back to the house with me right now, do you hear?”
His throat felt tight with anger. “You’re pretty sure she’s here, naturally. Naturally you’re always sure of everything, Mrs. Pearson.”
“She’s here. I saw her.” She didn’t get shrill, as he expected. She just quivered, her whole body quivered, so that every sequin was winking at him like little wise eyes. “You’re so shameless and stupid, you haven’t even sense enough to pull down the blinds.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t expect people to be outside peering in and minding my business for me.”
“Laura’s my business.”
She brushed past him. Her eyes swept the room.
“Try the second drawer on the left in the bureau,” he said. “It was a tight fit but I managed to squeeze her in.” His mouth was dry and dusty, as if he’d been eating ashes. “Of course, she’s only sixteen, you know. Some of these sixteen-year-olds are very supple.”
“Laura!”
She spotted the closed door of the kitchen and headed for it. He darted across the room and reached the door first.
“Allow me,” he said, and opened the door.
Beatrice was drying the glasses with a dish towel. The Scotch and the ice trays had been put away and the sink wiped off.
“Hello, Martha,” Beatrice said soberly.
Martha drew in her breath. “Hello—Beatrice.”
<
br /> “I haven’t seen you for ages.”
“No.”
Beatrice folded the dish towel carefully and put it on the rack. “I thought I’d better clean up before I left, Steve. I hate a messy kitchen, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Steve said.
“Well, I guess I’ll run along. I promised Mother I’d just stop long enough to say hello and see how you were. I’ll tell her you’re just—the same as usual.”
“Do that.”
“Thanks for the drink. And don’t bother coming to the door with me.”
“I’ll take you down to your car,” he said.
“No, please.”
He followed her into the living room and picked up her coat, while she put on her gloves.
“Ready?”
“Don’t come with me,” she said and turned abruptly. She was gone before he realized it.
He heard the clatter of her heels on the steps, then the crunch of pebbles on the driveway and the impatient snarl of an engine.
Martha came slowly out of the kitchen. She didn’t appear embarrassed or disturbed. She was pale, that was all.
She said, “I suppose you expect me to apologize.”
“That’s the last thing in the world I expect.”
“It was a natural enough mistake. Knowing you, and realizing how easily Laura can be taken in, I thought the woman I saw was Laura.”
“Maybe you ought to get new glasses.” He began walking toward her. “Maybe I ought to smash those for you to make absolutely sure you get yourself some new glasses.”
He reached out and jerked the glasses off her face. The frame caught in her hair and he had to give a sharp pull, but she didn’t change expression.
She said, “My, how strong you are!”
He crunched the glasses in his hand. A piece of broken lens dug into his hand. The pain and the wetness of blood made him feel better.
“Don’t,” she said. “Steve, don’t!”
He unclasped his hand and the shattered glasses fell on the floor. The blood began to slide along his fingers and drip off the tips.
“That’s what I’d like to do to you,” he said. “Take you in my hands and squeeze you until you squeak like a raw oyster. I’d like to do that to you because you just made a mistake about my character, if you can call it that.” He held his hand up and watched the blood fall off the ends of his fingers. “Let’s get it straight now. When I want a woman, I don’t look around for a pair of bobby socks. I’m quite a big boy now. I need quite a big girl. Like you.”
He wanted to strangle her and make love to her and sit down and bawl like a kid and put a bandage on his hand and shoot himself.
He sat down, holding his head with his good hand.
“Steve.”
“You better go home.”
“You’re bleeding. You might have cut an artery.”
That one was too silly to answer, so he just closed his eyes and waited for her to go home.
“Charles bit my hand once,” she said. “You can still see the marks.”
He said nothing.
“Do you want to?”
“No, thank you.”
He heard the swish of her dress against the floor as she walked toward him. He opened his eyes. She stood in front of him, holding out her hand with the palm up.
“See?”
He saw the little scars. “It must have hurt.”
“Not awfully.”
“Did I—hurt your head?”
“No.”
“I love you.”
“Yes, I know.”
He couldn’t see her face, only her hand that looked so small and sad with the little scars on it. He got up suddenly and walked away from her.
“Do you want to hear about how I love you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“It’s not a nice kind of love. I don’t want to marry you or even live with you. I don’t want to have children by you.”
She didn’t make a sound, and he had to turn around and look at her to see why not, or just to look at her, he didn’t know which.
She had sat down in a chair and was watching him gravely, not acting injured or surprised, the way another woman might.
He said deliberately, “I don’t want to look after you when you’re sick or see you first thing in the morning or . . .”
He went back to her and knelt down and put his head against her knees.
“I’m lying,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You’ve been lying, too.”
“Yes.”
Her mouth moved against his cheek. He felt her breasts against him, the nipples erect and straining against her dress as if they had lives and longings of their own and must be considered.
Let us consider your breasts, my love, my beloved.
“You are my beloved,” he said. “My beloved.”
He felt a great power rising within him, a power without violence, a strength that disdained challenge. Her mouth was no mouth to be bruised, it was a flower that breathed and obeyed his will. It opened for his tongue and closed softly over the lobe of his ear.
“Shall I turn off the light?” she said.
“No. No, I will.” He switched the lamp and went back to her. He stood behind the chair where she was sitting and very gently he took off her hat and began to pull the pins out of her hair while she sat with her hands over her breasts as if they ached.
Her hair loosened and slid over his wrists like silk.
Slowly. He had waited a long time, and there was no need to hurry now. He didn’t have to pull up her skirts or rip off her clothes. He could afford to wait.
“Come here,” she said, in a stifled voice. “Come here, Steve.”
She stood up and he walked around the chair and stood up against her. He was just a little taller than she was and they exactly fitted.
“Steve . . .”
In the dizzy dark, the room rose, floated, held down only by threads of whispers, words muffled against the curves and hollows of bare flesh. He spoke not to her, but to her breasts and her hips and her belly. She could listen if she wanted to, but these were what he spoke to. She listened, memorizing his shoulders with her mouth.
“You’re my wife. Aren’t you? Aren’t you my wife?”
“I’ve never loved anyone else, anyone else at all.”
They moved together, in time to music only they could hear.
No need, no need to hurry . . .
He let out a sound like a groan of anguish, a crow of triumph.
They lay together on the bed.
“Did you?” he said.
She stretched dreamily like a cat. “Yes.”
My beloved, my wife . . . My wife and I exactly fit . . .
He smiled idiotically up at the ceiling and went to sleep.
When he woke up he was sweating. She had piled some blankets on top of him and put a pillow under his head. His clothes were hung neatly over the back of a chair and his shoes were side by side with his socks draped over the toes. But she was gone.
He got up and turned on the light, his eyes searching the room for a trace of her. But there wasn’t even a hairpin or a sequin from her dress or a fragment of her glasses.
He looked down at his hand and saw that she’d even washed off the caked blood. He had a sudden desperate sense of loss and loneliness. She should have left something of herself, something . . .
It was after two o’clock but he put on his clothes and went outside.
The party was over; the cars gone; the house dark.
15
It went on like that for a week. He got up late in the mornings and spent the rest of the day sitting around waiting until it was dark enough for her to come. He had no ambition and no desire to do anything, to start his b
ook, or to contact some of his old friends or even to take a walk. He read a little, but usually he sat thinking about Martha, staring out between the slats of the Venetian blinds until his eyes went out of focus. Even when he looked away at something in the room, the slats remained before his eyes, like prison bars going the wrong way.
His thoughts at the beginning of the day were pleasant: she was beautiful, she belonged to him, every single pore of her skin belonged to him, she was his wife.
If, at that point, he could have gone over and talked to her or she could have come to him, he might never have reached the second stage of thinking. It was then that the question marks came to life in his head, sharp and cruel as fishhooks: What about you and Charles, my dear? How often did you go to bed with him? Sleep with him afterwards? You have a double bed, of course? Of course. Oversize, custom-built, Beautyrest mattress and guaranteed silent springs.
Bloody little fishhooks.
Was he any good in bed? Did you have the light off or on? Were you naked or did you have to tickle him a little with a fancy nightgown and some phony perfume? I like the way you smell without perfume. Your sweat is clean and sweet as a baby’s. Does Charles ever say things like that to you? What does he say? Tell me what he says, tell me all about Charles. Five years is a long time with a man. You can make a hell of a lot of love in five years, can’t you? Did you?
“No, I didn’t.” She answered that one calmly. “We didn’t get along that way very well.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t love him, I guess.”
“I read once that some women close their eyes and think about some other man. Did you think about me?”
“No. I didn’t think about anything at all.”
She didn’t seem to resent his questions or try to get out of answering them. She was patient; she didn’t point out to him how unreasonable it was for him to be wildly jealous, she didn’t once remind him that he had walked out on her.
Nor did she ask any questions. That struck him as funny.
“Aren’t you interested?” he said. “I might have had a couple of dozen women. Don’t you want to hear about them?”
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