The Woman Aroused

by Ed Lacy

  “You!” she screamed, jumping to her feet. “You and your fine manners, the great gentleman—keeping a goddamn slut, a she-cat in my house!” She was so mad she tried to kick me in the groin and very happily only hit my thigh.

  I backed away and she put a dainty handkerchief, now blood-stained, to her battered nose, yelled, “I'll divorce you! We're done—I'll never speak to you again. You... you... bastard!”

  “Flo, we are divorced,” I said gently, knowing just what she meant. For some people a marriage certificate is merely a formality, a scrap of paper: they are married whether they have the paper or not. With us, our divorce paper was like that, a meaningless legal document. This was the first time Flo had ever seen me with another woman.

  She fell into a chair, sobbing and cursing me. Henderson motioned for me to leave but I went over to Flo, put my arms around her—careful to stand behind her—pinning her to the chair. She struggled and screamed and I said, “Slow down, baby. Listen to me. Flo, we've had our ins and outs, if that's the correct phrase, or maybe it's a pun. But I think we've always loved each other, in our own odd way. Maybe we didn't know how to love enough, maybe we aren't capable of real love. What I'm trying to say is, I still love you. This girl downstairs... I'm mixed up with her... accidentally. It's a sort of mess, not that I couldn't have escaped it, but... Well, understand that.” I didn't know exactly what I wanted to say, and I certainly wasn't saying anything that made sense.

  Flo's sobbing was quieter now, and as I let go of her she held her head in her hands. I bent over and kissed her neck. “I am sorry, Flo. And I still love you. This is, well, really, one of those things.”

  I still wasn't making sense and Henderson kept motioning me to leave. I walked to the door, and the old man stepped out into the hallway with me, said, “Leave her alone. She'll get over it, time and all that. Quite a bad shock, and her nose may be broken. God knows what happened. I saw her go in—before I could call out to her—and then she came running out, all within a few seconds, her face bloody.

  “Poor dear Flo,” I said, sincerely feeling sorry for her and at the same time realizing what a bastard I was, for I also had a tiny, smug feeling of elation. In all our petty battles, our small victories and defeats, I had at least finally scored the big crushing victory.

  I went downstairs, unlocked my door. Lee was sitting in the big chair, nude as usual, and I could picture the nightmare Flo had walked into... seeing this naked giant who probably went at poor Flo without a word of warning.

  Poor Flo, if her nose hadn't been hurt, I would have burst out laughing.

  Lee had that small smile on her face instead of a blank look. I sat down beside her and she took my hand. I asked, “What happened?”

  She didn't answer. I asked, “Tell me, did you have a fight?”

  “Fight?” she repeated.

  I knew it wasn't any use, and besides, she wasn't at fault. “Get dressed and we'll eat. Are you hungry?”

  “Lee sure hungry as all stuff,” she drawled, grinning at me.

  I witnessed three other demonstrations of Lee's fighting prowess. (The third time I was her opponent.) I don't know if she had a lot of man in her, or what, but she was a solid 180 pounds, packed a real punch.

  One evening, about two weeks after she had kayoed Flo, we were walking in the park after supper. It was a warm night, and as we strolled along, I stopped to watch a squirrel scamper up a tree. Lee kept walking, was about 200 feet ahead of me, walking with long, strong, graceful steps.

  A young fellow in a polo shirt was sitting on a bench and I suppose he thought she was walking by herself. He whistled at Lee, started to follow her. I ran up feeling quite alarmed—I never was much of a brawler, even though dancing has kept me in shape. The fellow came alongside Lee, made some joking remark. Lee suddenly turned and swung... actually swung her fist in an overhand punch. There wasn't anything feminine about the blow. It hit the young man flush on the face, staggered him. Before he could fall, Lee grabbed him and threw him into the bushes lining the walk. I ran up and took her arm and we kept walking—fast. There wasn't any expression on her face, except her eyes had narrowed a little. When I looked back the young man still hadn't got on his feet.

  Lee never said a word about it and I was too amazed to speak.

  Harlem was the locale when Lee next swung into action.

  Now and then I went up to the Apollo Theatre on 125th Street, where they still have vaudeville, and some of the best (and almost unknown) Negro dancers, especially tap dancers. One Friday night I took in the show and Lee was with me. With her drawl I was curious to see what her reaction would be to Negroes. She didn't show any reaction, being neither interested nor resentful at being with colored people—which was probably the only normal reaction she ever had. We ate in Frank's, a restaurant I like, near St. Nicholas Avenue and 125th Street, and then took in the show at the Apollo, which wasn't too good. The dance act consisted of three vigorous tap dancers who went through standard routines with a great deal of sweating and energy, and the band was much too loud and brassy. This was followed by a corny stage skit which would have been assailed (and rightfully so) as horribly chauvinistic if it had played in any downtown theatre. We left before the movie and I decided to walk across 125th Street to Madison Avenue, take the bus down.

  It was about ten o'clock and the street was fairly deserted. Somewhere between Lenox and Fifth Avenues we passed one of the many bars that dot Harlem (and any other poor neighborhood) and a couple of colored men were hanging around in front of it. At the time I didn't notice them, but one of them—a slender, dark-skinned man in a worn sport jacket and slacks—stared at Lee as we passed. I didn't think anything of it, her height and size caused many men—and women—to glance at Lee. But this fellow broke away from the others, said to Lee, “Pardon but...” and then broke into some foreign language.

  Lee kept walking but I stopped, and as she was holding my arm, she had to stop. She was staring at this man without showing any signs of recognition, and I was about to ask what he wanted, when he spoke again. He seemed to be friendly and I think he was speaking Italian. A strange look of intense anger flooded her big face and she yanked her arm out of mine and hit him across the face. The blow knocked him against the wall of a building and before he knew what was happening, Lee started punching and kicking him like a maniac.

  For a split second his friends and I were taken by surprise, then we stared at each other for another split second—a suspicious look—only natural in a land where the colored man is a second-class citizen. I finally grabbed Lee, had trouble holding on to her arm. One of the Negro men grabbed her other arm and said, “Lee! Lee, stop it!”

  The fellow was still against the wall, his face bleeding, looking bewildered and ready to pass out. The man holding her other arm said to me, “For God's sake, mister, get her out of here before the cops come and whip everybody's head!”

  Lee had calmed down a little, had stopped struggling with me, but the way she stared at the beaten man gave me the shivers. I said, “Get me a cab while I hold her.”

  Another man stopped a cab as a small crowd quickly gathered. Lee let me walk her to the cab and I told the driver to take us to 90th Street and Fifth Avenue. Lee sat back in the cab, refused to answer my questions except to say, “That bad man.”

  “But who is he? What did he say?”

  “All bad, bad,” she said fiercely, then shut up. At 90th Street I waited till the cab was out of sight, took another one down to the house. I don't know why I changed cabs; maybe I was conditioned by the movies I've seen.

  Lee was upset. I wanted to dance when we got home but she refused, lay across the bed, paying no attention to me. Except for the strange language I would have thought it was her southern blood acting up, or maybe she'd seen the man in the South someplace. It was too big a puzzle for me.

  She was still staring at the ceiling when I finished dancing, had my bath and dried off under the sun-lamp. I undressed her and when we went to bed, fo
r the first time she didn't drop right off to sleep.

  Fortunately the next day was Saturday and I didn't have to go to the office. About noon I left the house and took a cab to the bar on 125th Street. There were two bartenders, one of them white. I made a mistake: I went over to the white bar-keep, asked, “Where can I find the man who was involved in the fight with the lady last night?”

  “Fight? Don't know what you're talking about, mac,” he said, obvious hostility in his voice. There was a small silence in the bar and I knew everybody knew what I was talking about.

  “There was a scene outside here last night and...”

  “I don't know nothing about what goes on outside,” he said. “125th Street is one of the busiest streets in...”

  “Cut the chamber of commerce bunk,” I said, giving my voice a crisp executive edge, to see if he was impressed.

  He looked me over for a moment, said softly, “I don't know what you're talking about, chief. We run a good place here, no fights, ain't looking for no trouble.”

  One thing about real expensive clothes, their cost always stands out—in a quiet, conservative way. I knew he thought I was “class,” to use the trite word, he was impressed by the two-hundred-dollar suit, the thirty-dollar hat, and the Countess Mara tie I was wearing. He was running his eyes over my clothes. I said, “There isn't going to be any trouble. The man can help me, perhaps.”

  He didn't say anything and the Saturday-afternoon drinkers were watching us with interest. The barkeep stood there, his face troubled. I snapped, “Look here, this man can do me a considerable favor, by merely talking to me. I'm rather anxious to find him. Of course if you won't help, I can go to some friends on the liquor board. That could be messy, possibly mean revoking your license or...”

  “You just want to talk to him?” he asked suddenly.

  “That's all. In fact, if it turns out he can help me, I'm willing to pay him for his time.”

  The bartender called out to somebody at the other end of the bar, “Ed, go around 126th Street and find Ollie. Tell 'em I want to see him—now.” He turned to me as the man left the bar, said, “He'll be back in a couple minutes. Like a shot?”

  I said no and lit a cigarette. He moved away to wait on a customer, then returned and put his big fat head next to mine, whispered, “You know how it is up here, got to be careful with them.” I was astonished at the fellow's gall: this was supposed to be the protective intimacy of two white skins in a black ghetto—made by white skins.

  I didn't know how to answer him without getting angry, so I turned my back, glanced around the bar. It was fairly crowded and they were all watching me, without looking directly at me, of course. Although I'd been to Harlem many times, mostly to see the shows or night spots, this was the first time I felt like a white man in Harlem.

  In about five minutes the man returned with Ollie, who was the fellow who had helped hold Lee last night. He came over to me, said in a surly voice, “What you want?”

  I nodded toward a vacant table and we sat down. I asked, “Where can I find the man who was beaten up last night?”

  “What you want with him? What you coming back to start a mess? Willie wasn't doing nothing and now...” He stopped, then muttered, “Ain't it enough he's beat up?”

  “I'm sorry about the beating, and I'm not here to start anything. I want him to help me. He... eh... seemed to know the young lady. I'd like to find out what he knows about her.”

  “You was with her, you ought to know about her.”

  “Look, let's not argue about what I ought to know. I assure you I'm very sorry about the beating your friend Willie got last night. I don't know why it happened, but I'd like very much to find out. I won't cause him the slightest trouble. I only wish to speak to him.”

  Ollie looked at me for a moment, then said, “Well... Okay, I'll take you to him. Maybe do some good. His wife is a little angry, you know, Willie coming home beat up and some big mouth telling her he was annoying a white chick. My God that gal sure hits.”

  As we stood up, I said, “I'll make it worth your while, and Willie's.”

  “You don't have to do that,” he said with a kind of weary dignity.

  We walked down Lenox Avenue to 123rd Street, and west to a brownstone. Ollie rang the bell three times and soon a young, slender, coffee-colored girl opened the door, said, “It's you, huh.” She didn't think much of Ollie.

  When she saw me her eyes became uneasy. Ollie said, “Come on, Daisy, let us in, this man wants to talk to Willie. He's the guy with the lady last night. He can tell you it wasn't nothing messy. How about that, mister?”

  “That's right,” I said. “The young lady is a little... well... excitable at times, high strung. She turned on Mr.... Willie, for no apparent reason.”

  “I'm Willie's wife,” the girl said, standing aside. When she moved she had a certain grace about her, and if she had the clothes, she would have been a very attractive kid.

  I followed Willie inside the house. We went up two flights of stairs that were covered with a shabby green carpet, the girl following us. The inside of the rooming house seemed clean and neat, but it smelt of too much use, of too many people living there. As we turned into a room the girl said to me, “You'll have to excuse the way things look... with Willie sick I haven't been able to tidy up.”

  The room was very small, with one window, and every bit of space being used. In a double bed that took up 90% of the room, Willie was lying, his face still bruised; and on the one chair, the narrow chest of drawers, and from a wire stretched across the room, clothes and towels were hanging. The room was smaller than my bathroom and I wondered how anybody could live in one room. (Of course I didn't know I was shortly to be living in rooms even worse than this one.)

  Willie was astonished, and upset, on seeing me and as he sat up, he groaned, and his face filled with pain. Ollie said, “This man came over to the ginmill, said he wanted to see you, says you can help him. Says he ain't for making no trouble.”

  “First he'd better explain to Daisy about...”

  “He's already told me,” the girl said. “Although it don't make good sense, a woman beating up a man.” It made me sad to see she had bad teeth, when she spoke.

  “She's an unusual woman,” I said. There wasn't any place to sit, so I stood. Willie, who was wearing torn underwear, pulled the sheets up to his chin, looked at me, wondering what I wanted. “About last night,” I went on. “I'd like to know what you said to the young lady that caused her to turn on you. I...”

  “So you were speaking to this white chick!” Daisy said.

  “Aw, take it easy, baby,” Willie told his wife. “I wasn't doing nothing out of the way.” He turned to me, “Look Mr....?”

  “Lamont. Tony Lamont,” I said, giving him a phoney name for no reason.

  “Look Mr. Lamont, I only asked if she was the girl we'd taken in over in Venice. That's all, and you saw what she did. She must be the same one, never mistake a girl so strong and tall as she is, built like a man—around the shoulders, that is. And no mistaking that face... I mean that nose that looks like it was just stuck on.”

  I said, “I've been a friend of this young woman for some time. But she rarely speaks, acts rather strange. I thought if I could find out more about her, someone who knew her, why... I might be able to help her. Now assuming this is the same girl you think....”

  “She got a tattoo on her left arm?” Willie asked.

  I nodded eagerly—at last I was getting someplace.

  Willie smiled. “Knew it was her.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  Willie shook his head. “No, we used to call her Liebchen, that's kraut for darling. See Mr. Lamont, back in '45 I was with an MP outfit in Italy. Bari, Foggia, Rome, Venice... I lived in all the big cities there. Lived fine. It was real great.”

  He paused, looked around the shabby room for a moment as if I suddenly wondering why he had ever returned to Harlem.

  “Well, when they captured Venice
they made it a rest camp, sent us up there to guard some of the hotels. The Limeys were in charge of the town and as waitresses for the hotels, they brought down a load of gals who had been slave labor for the krauts in Austria and Yugoslavia. She was one of them. That's where I first saw her.”

  “Yeah, that's what we called her, too, Lee—short for Liebchen,” Willie said.

  “Lee was a slave laborer in Germany?” I said, beginning to understand a lot of things, too many to think about.

  “Sure. She was about 17 then, and the krauts had taken her when she was a kid. All that hard work had made her big and strong, like a man. She's slimmer now, but then she had arms and legs as strong as any man's. She was like wild—wearing only an old torn dress, an old pair of army shoes on her big feet, and her hands were calloused. And Lord but she was hungry! We felt sorry for her, guess we gave her the first decent treatment she ever had. We got her some clothes, found a guy in Venice to tattoo an American flag over the number the krauts had put on her arm. We gave her plenty of candy, all the food she could eat, saw she didn't work too hard.” Willie glanced at Daisy. “I didn't fool around with her. Maybe some of the others tried, too, you see how she's built. Anyway, I don't know if any of the boys got anyplace with her, but nobody forced her. The krauts had also used her for that, too. She was with us about a month and seemed to be getting along fine, you know, laughing a lot... acting her age, like a kid.