Runaway

by McBain, Ed

  “Use your head, Marcia,” he pleaded. “The guy’s drunk,”

  “Can you smell any whiskey on him?”

  “Well …”

  “Unlock the car.”

  Mark squeezed his eyes shut. “Marcia, you are the craziest …”

  “Unlock the car.”

  “All right. All right, goddamnit, but this ties it. This really ties it. This is it, baby. You can just—”

  “Hurry up.”

  He unlocked the door of the new Oldsmobile, and then lifted the man onto the front seat. Marcia squeezed in beside him, and then Mark went around to the door near the driver’s seat and opened it.

  “Are you sober enough to drive?” she asked.

  “I’m sober, all right,” Mark said coldly.

  The figure between them stirred.

  Mark turned the ignition key and looked at the man. “He’s coming around.”

  “We’ve got to get him to a doctor,” Marcia said.

  “I don’t understand why you think he’s—”

  “Because I know he’s not drunk, and people who are well don’t go lying in the gutter.”

  “He wasn’t lying in the gutter. He was—”

  “Let’s take him to a doctor,” Marcia said firmly, “and let’s hurry.”

  “No,” the man said.

  He spoke so suddenly that he startled Marcia.

  “There,” Mark said, “I told you.”

  “Sssssh!” she said sharply.

  “No,” the man said again. “No doctor. Please. My arm’ll be all right.”

  He spoke so softly that she almost didn’t hear him.

  “His what?” Mark asked.

  “His arm! You see, he is hurt. Now will you listen? Find a doctor.”

  “No,” the man said, shaking his head this time. “No, please. No doctor. Please, no doctor.”

  “He doesn’t want to go to a doctor,” Mark said.

  “I don’t care what he wants. We’ll take him to one.”

  “No doctor,” the man mumbled. “Please, please.”

  “He doesn’t want one,” Mark said firmly. “Look, Marcia, let’s play this smart, shall we? He’s coming around now. Let’s leave him outside and forget about it. Let’s get out of Harlem.”

  “No,” Marcia said. “We’ll take him home. We can at least do that.” She shook the figure beside her. “Can you tell us where you live?” she asked. She could see the man was sick.

  The man shook his head. “Don’t take me home,” he said.

  “Now, what the hell!” Mark said.

  “Maybe he was in a street fight,” Marcia said. “Maybe they’re still waiting for him. There are always street fights in Harlem.”

  “Well, what the hell are we supposed to do? He doesn’t want a doctor and he doesn’t want to go home. Are we supposed to hold his hand all night?”

  Marcia considered for a moment, biting her lip. “We’ll go to my place,” she said suddenly.

  “What!”

  “You heard me. We’ll take him to my place.”

  “Now I know you’re nuts. Now I know it. If I wasn’t sure before, I know it now. You’re going to take a strange drunk—”

  “He’s not drunk. You heard him mention his arm.”

  “All right, so you’re taking a street brawler into your home. The place to take him is the police.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Suppose he’s … done something? Marcia, what the hell do you know about him? Just a bum lying in the gutter.”

  “He wasn’t lying in the gutter,” Marcia said. “You said so yourself.”

  “All right,” Mark said, throwing up his hands. “All right, sister, it’s your house. You can start giving out free soup on Christmas Day, for all I care.” He moved the car out into the street. “I’m washing my hands of it. It’s your headache.”

  “It’s my headache,” she repeated. She felt the man stir on the seat beside her. She put her arm on the seat behind him, and he fell over, his head resting on her breast. She felt a strange mixture of motherly protectiveness and womanly interest. She inhaled a deep breath, feeling the pressure of his head on her breast. A smile formed on her mouth. Beside her, Mark drove grimly, saying nothing.

  He put the man down on the couch, and then he stood over him, looking down at him.

  “There,” he said.

  Marcia took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair.

  “Thank you, Mark,” she said. “It was nice of you to help me get him upstairs.”

  “It’s your funeral,” he said.

  “Well, thanks anyway.”

  “You sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

  “About what?”

  “About him. If he is hurt, then we should call the police.”

  “No. The police aren’t going to help him, can’t you see that? If he was hurt in a street fight, the police will only lock him up. Mark, he needs understanding, not imprisonment.”

  “How do you know he was hurt in a street fight?”

  “I don’t. I’ll ask him when he comes around.”

  Mark stood uncertainly. “Marcia …”

  “You can go if you like,” she said.

  “I’ll stay, if you want me to.”

  “I still haven’t forgotten everything that happened, Mark.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave you here with a jig who may turn out to be a rape artist!”

  “I don’t like your language and I don’t like the things you’re thinking. I think you’d better go air out your mind.”

  “Public Speaking Two again,” he said.

  “And I don’t particularly relish your cracks about my college education. If you feel that way about it—”

  “Marcia, let me stay.”

  “I think you’d better go. I’ve had quite enough of you for one evening.”

  “All right,” he said. “All right. All right, I’ll go. I hope he does …”

  Marcia smiled triumphantly. “He very well might,” she said, knowing she was hurting Mark and wanting to hurt him now. Mark went to the door, hesitated.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bother,” she answered coldly.

  He hesitated another moment, looked at the man on the couch again, and then left. She watched the door close behind him, and then she got up to lock it. She was very glad he’d left. There was a strange excitement within her, an excitement she did not quite understand. She felt extremely tolerant. Yes, tolerant; that was the only word she could think of to describe this feeling of brotherhood within her. At the same time, she felt as if she were doing something completely dangerous and reckless. She did, after all, know nothing at all about the man on her couch. Except that he was attractive in a slender, supple way, and of course that didn’t enter into it at all. What she’d said to Mark, that was just to annoy him. She wouldn’t even consider …

  The man stirred, and she went to him quickly. He blinked his eyes open and then sat bolt upright, looking around the room. He seemed poised to run, so she put her hand on his arm and said, “It’s all right.”

  “Where am I?” he said quickly.

  “In my apartment.”

  He blinked and then looked her fully in the face. “Who are you?”

  “Marcia Clarke.” She smiled pleasantly. “Who are you?”

  “Johnny,” he said. “Johnny L—” He caught himself. “Johnny.”

  “How’s your arm, Johnny?”

  He glanced unconsciously at his right arm. “It’s all right,” he said quickly. He wet his lips and looked around the apartment again.

  “Take off your coat, why don’t you?”

  “Well, thanks, but I got to be—”

  “Go ahead, please. Make yourself comfortable.” Marcia smiled archly. “I’m not going to bite you, Johnny.”

  “Well, maybe for a minute,” he said. He shrugged out of his coat, and Marcia took it from him and carried it into the bedroom. She
put the coat down on the bed, and when she returned to the living room she said, “Were you in a street fight?”

  “No. No, not exactly.”

  They looked at each other awkwardly for a few moments.

  “Is your arm hurt badly?” she asked.

  “It got cut,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where’d you find me?” he asked.

  “Outside the Savoy Ballroom.”

  “You were at the Savoy?”

  “Yes.” Marcia paused. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “No, nothing,” he said.

  “Or do you think the white man should stay in his place?” Marcia smiled, enjoying her own little joke.

  “I … There’s nothing wrong with going to the Savoy,” he said.

  “But you don’t think I should have gone there?”

  “Miss, it’s a free country. You can go wherever you like.”

  “But not Harlem.”

  “I didn’t say that.” He bit his lip. “Look, I think I better cut out. Can I have my coat, please?”

  “Oh, stay put. You’ve had a shock. You need some rest.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Marcia sat next to him on the couch. “How’d you get cut, Johnny?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I want to know.” She felt extremely courageous, sitting next to a man who’d been cut, especially a Negro. To show how courageous she felt, she leaned over, and the dress fell away from her breasts. She saw his eyes on her, and she smiled.

  “I just got cut, that’s all,” he said.

  “Did a woman cut you?”

  “A woman? No, no. What gave you that idea?”

  “I heard colored women were very jealous of their men.”

  “Oh.” He paused awkwardly. “No, a woman didn’t cut me.”

  “Who did?”

  “A man.”

  “Why?”

  “He felt like cutting me, I guess. Look …”

  “What did he cut you with? A razor?”

  “No,” he said a little harsh. “Look, miss …”

  “A knife?”

  “He cut me with the broken end of a syringe. He was a dope fiend, and I broke his syringe by accident, and he stabbed me with it. That’s what he cut me with.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said.

  “All right, I’m kidding. Now can I have my coat?”

  “Rest a while,” she said, not knowing why she wanted him to stay, but still feeling this strange mixture of tolerance and excitement. “Are there a lot of addicts in Harlem?”

  “I suppose,” he said wearily.

  “Are you an addict?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “I was only asking.”

  “Well, I’m not one.”

  “You’ve never touched the stuff?”

  “A little mootah, and once or twice a sniff of C.”

  “A little what?”

  “Marijuana. There’s no harm in marijuana. It’s just the bait, you see, to get you hooked on the bigger junk. Not everybody in Harlem’s an addict.”

  “I know, but it’s terrible the way these men are allowed to sell their drugs.”

  “They ain’t allowed,” he said. “The cops are always after them.”

  “But they still sell it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you want us to take you to a doctor?”

  “Because …” He paused and studied her face. “Did I say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess maybe because the cut is nothing to worry about.”

  “Why didn’t you want us to take you home?”

  “I … I just didn’t want you to.”

  “Are you in some trouble?”

  “No.”

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he insisted.

  “Then why didn’t you want us to take you home?”

  “My stepfather beats me,” he lied.

  “Does he really?”

  “Yes, with a razor strop. Every night. Before going to bed. He can’t sleep well unless he beats me.”

  “You poor thing,” she said. She looked into his eyes and asked, “Would you like a drink or something? A drink is supposed to be good for shock.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “Scotch, rye, bourbon?”

  “Anything. I don’t care.”

  She leaned over to rise, and she felt his eyes on the front of her dress again. A tremor of excitement worked its way up her spine. She smiled and walked across the room to the bar, lifting a bottle of bourbon and pouring rapidly. She filled another glass for herself, and then brought both glasses to the free-form cocktail table in front of the couch.

  “Cheers,” she said. She lifed her glass to her lips, peering over the brim, still feeling very dangerous, and beginning to feel a little like a femme fatale.

  “Drink hearty,” he said.

  He drained his glass, and she sipped at hers and then put it down on the table.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said. “I want to change.”

  He looked at her curiously for a moment, and she smiled and then walked to the bedroom. She closed the door just a little ways, and then pulled her dress over her head. She did not know why she was doing all this, except that she felt very dangerous and very tolerant, and the mixture had made her a little heady. Besides, he seemed like such a cold fish, and he was attractive, really, and then again he was a Negro, and there was something about the entire thing that was very exciting. She took off her slip and folded it on the bed, alongside his overcoat. She touched the tweed of the coat, and then walked to the closet. She unclasped her bra and stepped out of her panties, and then she reached into the closet for something sheer, and then changed her mind abruptly.

  There was such a thing as going too far, and she suddenly began questioning her own motives. Just what was she planning? Not that, certainly. Certainly not that. Let’s get a hold on ourself, Marcia, she thought. She walked to the dresser took out a skirt and sweater. She did not bother putting the underwear on again. She pulled the sweater over the skirt, then smoothed the skirt over her hips and tightened her breasts inside the sweater, thinking they looked better without a bra, and they certainly felt a lot better. She took one last look in the mirror, and then opened the door and stepped into the living room. He was still sitting on the couch. His head was in his hands. She cleared her throat, and he lifted his head. She started walking across the room, knowing her breasts were bobbing, and knowing his eyes were focused on them, but not caring.

  “Don’t you feel well?” she asked soothingly.

  “I feel fine. I was trying to figure why I passed out.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. You’re safe now.”

  “Am I?” he asked, and she thought she detected a curiously sardonic note in his voice.

  “Of course you are. Would you like another drink?”

  “No.”

  He sat quietly for a moment or two. She pulled her legs up under her on the couch, and then she tucked her skirt around them demurely, making a big production of it, exaggerating the simple maneuver until it couldn’t fail to attract his attention. And even while she was doing this, she told herself, Marcia, don’t be absurd. Marcia, don’t play with fire. You don’t even know who he is.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, what are you thinking?”

  “I was just wondering where I’m going to spend the night.”

  “Oh.” She felt the excitement flare within her, and somehow, beneath the excitement, a tiny flame of fear began licking at her mind. “I … I see,” she said. She tucked her skirt more firmly beneath her, as if his sentence had suddenly changed the entire scheme of things. It was one thing to … well, to be in control of the situation, but it was another to have the situation forced upon you. She did not like any situation forced upon
her. A forced situation was an intrusion on her independence. Besides, she really didn’t know who or what he was, and that brought to mind another question.

  “Why do you need a place to spend the night?”

  “My father beats me,” he said sarcastically.

  “No, really. Why can’t you go home?”

  “I can’t, that’s all.”

  “Does it have anything to do with your cut?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it,” he said. “My father can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “You’re not telling me the truth.”

  “I know I’m not.”

  “Don’t you think you owe me the truth?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t owe you anything. No one asked you to bring me here.”

  He spoke so bitterly, so angrily, that she was suddenly really afraid. She wanted to ask her next question, but she didn’t want to hear the answer. She was painfully aware of her naked bosom beneath the taut wool of the sweater. She glanced downward self-consciously, seeing the sharp points thrusting against the wool. She grew panicky all at once, and she lifted her arm to cover her breasts, thankful that he was not watching her. She remembered all the stories she’d heard about Negro men and white women, and she tried to tell herself the stories were all foolish, but she couldn’t drive out the fear, and she kept thinking of what Mark had said before he’d left. She was more frightened because she’d brought all this on herself, taking a strange black man into her home, a man who could be anything, a murderer, a gangster, a rapist. She could feel the perspiration starting on her brow.

  She wet her lips, wondering if she should leave the room to put on a robe or something. But if she walked across the room, his eyes would be on her all the way, watching her flesh against the tightness of her skirt. She wet her lips again. She did not feel very tolerant any more. She felt frightened, plain frightened. This man beside her, who was he? What was he running from? Why didn’t he want to be taken to a doctor?

  “Are …” She wet her lips and swallowed the solid lump in her throat. “Are the police after you?”

  “No,” he said quickly.

  She could not let it drop. She had her answer, but it was not the answer she wanted. And just as she had deliberately fed her own excitement earlier, she now fed her fear, deriving a crackling, spitting sort of pleasure from it.

  “You are running from the police,” she insisted.

  “No,” he said again.