Enough of Sorrow

by Lawrence Block

  “Monday?”

  “Sure thing.”

  She needed a cigarette. “Hold on a second,” she said, and lit one. Funny, she thought, how one needed little conversational props like that. She knew that she would be smoking more heavily from now on. Before she moved to the Rainier Arms she had been chain-smoking constantly, working her way through close to three packs a day. The last few days she had been down to four or five cigarettes a day—one with morning coffee, one after each meal, and one or two more at various times. Before long she would be up to a pack a day, but she knew too that she would never smoke as heavily as she had done before. She would not need to.

  She said, “There’s one favor I’d like to ask. Could you possibly let me have Adrian March’s phone number?”

  “March?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You won’t get him now, he’s hardly ever home. You can leave a number with his answering service if you want.”

  “That’s what I’ll do, then.”

  He gave her the number, and she wrote it down. “Thank you,” she said. “And I’ll be in Monday morning, if you’re sure you still want me.”

  “Don’t worry on that score. Monday, kid.”

  She put the phone down, finished her cigarette, walked to the window. A cold gray drizzling day. She had not minded the rain while she had been walking that morning; somehow the day seemed so right to her that the weather could not spoil it. She turned from the window, went to the phone again and dialed the number Gordon had given her. She left her own name and number with Adrian March’s answering service and sat down patiently to wait for his call.

  “Karen? Is it really you?”

  “Yes,” she said “Hello.”

  “Well, I thought I’d lost you forever. What on earth happened to you? You quit Gordon, I gather.”

  “I took a vacation,” she said. “A long one. I’ll be going back to work Monday.”

  “He was telling the truth, then? An extraordinary thing for an agent to do! I knew he was at least bright enough not to discharge you, so I assumed you’d quite. Where are you?”

  “In Brooklyn.”

  “No one is ever in Brooklyn. Not even the Dodgers are in Brooklyn, dear girl. May I see you?”

  “That’s why I called.”

  “I’d offer to come for you…”

  “No, I thought I’d meet you in Manhattan.”

  “That’s infinitely better, as I’m sure I’d get lost in Brooklyn. I understand everyone does. Everyone who goes there at any rate. Where shall we meet?”

  “Your apartment?”

  “If you’d like. Do you know how to get there?”

  “No.”

  He gave her the address. “I’m downtown now,” he said, “and I’ve got a few places to stop before I head home. Shall we meet in about two hours?”

  “That’s fine,” she said.

  He had a three-room apartment on East 83rd Street near the river, beautifully furnished with a lovely view. “All of this comes courtesy of the soap manufacturers,” he said, with a grand wave of his hand. “The true road to a life of happiness and luxury is paved with the diligent prostitution of one’s God-given talent. If this nation were a monarchy I trust it would have a harlot for its queen. Can I get you a drink, Karen?”

  “Coffee or a soft drink,” she said.

  “Ah! The water wagon?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “So that’s where you disappeared to? Extraordinary.” He started toward the liquor cabinet, then drew up abruptly. “I hope you’re not one of those dreary reformed alcoholics who cringes in the presence of liquor? Or foams at the mouth?”

  She laughed. “Drink yourself into a coma if you like,” she said. “I’m not the evangelistic type, I’m afraid. And it won’t make me break out in a rash, either. I’m a properly disciplined little girl.”

  He made himself a generous drink, then brought her a ginger ale from the kitchen. They sat together on the couch and touched glasses.

  “You must tell all,” he said. “The Remarkable Saga of Karen Winslow, or, Can a Poor but Honest Girl from the Big City Find Happiness in the Wilds of Brooklyn?”

  “Words by Horatio Alger,” she said. “Music by Sigmund Romberg.”

  “Precisely.”

  She gave him the censored version of the past weeks, omitting only the sexual side of the entire affair. She told him she had been drinking more and enjoying it less and let it seem as though her drinking alone had sent her on her pilgrimage to Flatbush. He seemed very interested in the precise methods she had used for her little project of self-rehabilitation. The Information Please Almanac for 1954 was a special source of joy to him.

  “Remarkable,” he said. “What was the population of Racine, Wis., in 1950? Do you recall?”

  “I don’t remember any of it,” she said. “Just an occasional fact here and there.”

  “For example?”

  “Elbridge Gerry was the only Vice-President of the United States to be buried in Washington.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  He re-filled his glass. “Why on earth do you happen to remember that?” he asked.

  “I’m damned if I know.”

  He started to laugh and she laughed with him, and it was the first time she had laughed in far too long. The first time she’d talked to anyone, the first time she’d laughed, the first time for so very many things.

  He said, “Dinner?”

  “Oh, if you have plans…”

  “None at all. That regimen of yours sounds frightening, especially in respect to food. I can’t believe your diet for the past little while would make a gourmet jealous, do you suppose?”

  “Probably not.”

  He thought for a moment. “Ordinarily I’d suggest Voisin,” he said, “but if you’ve been leading the simple life a proper French repast would probably make you ill. How does a very thick very fine steak sound? With a baked potato and salad with Roquefort and very strong coffee and—”

  “Sold,” she said.

  The whole scheme was not an easy one. He was simply not a lecherous old man, and he was very much a friend and just as much gentleman. All through the evening, from dinner onward, she tried to make herself as obvious as possible without being unforgivably cheap in the process. She could not believe that he was too dense to realize what it was that she wanted, and vet he would not take up the hint.

  They were at his apartment now, once more. Dinner, a Broadway show—how he had gotten good tickets so late she could not imagine—and they were once more in his living room, she with another glass of ginger ale, he with a snifter of very old Armagnac. It astonished her how very much he could drink without one noticing it. He never seemed to be drinking a great deal, and yet he was constantly drinking one thing or another. None of it showed; he was exactly the same in manner and appearance no matter how much he drank.

  This in itself had been a good test for her. She’d been fairly certain that she would not want a drink even if she was with someone who was drinking, but it was a hypothesis that had to be tested, and she had been at least a little bit worried. But she had turned out to have not the slightest desire for a drink. He had sherry before dinner and burgundy with it and brandy after, and she had only coffee without ever feeling the desire for anything stronger.

  Now, if he would only cooperate…

  It had seemed such a simple matter when she first thought of it. He was a man, and one whom she liked and trusted. And she was a woman, and she knew he liked her and guessed that he probably found her attractive. All she had to do was give him an opening, make it mildly obvious that she wouldn’t mind if he made a pass at her. When he did, she would let things progress from that point of their own accord.

  How else would she be able to find out what was right for her? She could not pick up some man off the street—she would hate that and rightly so, whether she was homosexual or not. But with someone she knew, someone she liked, it
might be different.

  And either way she would be able to find out once and for all. She could find out whether she had gone to Rae only because of what had happened with Ronnie or if she had been basically gay from the deep beginnings. Either way, she would find out.

  She stood up, walked glass in hand to the window. She heard him get to his feet and move to join her. When he was at her side, she half-turned to him.

  “The view is lovely,” she said. “You can see for miles.”

  “It’s best in the morning. With the sun just edging up over the East River and the reflection on the water.”

  She didn’t say anything, but turned to face him and tilted her face upward toward him. Her eyes were partly lidded now her lips slightly open. She felt very theatrical and waited for him to take up the cue.

  Maddeningly, he said, “So you want to be more than Leon’s decorative receptionist? You want to learn the business?”

  “You think it’s a bad idea?”

  “No, not at all. Although you don’t seem entirely the type. You’re more the innocent flower than the serpent under it, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And not the bold and brassy type at all.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “It’s rather late,” he said, “Shall I see you home?”

  “All the way to Brooklyn?”

  “Why…”

  “If I don’t stay here,” she said, “how am I going to see the sunrise on the river?”

  For a moment he looked as though someone had dropped a weight upon him from a great height. He backed off, then stepped closer to her. “Heavens,” he said.

  She did not say anything.

  “Karen,” he said, and took her in his arms. She pressed against him and he kissed her, held her close. She did not know how she felt, was not able to tell. “Karen,” he said again, and kissed her again, and his arms were tight around her. His mouth tasted of brandy and cigarettes.

  There was one problem with the disciplines she had practiced, the continent life she had led—she had lived so long without being kissed or touched, had schooled herself so carefully to avoid even thinking in those terms, that everything was rather odd and unfamiliar to her. But she let herself ease into the role, returned with him to the couch, sat with him, kissed him and was kissed by him, and sat still in his arms while he opened her clothing and held her young body in his hands.

  There were no words except when he repeated her name, gently, and tenderly. She was afraid to speak, and she was glad that he said nothing but her name, breathing it into her hair, her throat, her breasts, as he touched her and kissed her and made love to her.

  She felt nothing, but this did not surprise her. She had anticipated as much. Response, excitement, enjoyment—these things might come later if they were to come at all. But if she could endure his embrace, if she at least found nothing offensive in making love with a man, then perhaps in the future all of this would transform into excitement and passion.

  She had been certain he would be a good lover. He was a much older man, and that was good on two counts. The rough, hurried embrace of a younger man would have frightened her. Besides that, she knew that he was a lover of great experience. He was sensitive and aware, and if any man would be likely to make her find delight in his embrace, Adrian would be the man.

  He kissed her face, her throat, her breasts. She had to fight with herself to keep from tensing up as he removed her clothing. It seemed an invasion of privacy, seemed as though she were being exposed more than she wanted to be. But the tricks of relaxation helped her now. She forced her muscles to stay limp and at ease, forced her whole body to remain passive, placid.

  His lips played at her breasts, and she put one hand upon the back of his head and cradled his head against her breasts. Why did she feel so observed? Why did it seem as though she were on a stage, with the eyes of the world upon her? Perhaps because in a sense she was playing a role, she told herself. Perhaps because she was acting, because she was pretending to be moved by passion when the true motive force was—what? Curiosity? Not precisely that, perhaps, but something very much akin to it.

  “Karen,” he murmured, and she felt his hand on her knee, petting, so gently.

  She was gritting her teeth. She forced herself to stop, and his hand moved up underneath her dress, up onto the very soft skin of her thighs. He touched her very lightly, and his touch tickled her in an unpleasant sort of way. As though her skin were crawling, she thought. She closed her eyes and breathed very deeply, fighting the slight quiver of revulsion that passed over her.

  He mistook the quick intake of breath for a show of passion, and he breathed her name again and kissed her lips and let his hand move higher beneath her dress. She fought her own feelings and threw her arms taut around him, kissed him, passed her tongue into his brandy-and-tobacco mouth. She concentrated on kissing him and pressing his body against her breasts and tried not to be aware of his hand.

  Just go through it, she told herself. Just let it happen, just let it hurry up and happen…

  Would they do it on the couch? Would she lift her dress and drop her pants, and would they do it right there? Or would they go into the bedroom? That might be impossibly awkward, she thought. Getting up and breaking the mood and walking into the bedroom and getting undressed and all. How did one manage it? Just race for the bed like maniacs?

  When his fingers touched her, found her, there was an involuntary muscle spasm, a sudden unpredictable knotting of the muscles there. It was acutely painful, and she bore down on every muscle, all in an effort to work the kink out of the muscle. She let go, then, and the spasm relaxed. His fingers went on touching her, touching her, and she stayed very calm, calm, cool…

  If only her mind would relax. She had mastered her body, her muscles were no longer tense, but she could not blank out her crazy damned brain and it was driving her to distraction. Stop thinking, she told herself. Just relax, just go blank…

  His lips brushed her ear, nibbled at the fleshy lobe. “I’ll meet you in the bedroom,” he whispered very softly “Through that door…”

  She went into the bedroom. Of course, she thought, that was the simplest way. No mad fumble on the couch, no mad scramble hand-in-hand to the bed. She closed the door and got quickly out of her clothes in the darkness. Then she drew down the bedclothing and lay down on the sheet, waiting for him.

  She waited, and the door opened, and she strained to see him in the darkness. He was naked too, she knew. And moving toward her, joining her on the bed.

  “Karen,” he said, “My little darling.”

  They kissed, and she felt their bare bodies press together. He had hair on his chest and she felt it against her breasts. Ronnie didn’t have hair on his chest, she thought. Neither did Rae, she thought idiotically, and she almost laughed. He kissed her again and pushed her shoulders so that she lay back on her bed and he hovered over her, running his hands over every part of her body like a blind man reading a book written in braille.

  Oh, please, please, let it work out…

  Then he was touching her legs, then kissing them, and she guessed what he was going to do. A sigh escaped her lips, and then he kissed her.

  Wings clouds and ribbons of silk. Birds, flowers and wisps of straw across the dimpled face of the moon. A stream flowing down the side of a silver mountain.

  Yes, yes, oh yes.

  A hot afternoon laced with breezes. Sun and sand and a rising tide. Orchids lilies rainbow. Blue and gold fishes at the black bottom of the sea.

  Yes, yes. More, more…

  Geese flying south. A hole in the earth and the sea running dry. A train on a bridge. Five hundred trumpets and one violin. Spiders a bee a hummingbird.

  No don’t stop. No no don’t stop please don’t stop…

  But he had stopped, and he was moving on the bed, and her mind froze in time. A soldier, grinning, rushing for her with fixed bayonet . . .

  Towers and swords and knives
. Guns poles battering rams clubs razors blood death hell!

  When he touched her she screamed. His flesh on her flesh and she screamed, shrieked, shrill, loud, and rolling away and crying out into the night and pushing him off and shouting out no no no no…

  “NO! Please, NO!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  She was kneeling in a corner of the living room with her head in her hands. She could barely remember running there from the bedroom. She was on her knees; her elbows were pressed against her thighs, her face buried in her hands, and she was doing everything she could to keep from falling apart at the seams. Her eyes were welled up with tears but she had not cried yet. The tendons in her throat were tighter than bow strings. She wished desperately that she were somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  “Karen—”

  She could not bring herself to face him. How could she have done this to him? To begin by trying so desperately to use him, and then to cheat him out of what she had promised, recoiling and fleeing from him like a damned idiot virgin.

  Why?

  “I brought you a robe, Karen, Karen, don’t hate me, dear. I’m sorry for what happened. Karen—”

  She spun around, “You’re sorry? Don’t…don’t be ridiculous! I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean…I didn’t know…oh, I can’t even talk straight!”

  He made her take the robe. She struggled to her feet and got it around her shoulders. He was wearing a plaid robe and a pair of bedroom slippers, and he was holding a drink in his hand. For a moment she came very close to asking for a drink herself.

  “I did the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life,” she said.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You must hate me.”

  “Hate you?”

  She turned away. “You should have gone ahead and raped me. Or slapped my idiot head off.”

  “For what? For depriving me of something I had no particular claim on in the first place? Nonsense.”

  She found her pack of cigarettes and lit one. Without looking at him she said, “Do you know what I did, Adrian? I called you earlier because I wanted you to make love to me. I planned everything. The entire thing, I planned it all.”