When the bell rang, Morgan did something he had not done in years. He knelt briefly in his corner and crossed himself. Then he went out to meet his man.
The night was different but his style was unchanged. He moved in crouching with his hands low, ready to hook. The colored boy chopped him twice with the left and backed away, but Morgan caught him once with the hook, hard, just under the heart, and the colored boy grunted and went away. He was very fast. He came back from the side with a low right and put the left in Morgan’s eyes.
Morgan went after him with the hook and missed, spinning himself halfway around and off balance, and the colored boy hit him in the kidneys. Morgan did not feel it. The boy couldn’t hit. But he was very fast. Morgan went in again, hooking for the body. He would have to slow this one down before shooting for the head. He missed again and the colored boy caught him a good one on the ear. Morgan nodded and shuffled on in. The colored boy backed away, keeping the left in Morgan’s eyes.
There was a big crowd and it was very noisy in the Garden, but Morgan did not hear it. He was conscious only of the colored boy and of the mortal need to hit him. He went forward half lunging, hooking for the body. He was hit once over the left eye. The colored boy backed off and made faces at him. They were terrible warning faces, but Morgan did not hear the crowd laugh. He was dimly aware of a deep feeling of contempt. They called this one Cyclone Billy Jones. A television fighter. A clown.
Morgan went in viciously with the overhand right. It landed on his neck. The boy came inside, butting and clinching. Morgan was waiting and dug him with the hook over the heart and the boy tore loose and went away.
“You comin’ to mah party?” he said.
Morgan put the left low and went after him. Cyclone Billy Jones danced away.
“Vict’ry party. You comin’ to mah party?”
He changed step suddenly and caught Morgan coming in. The punch exploded in white light on Morgan’s nose. He hooked blindly at nothing. He was hit several times around the eyes. He heard the colored boy say, “Mah place, jus’ after the fight. You comin’, Mistuh Morgan?”
He looks better than I expected, Laura thought. You can see he’s all right. But after what Shipp did to him last month it’s incredible to see him even walking. Still, he’s undoubtedly all right. His eyes are clear. And look at him go in. Always forward. Always being hit. Excelsior. Onward and upward with Smoky Joe Morgan. But at least he’s all right.
She sat deep in her chair, white-faced and small and looking cold, her face half buried in the soft fur of her coat. She was very confused. She was relieved to see him all right and at the same time annoyed with herself for being relieved, and she was amazed to see him looking exactly the same. The beating Shipp had given him had been one of the most brutal she’d ever seen, but it had made no change in him. He had not let it make a change. My God, she thought, thinking suddenly of the future, what will happen to him…
She stopped thinking and crouched in her chair. The colored boy danced above her and Joe Morgan came rushing forward and missed and fell into the ropes. She saw his face very close and felt the sweat fall on her. She flinched. That face hung above her, black-bearded and murderous, white teeth sharp in the dark jaws, the eyes black gleaming slits and the black hair wet and streaked across the pale forehead. He did not see her. The colored boy hit him from behind and there was screaming around her and Joe Morgan spun away. She sat up in her seat. The man with her patted her on the arm. She looked up and saw that he understood and smiled back nervously and put her hand on his.
“Do you want to go?” he said.
“No.”
“We have better things to do,” he said. He smiled.
She looked at him.
“Possibly.”
He nodded cheerfully and turned back to the fight. Laura’s heart was still beating wildly. She looked up at Joe Morgan and shivered. In that second when he had come toward her, had hung raging above her with that awful murdering face, she had felt as if he was coming to get her. In that one horrible moment she still belonged to him and the rage for her and he was coming after her. She took hold of herself. She said to herself that she ought not to have sat so close. You will never be able to let him come toward you, she thought, without flinching. She watched Morgan until the round ended. She had been married to him for four years, but except for the fight with Shipp she had not seen him since the divorce six months ago.
“Well,” Warren said cheerfully, “he’s over the hill. No question about it.”
Laura looked up at him. Handsome. A delicate face, fragile almost, but very handsome. We have better things to do. Perhaps.
“He looks fairly healthy,” Laura said.
“Oh, he’s still very strong. They don’t lose that. But the legs are gone. He can’t catch him. Washed up at his age. Tough racket.” He looked thoughtfully out at Morgan, who sat quietly rocklike in his corner with his manager bending over him. “Must have had over a hundred fights,” Warren said. “How many times was he knocked out?”
“Twice.”
“Shipp once. Who did the other?”
“Robinson.”
“Ah, yes. But that was only a TKO. He was still on his feet.”
“You should have seen him,” Laura said.
“Yes, but you know the kind of knockout I mean. He’s got to go down. I mean really down. Like Shipp did to him last month. There was a knockout. Amazing he took it so long. Very tough lad, Morgan. Always did like him. And only two knockouts. Remarkable, considering his style. He must take one hell of a punch.”
“Quite often,” Laura said.
Warren chuckled.
“True, true. But he’s still healthy.” He paused and lighted a cigarette. He thought about asking her jocularly if she was worried, but the round began and he decided to drop it. There was still too much sympathy in her for Morgan and he thought the wisest thing from here on in would be to say nothing. Never knock a competitor. But watching her now, the wide soft eyes gazing anxiously at Morgan, he felt deeply irritated. Dammit, he thought, Morgan has the advantage, regardless of what the real facts are. A fighter on the way down. To a woman like Laura that would be very touching. Well, all right, it was a tough business, but after all you have to grow up sometime. Many a good fighter has gone through it and come out all right. There was Mickey Walker being knocked out by some bum in Yakima, and he got up from that and took up painting and never fought again. And then there was Ad Wolgast knocked punchy by Joe Rivers, still training for the rematch twenty years after Rivers was dead. Morgan might go that way. Looking at Morgan tonight, you wondered how far he would really go. Because in his day that son of a gun could fight. Really brawl. It was his bad luck to come along while Robinson was champ, old Sugar, one of the two or three best in the last fifty years—well, the hell with that. Luckily Morgan was not punchy yet and this joker Jones couldn’t hurt him, so sympathy would be held to a minimum. But in the future he ought to keep Laura away from fights. Any fights.
He reached down and took her hand.
“Listen, baby,” he said softly, “where do you want to go when this is over?”
But she was not listening to him. She was watching Morgan chase the dancing, laughing colored boy around the ring.
“Why doesn’t he come in and fight,” she said angrily. “All that bouncing is silly.”
Warren frowned.
“If he came in and fought, honey pie, he’d get his ears blown off.”
“Cyclone Billy Jones,” Laura said scornfully. “He’s a television fighter.”
“But my dear”—Warren grinned—“so, in his way, is Morgan.”
“Jeez,” Gerdy said unhappily, “he was wide open.”
“I couldn’t get to him,” Morgan said.
“Well, look, you see what he’s doin’? He’s got a move he makes ev’ry time he comes in. He hits you, then he moves away from your right. Sideways. You see? What you do is wait for him, then left hook him as he goes sideways—”
“I saw it,” Morgan said.
“Well, jeez—”
“What you think I been tryin’ to do?”
“Oh,” Gerdy said. “Okay.” Holy Christ, he thought, to be beat by a clown like this. Six months ago we’d’ve creamed him.
He glanced unhappily across the ring to where Vito Parilli, the Cyclone’s flashily dressed manager, stood watching Morgan with sad, cold eyes. Gerdy thought enviously of all the money Parilli would make with this Cyclone character. Jeez, he thought, that’s always the way. Them as has gets.
“I’ll get him,” Morgan said. He was tapping his gloves together nervously.
“Well, for crissakes duck a little. He’s pilin’ up points.”
“He can’t hurt me. He couldn’t hurt your mother.”
“But all of them points. You got to watch it.”
“If he holds still. What round is it?”
“Five. Hey. You wife’s here.”
Morgan stopped tapping his gloves together. He did not turn his head.
“Ex-wife.”
“So okay,” Gerdy said. “Thought you’d like to know.”
“The hell with her,” Morgan said.
“Okay, okay,” Gerdy said.
The bell rang. Morgan rose and set himself and moved out to the center of the ring and the colored boy hit him three times with the jab and moved away. You son of a bitch, Morgan thought, come in and fight. This is a fight. This is you and me. Come in, you son of a bitch, and I’ll kill you. Come in. Come in.
And the colored boy came in and hit him and went away again and Morgan missed wildly. He swore at himself. The opening was there and he had seen it, but he was too late. There were openings all over the place, it was unbelievable how many things the kid did wrong, but Morgan could not hit him. It was goading him. He was beginning to swing desperately. The kid danced in front of him grinning broadly, talking the whole while as he had been talking all during the fight. Morgan did not hear him. He held his left hand down by his hip, ready to hook, and the right hand high, tight, shaky, and the kid came in and hit him.
And went away too slow.
It was the fifth round. The kid was twenty-four years old, but he had been dancing and moving throughout the fight and Morgan had hit him three or four times in the belly. So that although he did not show it, he was a shade slower, just a hair, which was slow enough, so that when he moved sideways this time Morgan brought up the left and hung him with it, caught him clearly and beautifully, and felt the punch hit and explode and go through, and the kid’s head twisted and he went down.
Morgan came alive. He went back to his corner and waited for the kid to get up. He was sure the kid would get up and what worried him was that it was late in the round and there might not be enough time. But if he could go in now he could take him finally and for good with both hands, now finally, the right, too, to finish it. If there was time. He waited. He saw the kid coming up shakily, the eyes still glazed, and when the glove left the canvas he rushed forward to end it. But the referee got in his way and held him and the kid was sitting down, and he realized that while the kid was on the floor the round had ended.
He went to his corner and sat down. Gerdy worked over him excitedly but he did not hear him or the screaming crowd. He was thinking that if he was lucky the kid would still be dazed in the next round and he would get him then for sure. A little luck, he thought, a little luck. I got him then, dammit, but it had to be at the end of the round. And he had to go down with it. If he had stayed up there was still time to get in and really hurt him, but he had to go down. Well, let him run now. I’ll get him now. He knows it.
From the back of his mind a thought came suddenly, a picture of her. She saw that too. She’s here. He started to turn and look for her but the bell rang.
He forgot her and went out for the colored boy. But the Cyclone was already up and dancing away. And his eyes were clear and there was nothing shaky about him, and he put the left in Morgan’s face and said, grinning: “You worry me, man, you worry me. But you come to mah party anyhow.”
From there on it was downhill. The colored boy never came close again. He stayed outside and kept hitting at the eyes and there was nothing Morgan could do. His left eye was closed and he had lost every round but one. The Cyclone couldn’t put him down and it was brutal. But the crowd loved it. The Cyclone was putting on a real show. He was bobbing up and down and making frightening faces and talking loud enough for the ringsiders to hear. He would draw back his right and fake with it dangerously, warningly, and then pop Morgan delicately with the left. Several times he changed styles, fighting Morgan left-handed. Once he put his right behind his back. And Morgan took it and came on, still hoping, pawing clumsily with the left, hooking to the body, half blinded and leg weary, but still charging his man. Because the night was still different.
It went on that way through the last round. Had Morgan begun to bleed the referee would have stopped it, but Morgan did not cut easily and he had never once been dazed, so there was no reason to stop it and besides it was a good show. Late in the last round, Morgan’s legs began to give out from under him and he couldn’t charge anymore. He stopped several times and beckoned the colored boy to come in and fight and the colored boy buzzed in once delicately and flitted away again. Once the colored boy took a close look and Morgan and then set his feet solidly as if he was really going to punch this time, but Morgan came at him with joy in his good eye and the colored boy changed his mind and went away again. He was still going away when the fight ended.
Morgan went back to his corner. He did not think anything, feel anything. He heard the decision, saw the colored boy laughing into the television cameras, describing the terrible things he would do to the champ. Morgan’s right arm began to twitch. Gerdy caught him by the arm and tried to move him. He did not move. The radio man was coming at him with the mike but looked at his face thoughtfully and said something into the mike and went away. Morgan looked out over the crowd and faces looked back at him. He looked down into the faces and they were grinning at him. But there was one face suddenly very soft and beautiful and strangely twisted, large lovely eyes gazing at him filled with pity. It took him a moment to recognize Laura. She turned from him quickly and went up the aisle in the crowd. There was a tall, blond man at her side. Morgan felt sick all the way down, cold in the belly. This time when Gerdy pulled him he moved, went through the ropes and down the aisle. He began to remember that the night was different, the night was different.
In the dressing room he sat on the table and Gerdy stood across the room from him and watched him warily. Gerdy itched to get out. He had many things to do and many people to see, and there was nothing left here but trouble. He had seen Morgan lose before and he had never taken it well, but there had never been anything like tonight, not even that time with Shipp, because even a knockout would be better than this, and looking at Morgan, he thought gloomily, I better get out of here. They none of them ever lose a fight. Either he caught me a lucky one or I was sick that night or I just couldn’t seem to get started, it must be my trainer or something like that. But Morgan now did not say anything—he just sat on the table with the robe half fallen from his shoulders, staring down at the gloves out of puffed eyes, so Gerdy, very cautiously, said: “The crum. The lousy crum. He dint fight no fight. He run all the way, Joe. You call that a fight? Get a guy in a bar, in a real fight, he runs away then, does he win it? Jesus! What they gettin’ nowadays. Now listen, Joe, don’t you worry about it, we get another crack at him.”
He waited anxiously for Morgan to say something about that because both of them knew there would be no other fight with Cyclone Billy Jones. Vito Parilli had a boy on the way up. He would not take a chance on having his boy get caught with that left hook again. But Morgan did not say anything.
“Listen, Joe, you gonna get dressed? You catch your death.”
“You in a hurry?” Morgan said.
“No, Joe, honest. But you better—”
“If you’re in a hurry get out.”
“Well, jeez, Joe”—Gerdy drew himself up huffily—”if you feel that way—”
He was interrupted by a rap on the door. Grateful for the release, he opened it. He saw a small frail man named Sickhead Dugan, one of the Cyclone’s handlers. The small man was nervous and remained outside the room.
“Hiya, Gerdy,” he said quickly, “lissen, Gerdy, I don’t want no trouble on’y Cyclone he said I should come. He sent me, it wasn’t my idea.”
“What idea?”
“Well, see, Cyclone”—the small man backed away—”he wants I should invite, you should invite Joe t’his vict’ry party. See ya.”
He went quickly away.
“I’ll tell him you called,” Gerdy yelled after him indignantly, “ya lousy—” He turned and peered cautiously at Morgan, keeping the door open. Gerdy was not sure he had heard. Jeez, he thought distastefully, I hope he ain’t hurt.
“Well, listen, Joe, I got to run. You sure you don’t need me?”
Morgan did not look up and did not say anything.
“Well, okay. You take care a that eye. I’ll see you.”
Gerdy waited jumpily for Morgan to say something. After a moment he shrugged virtuously, having done his duty, and left, closing the door behind him.
Morgan was alone.
He was completely alone. He stared at the room, at the dirty tile floor, the chipped gray lockers. There was noise in the corridor outside and he sat for a long time listening to it and waiting dumbly for the feeling inside him to go away. But it did not go away, it was in his belly, running hot and cold like the slow bleeding of a hemorrhage. He tried to think his way out of it but the thinking led nowhere, it led into tomorrow, which was nowhere, wide and gray and nowhere, and then it turned and came back to her and her face, the beauty of the face and the pity in the eyes. The pity more than anything. Her pitying him beaten—only that was not it, he was not beaten, not even close to beaten, this one tonight had danced all around him, but it had not been a fight, not a real fight, and he felt strong and ready still, his arms tensed and thick, packed with the unexploded, unexpended readiness, still waiting for the fight—the man to man, the way it should have been strictly between you and me and the way it used to be back in the old days without the rules and the referees, back there when you fought for real for a dirty piece of bread, no rules then and no referees, and without the rules on his side…I would have killed him.
Well, now, he thought suddenly, don’t blame the rules. This is no time to start complaining about the rules. They said all along and you said it too that a man should face it and never lie about it, if he’s licked he should admit it and let it go and not make alibis…
But she saw it. All that dancing and laughing and me swinging like a gate. Probably never see me again and so to remember me that way, a clown, me a clown too as well as him…but all right, forget about that. If you keep thinking about that…but, oh, the clown, the lousy clown, there was no need for the laughing too.
He pushed his gloves together hard and held them that way for a moment. They were new and glistening, almost unused. It was now very quiet outside and he could hear pails and mops in the halls, and the sweat had dried on him and he felt cold. But even now in the stillness he could not believe that it was over; he flexed his arms, feeling the strength that was there, and looked dazedly around the room.
There had to be something left, something more to do. He could not quit with this still in his arms, the cold bleeding still in his belly. He looked ahead clearly and saw the way it was. Something had to be done to stop the bleeding, he did not know what, but it had to be done. A man could end decently if they gave him any kind of chance at all, and he still had a chance, somewhere a chance, because he was not beaten, not really beaten, and no matter about the rules and the woman and all of the rest, a man should never quit until he is really beaten…
His arm was twitching again. He rose and patted cold water on his eye and began to dress. He was halfway through dressing when he realized what it was he had left to do.
He had been invited to a party.
He could hear the party from a long way off. He came slowly down the hallway and stopped outside the door. In the streets it had been raining heavily and he was wet. He took his hands out of his pockets and wiped his face. Now, for the first time in his life before going to a fight, he stopped and made a plan.
He had first of all to get near the kid—just get near him. He knew that there were many people there and also many of Parilli’s hoods, and even if they let him in, he saw almost no chance of letting him get close. Not on a bet. But maybe if he was calm and quiet and did not show anything. Maybe if he acted groggy and asked for a drink. There was always a chance. He thought briefly of waiting until later, when there would be fewer people. But he could not wait, not possibly. This way the fight was not yet over—there was one more round and waiting would let it spoil. He rang the bell.
The man who opened the door was fat and drunk and he stepped back in surprise and Morgan was in the room.
“Well, Jesus K. Rist!” the fat man bawled. “Lookit here!”
Morgan stood stiffly and put his hands in his pockets and tried to grin. Heads turned toward him but the party went right on, and he saw three of Parilli’s big boys get up and come at him. He stood perfectly still. It was like hunting deer. Make no quick motion. He looked past the three men and saw Cyclone across the room. He was leaning on the bar with a drink in his hand, talking to a girl in a silver dress. He had not looked up.
“All right, waddya want?” the fat man said. His eyes had focused and he was looking down warily. The three men came up moving altogether almost in step, like soldiers.
“I been invited,” Morgan said.
“You better move on,” one of the three boys said.
“But I been invited,” Morgan said. He grinned. “Ask Cyclone.”
The three boys edged in on him slowly and they were all bigger than he was and he could not see past them anymore. They were looking at his clothes all wet with the rain.
“He’s drunk—throw him the hell out.”
“No he ain’t.”
“He don’t look very big outside the ring.”
“Get goin’, boy.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” Morgan said.
“You damn right.”
“Hey, listen,” the fat man said. “He did invite him. I heard him. I thought he was kiddin’.”
“He owes me a drink.”
“But he was kiddin’.”
“The hell he was,” Morgan said. He grinned again friendlily. The three boys were uncertain. Morgan took the moment.
“Come on, you guys, lay off me. On’y want a drink. Go ask Parilli.”
When he mentioned Parilli’s name he moved for the first time. He slipped through them gently, still grinning, and began walking slowly across the room toward the Cyclone.
“Hey, wait a second,” one of them said, but nobody moved and he walked on slowly, smiling, across the room and around a long couch. He felt beautifully cold and clear and there was a high wide whistling going on in his head, like the wind on a high mountain. He could smell the cigar smoke and the liquor and feel the soft carpet beneath his feet, but he was not conscious of his wet clothes or of any part of his body, and the noises of the room were dim and the lights were all sharp and glittering.
He was getting close. Now it began to show on his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Parilli. Parilli saw him too, and the little man stood up quickly and shouted something. Morgan heard a movement toward him, but it was too late. The Cyclone looked up.
“You run away from me,” Morgan said. “Lemme see you run now.”
The Cyclone blinked, puzzled. The girl backed off. The Cyclone saw it coming and put his left up.
Morgan hit him with both hands in the belly. The kid tried to slip away and fell back across the bar. There was a sound of glass breaking. Morgan kept hitting him low, in and out, not risking a shot at the head until the hands came down and the boy leaned forward grunting, spitting, and then Morgan hit him once with everything, now and for keeps, aiming, and felt the jaw break and his bare hand crack as the punch hit and went through. And then he was grabbed from behind, not hit but grabbed, which was a mistake, because he whirled down low and happily, exultantly, and hit for the groin, getting two that way and making light between them, and he lunged to get out.
But one tackled him and he went down. He came back up to his knees and gouged at the eyes of the man holding him. He looked up and saw legs and a blackjack and dodged a kick at his face, hitting again at the groin, but the back of his head exploded and he could not see anything. Then they were all over him and hurting him and holding him down. He could not move and he felt them tear into his belly and there was a foot grinding down on his right hand. The fight went out of him suddenly. It was very dark and quiet.
After a while he began to hear. He was numb all over and he could not see. He felt himself being picked up under the shoulder. He could not move. He could hear them swearing.
“Kill him! Kill the son of a bitch!”
“Get him out first. Too many goddamned women—”
“Take him down in the alley and work on him, really work—”
“Shut up.”
Somebody slapped his face.
“Morgan? You hear me?”
He recognized the voice. Parilli.
“You goddamn fool!”
He got his eyes open but everything was blurred. He tried to grin.
“Jesus,” Parilli said.
“We ought to kill the son of a bitch.”
“You shut your face,” Parilli said.
“What? But, Jesus, boss—”
“Take him down and put him in a car and take him home.”
“Home? Home? But for crissakes—”
“You wanta argue?”
“No, I don’t wanna argue.”
“I said, take him home.”
There was a silence. He could feel them carrying him. One of them said apologetically: “You gonna let him fight again, boss?”
“He won’t fight again.”
“How you gonna stop him?”
“Lookit his hands. You can see the bones. He won’t fight no more.”
“But he’s gettin’ off light. Shouldn’t we make a lesson on him?”
“Listen,” Parilli said slowly. There was a pause. “I tell you what. We sit him down and let him come to. We give him a shot, just so’s he can stand. Then you person’ly, all by yourself, you want to try to work him over?”
The other man did not say anything. Parilli laughed.
“Take him home,” Parilli said.
He lay in a car with his head against the window and when they passed a streetlight he could see the rain falling in long silvery streaks. He watched the rain and the lights going by and was dumbly warmly happy. But he was not going home. One thing more. He grinned craftily to himself and gave the driver her address. He lay grinning against the window and hugging his stomach where it hurt and watching the rain. When they let him out he was able to walk and he made it up to her door.
He stopped here as he had at the other. He did not know why. Some of the joy of it went suddenly away. He thought that he must look pretty bad. He wiped his face, making his cheek bleed again, and tried to tuck his shirt in. His right hand hurt and he looked down at it and saw that it was broken. The knuckles were all hunched and bloody where the one had stepped on it. He began to feel the pain of it and the pain in his body. He thought that if you were going to do this at all you better do it quick. He pressed the bell.
She was a long while coming. When she came his eyes were blurred and he could not see her clearly. She put a hand to her throat and backed away.
“Sorry woke you up,” he said. “Got somethin’ to tell you.” He saw the fear in her eyes. “Christ,” he said, “I ain’t gonna hurt you. I just want to tell you. I been over to see the Cyclone. We finished up at his place.” He grinned widely and felt the dried blood cracking on his lips. “He ast me to his party. Vict’ry party. So I went on over there. You should’ve seen it. He couldn’t run no more. I caught him there and I hung him. Oh, baby, I really, really hung him…”
He raised his right hand and shook it and staggered with the effort.
“You,” she said thickly, “you.”
“So I just thought I’d drop by and tell you.”
“You had to,” she said. He saw her clearly. Her face above the white nightgown was all warped and strange.
“So I’ll see you sometime,” he said.
“My God, will you ever,” she said. “Will you ever, ever. Look what they’ve done, they’ve hurt you, you don’t see what they’ve done.” She pulled at his arm, her face twisted. “Can you see me? You look like you can’t see me.”
“I can see you.”
“You need a doctor.” She pulled at him and he went with her into the room. “Sit down. Sit there. You had to come here. You had to tell me. Oh, look at you.” She turned and went away and he could hear her on the phone and then she came back with a wet, warm towel for his face. He looked down at her and he felt suddenly very thick and flowing inside. She was dabbing at his face and he was staring at her, and when she saw the expression on his face she stopped. He could feel it come welling up. But he couldn’t say anything. He wanted to say it but he had no words. He sat gazing at her dumbly. Never any words, he thought, always the trouble—mad or happy, never any words, always choked up inside with big hot waves. Mad and you fight and happy you never said anything, never could, and she too—both of us like that—but think of it now.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“Honey?” he said.
“What’s the matter?” she said again. He saw that she was crying.
“Ah,” he said. He bent his head. He saw his hand, his bloody right hand. He raised it and held it before her eyes.
“See?” he said. “Honey?”
She stared at the hand. She reached out and touched it gently. She lay her head on his knee and he could feel the sobs racking her.
“Listen,” he said. “Don’t do that.”
He reached out and put his good hand on her hair.
“Honey. Don’t do that. Listen. You’re getting the blood on you.”
“Blood?” she said. She looked up at him. “Blood. All right. Let me get the blood on me. I need the blood on me. Think of all the people in the world never get blood on them.”
She rose up and put her arms around his neck. His face was warm and dark against her bosom.
First published in Dude magazine, August 1956