Chapter 8
Most of it, she had remembered. But now she learned something very important, something that reassured her, that made her realize that she was not a complete tramp. At least she hadn’t been the only one, the whore in a roomful of virgins. If what he was saying was true, the party was a mob scene, an orgy, with dozens of men and women rooting around on the floor like animals in heat. That didn’t make her own part any more attractive, but at least it helped take the burden of guilt from her shoulders.
And if what he said about the grape juice was true—and there was certainly no reason for him to be lying—then the fault was not hers at all. She remembered, vaguely, drinking a great quantity of the juice, glass after glass after glass, and shortly thereafter she had been in the bathroom, and then—
She relaxed. This didn’t erase her guilt but it assuaged it considerably. It provided a reason for her actions, but her actions still remained, real and ineradicable. She would pass men on the street and wonder whether or not they had slept with her.
Or, worse, she would see a face on the lonely streets and remember that the face had hovered over her, that the man’s body had borne down upon her, taking its pleasure with her and giving pleasure to her.
That would be worse.
Only two men had known the secrets of her body before that night. Two men—then no one for well over a year. And now—
“Why did you help me?” she asked suddenly. “You could have left me there. Why did you bring me home?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I woke up and you were there and I realized how messy it would be for you, waking up all alone and lost.”
“It was very good of you.”
He shrugged deprecatingly. “I’m always nice to stray cats and dogs,” he said. “A real Boy Scout.”
“But you were right. I’m glad you were there.”
He smiled sadly.
“Did we . . . did you and I make love last night?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him. He had turned his face away from her and she could not see his eyes. But she looked at him, at the lines of his face, and she realized that she was not embarrassed with him. Perhaps he knew too much about her, so much that embarrassment was out of the question. It was hard to say, but whatever the reason she could not conceive of herself blushing before him, or avoiding his eyes, or being overwhelmed with guilt when she was near him.
“Was it . . . good?”
“I don’t know.”
“Either it was good or it wasn’t. Was I . . . active? Hungry for it? I was probably begging you, wasn’t I?”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
She realized with a start that he was far more embarrassed by the discussion than she was, and this was something she could not fully understand. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and let the matter drop.
“What time is it?”
“A few minutes after six. Why?”
“God,” she said. “I was supposed to go to work today. The whole day is shot now.”
“Forget it.”
“I would just be getting home now,” she said. “After eight dull hours, I would just be getting home. That’s funny, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“I think so. Maybe they’ll fire me. I didn’t even call them up to tell them I wouldn’t be coming in. They’ll wonder what was wrong with me.”
“I don’t think they’ll fire you. You can go in tomorrow and explain you were sick or something.”
“But I could have phoned—”
“Tell them the phone was in the hall and you were too sick to go all the way to the phone. They’ll understand. Better yet, stay home tomorrow and call them. That’ll make it look better. Then you can have the weekend to rest up and when you come in hale and hearty on Monday morning, they won’t suspect a thing. You can even carry a handkerchief and blow your nose in it every once in a while for effect.”
She grinned. “You sound like an old hand at the game.”
“What game?”
“Calling in sick. Did you do that this morning?”
“Hardly. I’m unemployed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “I’m not.”
She listened while he ran through his own history—the job and how he had left it and what he was doing now.
“You’re a writer, then,” she said finally.
“No.”
“But—”
“I’m a bum,” he said, correcting her. “A writer is somebody who writes. I don’t do that. I haven’t written a line in almost a week. I’m a bum, you see. I sit around and drink and smoke.”
“Pretty soon you’ll finish the book,” she said confidently. “And then somebody will publish it.”
“I doubt it.”
“You don’t think it’ll sell?”
“I don’t think I’ll finish it,” he corrected, smiling grimly. “As a matter of fact, I seriously doubt that I’ll ever write another word of it.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t feel like it.”
“Then what will you do for money? Get another job?”
He laughed. “Not that, I’m afraid. Oh, I’ll find some way to get by. If worst comes to worst, I guess I’ll rent a loft over on the East Side and hold orgies.”
For a second or two she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to read to a line like that. Then, suddenly, the line seemed very funny and she resolved her dilemma by laughing. He joined in the laughter, his eyes warm when he looked at her.
“Look,” he said finally, “it’s dinner time and I’m pretty hungry. You must be starving yourself. When did you eat last?”
“Yesterday.”
He sighed. “In that case, we better get you to a restaurant before you pass out again. I’ve got a fine idea. There’s an Italian place around the corner with the best damned Neapolitan cooking in New York. We’ll go there, have a glass or two of sour red wine, a heaping plateful of good food and then you’ll feel a hell of a lot better. How does that sound?”
“It sounds great.”
“Fine. I’ll go up to my apartment and change while you get some clothes on.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“You’re unemployed,” she said, “and you shouldn’t have to spend money. Why not stay here? I’ll whip up some supper and it won’t cost us anything.”
He grinned. “That’s sweet of you. But it’s time for a little education for you, Joyce. Unemployed and broke are not perforce synonymous. I won’t have any money worries, not for a few weeks. Now, I’m going to run upstairs, change into something a little more comfortable than somebody else’s gray flannel suit and locate my bankroll. Meanwhile, you get up, take a fast shower, get some clothes on and look pretty. I’ll be down as soon as I can. Good enough?”
Her eyes stayed on him until he had left her apartment. Strangely, inexplicably, she still wondered how it had been with them when they had made love.
Then she got out of bed, walked quickly to the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. She took a very hot shower first, letting the water beat down on her and sting her soft skin. She rubbed the soap into her flesh, trying to wash away the traces of all the men of the night before.
Then she turned off the hot water, letting an icy spray lash her, closing up the pores, bringing her back to life. She stepped at last from the shower and rubbed herself dry with a towel. Back in the bedroom she dressed quickly—a pink sweater, a black skirt, a pair of brown loafers.
Then she sat on a chair in the living room and waited for him to came back to her. She hoped he would hurry. She was hungry now. And that was not all.
She wanted to see him.
“What’s calamari?”
“Squid,” he told her.
“Squid?”
“Like octopus. Only smaller.”
She made a face.
“It’s good,” he said. “I’ve ordered it in Philippine restaurants, too. The sauce is more gamy there. But I like the way the Italians cook it.”
“I think I’ll stick to the lobster,” she said. “I’m not too squeamish but there’s something about the idea of gobbling up a squid—”
“What’s the difference? When you stop to think about it, a lobster isn’t so pretty either. I mean—”
“Don’t tell me,” she interrupted. “You’ll spoil it for me. I love lobster.”
They drank wine and exchanged small talk while they waited for the food. It came and it was worth the wait. The lobster had been cooked expertly in a subtle sauce and it was delicious. He made her try a bite of his calamari and she was surprised to discover that it was very good.
She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. The food disappeared in short order and he didn’t have to twist her arm to get her to order a dish of tortoni for dessert. They capped the meal with cups of espresso then sat, contented and pleasantly filled with food, looking at each other.
The waiter, still smiling, brought the check. It came to only four dollars for the two of them. Pete gave him a five and waved away the change.
“Well,” he said, “that does it. Come on—I’ll take you home.”
They walked back to Gay Street in silence. For some reason neither of them felt enough like talking to start a conversation going. They walked without speaking. Joyce had a strange urge to slip her hand into his, to hold hands with him. But she held herself back and they simply walked together.
He used his key on the front door and walked her up a flight of stairs to her door. “Well,” he said, “I’ll see you. You’d better take it easy, get some rest.”
“You’re going?”
He nodded.
“Where?”
“Jazz club a little ways away. I thought I’d drop by for a few sets. Nothing much else to do.”
She hesitated. “Could I . . . come with you? Dutch, of course. I just don’t want to sit around alone. Not tonight.”
Now it was his turn to hesitate and she was sorry at once that she had asked. “Forget I said anything,” she said. “It was stupid of me to horn in. You’re meeting someone, aren’t you?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “No, nothing like that. I’d be happy to have you along. It’s just that I thought maybe you ought to get some rest. You know, take it easy. You’ve had a pretty rough time of it, you know.”
“I’m all right now. Besides, I slept all day long. And I’m not going to work tomorrow, remember? I’m taking your advice on how to con my employers.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Unless you don’t want me along. Just tell me. I don’t bruise too easily.”
“I’d like your company,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Do I have to change?”
“Not for the Dime Note. It’s an informal club. The tourists haven’t found out about it yet. Let’s go.”
The music was hard bop—harsh, discordant, driving and furious. It was new to her—her ears had become more attuned to college boy jazz, West Coast harmonies and dance band drivel. But the more she listened to the music, the more she found herself in rapport with it. The trumpet snapped and squealed at her, the piano pounded complex chords that were never out of place, and after two or three numbers she was in tune with the music, fully able to relax and enjoy it. She did not understand it, not in the literal sense, but she liked what she heard.
She drank orange blossoms and he drank bourbon neat but neither of them did too much drinking. The club, a hole in the wall named the Dime Note, was designed for listening rather than for drinking. The waiter only came around between sets, unwilling to interrupt the music. Which was just as well with the intense people who occupied the tables and watched the musicians constantly, listening hard to every note.
The two of them did not talk while the group was playing. Between sets they talked a little, saying nothing in particular. It was an easy atmosphere that had developed between them. In one sense, there was no pretense, no secrets, nothing held back. They had already slept together, albeit under less-than-perfect conditions and still, at the same time, they had no strings on one another. They would relax and talk, and then the music would begin again and they would lose themselves in it.
A set ended.
“It’s almost midnight,” he said. “We’d better get going. It’s late, even if you’re not going to work tomorrow. You’ve had a busy time lately.”
“I didn’t realize it was that late.”
“The time goes fast here. Let’s go.”
He insisted on paying the whole check. Then he took her arm and led her out of the club. It was a cool night outside—moonless and starless, with the streets strangely quiet. This time he took her hand automatically when they walked. Again they were silent. They walked slowly.
Then once again they were on Gay Street, in front of their building, and he was opening the door with his key. He led her inside and they walked up the flight of stairs, then stood in hazy silence in front of her door. She got her key in the lock, turned it and shoved the door open. Then she turned at the door, ready to say good-bye to him.
“I’ll see you,” he said. “Maybe I’ll drop by tomorrow. If it’s okay with you.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Well—”
“I had a very nice time tonight, Pete. It was good of you. The dinner and the music. I enjoyed it.”
“We’ll have to do it again soon.”
“That would be nice.”
“Well—”
“Pete?”
He looked at her.
“Pete, don’t go. Please don’t go.”
He waited.
“Pete, stay with me. Tonight. Stay with me. I want you with me, Pete. I want you to sleep with me.”
Silence.
“Are you sure, Joyce?”
“I’m sure.”
“This isn’t . . . necessary, you know.”
“I know.”
“I mean—”
“I know what you mean. I want you with me. I want you to make love to me.”
His mouth opened but he didn’t say anything.
Her heart was beating quickly and her mouth was dry. She didn’t know how she might be sounding to him, whether she was acting like a woman or a tramp or a badly-frightened little girl. She didn’t even care how it sounded. She knew only that she wanted him with her. That much was very important to her at the moment. Nothing else mattered.
“I want you here,” she said. “Holding me in your arms. I want you next to me all night long. And I want you to be there in the morning when I wake up. Is that horrid of me?”
“No,” he said slowly. “No, of course not.”
“Would you like that, Pete?”
“Yes,” he said gently. “I’d like that very much.”
He took her face between his hands and brought it up close to him. His mouth found hers and they kissed—a gentle, strangely passionless kiss.
The bargain was sealed.
They walked inside the apartment. He closed the door, turned the bolt. Then he took her in his arms again and they kissed once more in the same manner.
“Do you like me, Pete?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Am I . . . all right?”
“You’re sweet. You’re very sweet.”
“Do you want me?”
“Very much.”
“Make love to me, Pete. Make love to me. But be gentle. Please be very gentle with me.”
His arms went around her, holding her close. His lips brushed her cheek, then found her mouth again. His hands stroked her back gently and his lips on hers made a solemn promise of sweetness, of tenderness, almost of love.