Nothing new for him, really, since he'd been in and out of love ever since he knew what it was for; and every woman he took to bed had been a wife-figure for a little while. But this time it was new, so new it scared the piss out of him. Her name was Paula and she wore practically no makeup and he'd never said a word to her. And he wanted the lady. Stayed awake nights wanting her.
He'd been watching her for months. Not sizing her up like some of the strippers or cocktail waitresses he'd been plugging since he was fourteen, because damn! this one was so far above him he got that sinking feeling in the nuts every time she happened to glance in his direction. Imagine him, a big Irish dago from the lower East side, getting hung up on a female who looked and moved like the Queen of England should only live so long to look and move like that, with a face all clean elegance and sculpture, cheekbones high, eyes large and gray and ice-hot under heavy black lashes. But somehow the mouth wasn't fit for any queen, because oh brother, Max could go into a real nutty trance reading those full, mobile lips without registering a single word. A mouth which told him that here was a hunk of statuary that might also be a flesh-and-blood woman, despite the regal Amazon walk and the way she tucked back that vivid black hair in a bun as if she were ashamed of it.
"But Max, she's a psychologist," his sister Anna reminded him. "What do you want, she should wear a Bikini to the office with all her degrees?"
"All right, so she's a lady egghead, but those are some pretty healthy measurements she's hiding under all that basic black. She oughta let 'em breathe a little."
"Oh honestly, Max!" Anna's soft spaniel eyes bulged with censure. "Miss Fabian is a very renowned ex-child-prodigy with enough scholarships and diplomas to paper that whole ritzy apartment of yours. And I'm sure she's much too busy alleviating the downtrodden to think of things like her figure."
"But dammit, why can't she throw away those books and charts and look at me one time when I go there to pick you up?"
Anna gave him a mischievous grin. "I guess it is kind of a jolt for you, Max, the way Miss Fabian looks right through you instead of falling on her face at the sight of you like every other girl in New York does."
"AH right, honey ... knock it off."
"Oh Maxie, after all the swingin' affairs you've had, I do believe this is your very first crush." They were in his car, on the way back to the apartment Anna shared in Queens. "Poor sweet baby, yearning for the unattainable, reaching above your grasp because what else is a heaven for?"
"You've been reading Hallmark again."
"Tell you what, hon, next time I go for therapy I'll put in a good word fof you, tell her what a big-wheel of a "gag-writer you are, how many thousands you pull in every week, and how good you are to your poor old Ma and Pa."
"Anna-banana, you say one word to that lady about me and so help me, I'll break your neurotic little head!"
"Please, Maxwell, I am not neurotic, I'm uncorrected!"
For most of that fall and winter of '55 and '56 Max had been chauffeuring his younger sister to the psychological counseling clinic on Fifty-Seventh Street where Paula Fabian worked. At twenty-two Anna's best features were her warm and luminous puppy-eyes. The rest of her was a calamity. She had mousy beige hair, a liverish complexion and was sadly overbreasted; a bosomy stance which might have contributed to the ripe maternal feelings she displayed towards the opposite sex. A rabidly religious mother-hen, it was no small concern to Anna that she had married twice and disastrously. Each time to a gaily inverted sort of boy whose immortal soul she'd wanted to rescue from the iniquities of Greenwich Village and the Grand Central waiting room. During her last such nuptial seizure, just as she felt she was beginning to reach her fey mate with an hypnosis manual, the star-crossed lad took all her clothes and defected to Fire Island, leaving Anna with nothing but a pair of pink satin bedroom slippers with which to climb her walls.
After a wailing phone call in the night, Max had rushed downtown with his sister-in-law Elsie and an emergency Mumu to drape over the shivering girl. "Sweetheart, listen," Max had comforted her, "didn't I always tell you it was perfectly all right to have fags for girl friends ... but who the hell marries their girl friends, for God's sake?"
"Max, don't confuse her," said Elsie. "You want her sicker?"
The distraught Anna had that marriage quickly annulled, and under the guidance of Miss Fabian was swiftly casting off all maladjustments. After being advised not to move back with her overly possessive family, Anna was soon batching it with two other girls, working in civil service and soundly dating married men. Which, as Max saw it, was a helluva lot healthier.
Max dearly loved every member of his big caterwauling family, but his baby sister Anna was his favorite, especially since she had grown up to look like such a dog, poor doll; those big bunchy honeydews blasting out in front of her ... really too much of a responsibility to ask any guy to tackle. Lying next to a couple of slabs like that could be an awful obligation for a man, making him feel guilty as sin if he didn't do something with them every night And after a few months they'd probably get a little heavy to fool around with, no matter how drunk with flesh a guy got, and even if he decided to maneuver a different melon each night it would still take two hands to lift each one and do a really good job. like swabbing a deck, poor kid, and her only chance was to latch on to a weightlifter, because the last time he brought up the subject of surgery Anna had gone on a hunger strike and disowned him; and when their darling volatile little mother found out she'd konked him with a beer bottle. Stitches and the whole bit.
Yes, Max had tried to stay pretty close to the kid until she was over this latest hang-up, accompanying her to the clinic three times a week, acting as go-between with the family. And then, zowie! one look at the woman who was making Anna well and Max hit the sicklist. At least twice a week he'd wait for Paula Fabian to get off work and actually follow her down the street like Dracula, until she reached the subway station, just so he could watch her move, watch those panther strides of hers. Then the rest of the night he'd moon around Manhattan like a lovestruck nine-year-old mailing his first valentine, and dammit, it was getting to be the shits the way he couldn't stop thinking about her. 'Cause man, there was a lot of woman under there somewhere, and for months it hadn't been any use for him to try and concentrate on his work at the studio. Obsessed was what he was. Spooked. Kept getting all those crazy ulcer symptoms with nothing showing up on his G.I. Series. Got the runs, usually when he was in a midtown traffic jam. Got headaches. And rashes. And the dreams; ... oh man, the dreams. That was the meanest part of it, the unfair part. She'd hover down at him out of some goddamned virginal fleecy cloud like the big dipper in a sarong and move in until her mouth puckered about an inch away from his, and then plouf! she'd disappear in a vapor of dry-ice and fairy-dust and he'd wake up rolling underneath the bed wanting to bite down hard on a bullet.
She was the first woman he'd ever been afraid of, so he decided maybe he'd better marry her; although first it might be nice if he got up enough guts to say hello to her without going into a drooling fit. But hell, he'd always had the pick of the crop, so why should he let himself be thrown by one snooty broad? What was that way-out biography spiel his manager Al Franks used to give booking agents to make him sound like a legend in his own time? 'Flashy popular Maxwell Sinclair, alias Mike Sandaretti ... (he found his pseudonym in an Esquire ad, gentlemen: "Lord and Lady Maxwell Sinclair switch to Ban and ride to the Hounds") ... this tower of raw and throbbing life-force, devout cherubic choir-boy at ten and fornicating father at thirteen, although the ravished parishioner in question skipped town with her swaddling discharge, and who knows, our boy may be a grandfather by now ... this tall and rangy dazzler, (six feet two of muscle and sparkle), with a leonine mass of jet black curls and a rakishly absurd Van Dyke, Mr. Sinclair has enough animal pull to melt all sexes. Gentlemen, I give you a man with such magnetic presence that whenever he enters a room all the women have to excuse themselves and run to the powder room for a mop.'
Good old Al, thought Max. His first discoverer.
Max had been a performer before getting into the writing game, but now writing was a deadly serious matter to him and he had high hopes of one day doing the book for a Broadway show. By 1955 Max was earning thirty-five thousand a year as a gag peddler, which he figured was about as far away as he'd ever get from Hell's Kitchen.
By the time he left high school Max was already singing and clowning around town with an off-key bass drum and French horn combo that actually called itself the Discords, no doubt preferring masochism to criticism, and it was while he was goofing-off with this gamy group that Al Franks first caught him. And signed him at a wholesale steal. And decided Max was so mercurial he ought to have his own act, which he broke in ad lib one night up at Grossinger's in the Catskills. But in 1943 Max was caught up in a coincidence of history: he'd just turned eighteen and there was a war on, which meant a two-year intermission in the navy and a lot of harrowing spectator-action in the Pacific. By the time V-J Day rolled around he was a whole lot brighter and tougher, and once he was back in New York he resumed his career with a brand new vigor.
Max exuded a vital, yet vulnerably boyish charm, despite his huge and lumbering physique. He sang and danced a little, but his specialty was limerick parodies of old pop tunes, and he was soon touring joints in Jersey and Brooklyn. His material was fresh and obscenely his own, which he also performed at parties entrenous ... or, as he put it with his innocent grin, at the drop of a panty girdle. At twenty-two it was at one of these soirees that he was discovered again-or seduced-by Danny Thomas, Joey Bishop and other Rabelesians. And now, at thirty-one, Max had one of those millennium contracts in the RCA building, writing and co-producing his very own comedy series, and doing a monthly special called Funny bone USA.
It was often said of Max that he'd made it big mostly because he'd never really tried. But whenever Max tried to pinpoint the cause, which was rarely, he decided it was because he genuinely liked people. Having come from such a sprawling family, there had really been very little he'd done alone, even starting to collaborate now in his work. People were the material that made up his everyday living ... and people were to breathe with and live with and suffer with and go to ... and make laugh and rescue and lean on and listen to ... and people were also for being around and being near when absolutely nothing was happening. That's when they really counted, he thought, when nothing was going on and there was someone close to feel lost and aimless with ...
In early January. Anna told him that her last therapy session was coming up soon, so he'd better do something quick, instead of standing out in the hall and peeking in at Miss Fabian like some junky teenager. Max suggested applying for therapy himself, but Anna said the clinic handled only female conditions, Miss Fabian herself specializing in helping wayward young girls like me, Anna said, with too many overabundancies of love in them.
"But listen, Maxwell, I pumped the other therapist last week and got a few facts for you."
"So all right, give!"
Anna recited. "Paula Fabian is twenty-eight, was one of the youngest girls ever to get a B.S. at Columbia, and has an astounding I.Q. of 164."
Exasperated, Max said ... "I needed to know that, did I? I feel like Barney Google just looking at her, so you had to tell me more about her brilliance?"
"What do you want from me, I should find out where she's vaccinated?"
"Something personal, Anna."
"All right. Personal. She's an unmarried spinster."
"Figures."
"She's Hungarian descent and lives up in the East Nineties."
"With another girl?"
"That's right, Max, another girl. Her mother."
"Oh boy ... I think I'll take a jet somewhere ... "
However, on the occasion of her last consultation, Anna was determined to initiate a formal introduction for Max and let him take it from there. As she and Paula Fabian said their final farewells Max stood reverently watching them in the doorway.
Anna turned and called to him. "Come in here, Maxwell, you rich famous gorgeous brother you, there's someone I want you to meet."
Max moved, feeling leaden and Neanderthal, but at last stood only a few feet from her. Paula raised her large gray eyes to meet his, and watching, Anna thought, my God, she's looking right through him like she's immune, or maybe had some kind of operation.
"Miss Fabian, I want you should meet my big rich famous brother Maxwell. He's on Channel Two and he should only live so long to spend all that money."
As if this weren't enough to set him up like a brass monkey, Max found himself going into a corny double-take routine he hadn't dragged out since Grossinger's. "How do you do and ringa-ding-ding ... dis mus be da place!" crazily waving one hand in the air as though it had been burnt ... What the fuck am I doing, for God's sake ... she's gonna toss a net over me!
Paula viewed this spectacle with brief clinical interest, and then dismissed them both with a professional smile that was not to be questioned. "Goodbye, Anna, I wish you a great deal of luck. Keep in touch?"
Unnn ... a voice just like the rest of her, Max thought, smoldered, muted...
Out in the hall Anna whispered, "Max, what's gotten into you? You behaved absolutely afflictedly."
"She didn't even say how-do-you-do back."
"But you're always so terrific with women, so ... dapper and smooth."
"Yeah, I know," he sighed, "with B-girls I'm suave."
They were in the elevator and all at once Anna burst out laughing at the look of him. "Max, if you could see your face right now ... like a regular little boy blue who's lost his sheep, poor doll-face!' Her eyes spilling over with their spaniel affection, she threw her arms around him for a hug, her frontal ballast knocking the wind out of him so he didn't have to think until they hit the ground floor.
TWO
One afternoon about a week later Paula Fabian left her office a little after five, and upon reaching the street grew annoyed to see that a swirling snowstorm was about to grip the city. She pulled up the collar of her sparse cloth coat which, she reflected grimly, was already two seasons old and wearing thinner by the day, and dug inside her pockets for her gloves. It was then that she saw a strange man approach her and strike up a conversation; which, in itself, wouldn't have been so objectionable to her. However, not at an hour when she was otherwise scheduled, nor so close to the building which housed her professional identity.
And then she saw that it wasn't a stranger after all, but a relative of one of her clients. Relieved at not having to circumvent a transient encounter which might have proved rewarding elsewhere, Paula affixed to her eyes the filtered neutrality which she reserved for all attractive men with whom she must deal platonically.
Max looked immense and overpowering standing before her in his camel's hair greatcoat, clutching one of his long ornate pipes and puffing on it for dear life. "Hi, Miss Fabian, remember me? Maxwell Sinclair!"
"Yes, of course I remember you..." smile waxen. From a distance she let herself hear the rough whiskered husk in the voice, the knell of virile timbre, and knew that soon she must look at him, must look at the man. And knew it was out of the question here and now, for there had been no masks assigned, no categories rehearsed. And to continue filtering such swarthy vitality would become a limited process. She must hurry away.
"You're Anna's big brother. And also a TV personality.
An acrobat, or a dancer. Am I right, sir?" clipped, polite.
"Hell no!" Max frowned. "I'm a writer. Don't you watch TV on Friday nights?"
Trying subtly to edge around the hurdle and the swamp of him, she said, "Sorry, I have class on Fridays."
"Aw, from where I stand you got class every day!" Max waited hopefully for a laugh, wincing when he got none. "Look, I do most of the writing for 'My Three Muggers.' Number four on the Trendex just last week."
"Perhaps my mother watches it..." her eyes, starting out perfunctorily apologetic, were suddenly not. She saw. Saw the succulence of square jutting man's jaw under the wide generous smile of him, the flashing white teeth of him ... saw the devil's stud of a phallic widow's peak ... and thick rippled masses of unruly black hair ... brows slashing shaggy jet ... cheeks ruddy and lean ... and felt the looming breadth, the contoured heat ... Male in the night. Male on the street. Sorry, sir, I do not sup without place-cards. And wondering how long since the last time. Weeks? No. It must be days or I wouldn't still be here. I'd be in a 42nd Street movie-house finding a safe one.
"Well hey, now that we're old friends, let me give you a lift home." Max pointed to his low, long Cadillac convertible parked half-way up the block. "I mean, in this weather a gal might turn into the abominable snowman before she made it to the subway."
Again the sensual dizzying smile and Paula not turning away from it. "But Mr. Sinclair, I live a good distance Uptown. Yorkville," still the therapy-tones.
"So, I'll send you a bill for the gas. Come on, let's get in that car before I freeze my options off!" then wincing, "oops, slipped in a little blue stuff there..."
Bumptious, she thought. Crude and plundering and undoubtedly oversexed to a point of cultism. Probably hangs around girls' playgrounds waiting for skirts to fly. Unleashed tiger species, needing to be taught and harnessed and removed. A pity that he knows me, knows my work and my name. This one's for using...
Max took her arm, but she pulled away and hurried on ahead through the crowd, waiting for him at the car.
They drove in silence for a moment. Intermittently, Paula felt his eyes on her, darting and curious as he angled for a line.
"This'll give me a chance to thank you for what you've done for our Anna-banana. I mean, six months ago that girl was ready to foam over."
Paula stole a quick glance at the profile, ripe waiting silhouette ... stevedore's rumble of a voice ... and slid her body away, pressed and hovered against the door. Trembling. Her throat constricted and crowded with fear. No ... not to be cornered by something wild that had words and recognition ... Jump from the car at the next light. Jump and escape.
"Yep, without you it would have been the rubber room and the whole schmear for Anna ... " Max was determined to tell her his whole life-story, even though it looked like he was giving her some kind of an allergy. But he might never get another chance, so this had to be an all-out effort "She's the only girl in the family, and not being exactly a Miss Rheingold type, my Ma was never too patient with her. She let us boys grow up like crabgrass, but wanted to make a regular nun out of Anna, with the convent and the baldness and the whole schtick. Real character, my Ma. She said: 'Any daughter of mine who looks like that's gonna marry Jesus Christ!'" Max glanced quickly at Paula. "Not religious, are you?"
"Hardly."
"Well, we're a bunch of roarin' Catholics, but I never do much about it Too many production numbers, and I get enough of that at the studio."
Silence again as they waited for a light to change. Max gave her a sidelong glance, saw that her face was turned away, almost shoved against the window. His eyes traveled down her throat as he tried to make out the breast-mounds under her coat. And succeeding, saw that they were more than ample, but decided he'd have to blast to get to them. Then he looked at her lustrous hair so severe and pulled back, and wondered what she'd do if he reached over and took the pins out.
She turned and caught his stare. "Why are we waiting ... the light has changed."
Max couldn't take his eyes off her mouth as she spoke, and suddenly blurted it out like some kind of subnormal spastic case..."Miss Fabian, you have got the most beautiful mouth I have ever seen on a woman!" And then saw her cringe and go pale and turn her face away again.
"That's in bad taste, Mr. Sinclair, and I'm in a hurry."
Why must he speak, she thought ... why must any of them speak?
Although the midtown traffic was still heavy, Max decided to oblige the lady and maybe get arrested for speeding, as relentlessly he plowed on. "Did I ever tell you what a big family we've got?"
No answer.
"Five boys and a girl, although me, Anna and my brother Joe're all that's left in New York. The others shoved off to California a few years ago. Poor Ma, she sure misses 'em. How many kids in your family?"
Resigned sigh, still looking away..."Only child."
"Aw, that must have been lonely."
"It was perfect." Oh God, hurry and get me home behind a lock, behind my books. And then later when Mom's asleep I'll find someone who won't wage a campaign. This one is too close and greedy with what he knows. Expects a role fulfilled, idolatrous and handed to him. Oh, the big gross audacious bastard, how many defenseless young girls has he ripped bloody with that ego-thrust between his legs? Cocky muscle-bound clod all bravado and girth, so positive that everything he is, is prime and top priority. Should be chained when they're like that ... segregated, encamped ... Oh hurry, hurry...
"I'm the only one in the family who never got married," Max went on, "and I'm the eldest. Five years ago I moved the folks uptown to Riverside Drive. Real elegant, wall-to-wall everything. My Ma's old-country Dublin, and Papa's old-country Milano, and down our way it wasn't too easy to mix wops and micks. You oughta get them to tell you the story sometime, how their families fought like blue murder to keep them apart. like Romeo and Juliet ... or maybe we should call it The Lower East Side Story..." Oh man, he thought, with her every word's a bomb; why doesn't someone just shovel the dirt over me?..."And you know, when my folks get a few beers in them and feisty enough, they still roll around the kitchen floor like they were back on Second Avenue..."
The storm grew into a full blizzard now and Max prayed for a big traffic tie-up, because maybe with more time he might find the right combination. He just couldn't be this sunk on some plugged-up little man-hater; nor could he let it end like this..."Miss Fabian, I'm going to level with you. For what it's worth, I like you. I mean ... I like you very much..." he cleared his throat ... "that's right, very much. First time I saw you, nearly five months ago ... well, whew man, you really shook me up..." Oh you meathead, ya fuckin' slob, why can't you talk all beautiful and romantic like you do with those Eighth Avenue chippies!..."And, like I was saying ... or as I was saying, ever since that ... uh ... ever since then, I mean ... well, I have been thinking about you a heap of a lot..." Heap-of-a-lot, Max died inside, where the hell'd I learn that, Zamboango?
Then he asked her for a date, dinner that evening.
"My mother's expecting me."
"Oh? Bet you've got a real nice mother too..." Shut up Max, shut the hell up your big mouth, Max! "Well then, hey, how about tomorrow night?"
"I'm busy."
"Then the next night."
"Class."
Waiting for another light now, Max made a desperate lifeline of a maneuver and groped for her hand. Paula clenched her fist and pulled it away, wondering why they must all be such atavistic frauds, surrounding and impaling with their lordly bombasts, cupidinous wars....
"I guess now I've really offended you," he said miserably.
Paula saw that they were at last nearing her block, although the snow whirling against the window nearly blinded her vision. "It's not important," she told him.
"Okay, prove it and let's have a lunch date ... a luncheon date; tomorrow, huh?"
"I don't date, Mr. Sinclair."
Oh now man, this was too much ... this was where he was gonna get the needles out and go jabbing for blood..."What're you, puttin' me on or something, Miss Paula Fabian ... Miss Brainhead? I mean, what is that, 'I don't date' ... what kinda bit is that? Either you're frigid or a les, right?"
"Mr. Sinclair, do you think your underprivileged mentality excuses you for being insulting?"
"Oh swell! Fine! You get an A-plus for that one. I'll even skip'ya a whole semester..." Damn her, what's so repulsive about me ... and why does she make me come on like King Kong when I'm smooth, Goddammit, smooth! Think I'll kick her out before I start bawlin' ... but first maybe I'll grab myself a big fat kiss. Oh hell no, I don't beg no broad ... any broad ... never ... ever ...
They pulled up to her apartment house, Max clutching the steering wheel in a bullish mass of brooding. "Could I at least have your phone number?"
Not answering, Paula found herself staring at his hands on the wheel, the black curling hairs on his wrist, her eyes dropping for a fast fever-glimpse of the long preposterous straddling legs under the dashboard ... odors of tobacco and gasoline tunnelling so much back to her. Childhood goodies ... treats for little Paulie Fabian 'cause she's the smartest ... And then fleeting pain of the present as her eyes went to his face and she flung open the door and ran out into the snow.
Jolted by her sudden flight, Max roared out: "Holy shit!" and gaped after her. Then yelled, "How'd you find out I'm really Jack-The-Ripper, huh? Ya crud, go home, yer mud-der wants'ya!" Then he saw her slip and fall in the snow. "Oh hell, wait honey..."v
Max clambered out of the car and hurried to help her up, bending down to take her by the arms, their faces so close that his wisp of beard brushed against her cheek.
Paula struck out a hand against his shoulder with such force he nearly lost his balance. "Move back," she ordered him. And when he saw those flints of steel in her eyes it scared the hell out of him, almost scared him enough to pee right there in the snow.
Paula rose to her full five feet seven inches and he watched her shoulders go back, watched the gym-teacher's posture of her as she grandly brushed the snow from her coat.
Max ambled back towards the car, kicking furiously at the snow-drifts as he walked, turning and looking back several times with a couple of really rapier parting shots..."All right, Queenie, that's it then. Fini and you've had it, sweet stuff ... and you can save it for the worms ... you eggheads all got halitosis anyway..."
She'll remember that one, he thought, getting into the car. Before closing the door he grabbed for his pipe and went into a tense and nervous lighting process.
Paula hadn't moved. Stood there in the snow gusts watching as Max sat behind the wheel, legs big and spread, trousers tightly cloaking new mysteries ... as old schoolgirl jingles sang in her ears ... 'wonder what that one's like
... and that one ... and the one next to him...' The flare of the match illuminated Max's face for her and her eyes narrowed and explored. Cameo raw and exposed. Beacon of need's light ... as removed and untenable as a star.
No. Eyes lowering. Why the face of this one, when all the others had been hooded?
Max reached to shut the door and saw her standing there. In that moment the blustery winds tore at her hair and loosened it. Flowing dark cascades swept and hurled and tousled as she stood there, the transfixed voyeur.
Aw ... look at her like that, he thought. Christ, I can't stand it. What's she gonna do now? Maybe she fell on her head.
He said nothing. Turned and stared straight ahead. Left the door open. He didn't know what was bugging her, but he still wanted her to feel welcome. After a minute, still gazing ahead and puffing on his pipe, Max visualized utter defeat ... She's inside her house now ... going up in the elevator ... fallin' in her Mommie's arms and telling her how she got away from the big bad man...
Then turned and saw her seated next to him. Saw the firm graceful lady's hand reach out and slam the car door. Max watched the supple, resolute face, his eyes fierce with questing, his mouth dry, licking his lips, saying something..."Whaaa?"
Paula looked down the street. Dinner hour. Quiet. Deserted. "Drive around the corner," she said.
Throat dry and parched, his words scratched for logic..."We ... had the wrong address?"
"Don't talk. Do as I say."
Watching the lips move in soft command, Max started the car. Slowly drove around the corner. "Here," she said. An empty lot.
Max went a little sweaty ... Jesus, what is this ... she gonna pull a knife or something? All I did was hold her hand.
They parked under a huge snow-laden tree. He waited. His hand on the door-handle, ready for attack.
Then felt her fingers gliding at his knee and gave a sharp intake of breath. And looking down, saw her hand trailing upwards ... slowly, the length of his leg, nestling into thigh and biceps.
"Ohmygod!" he groaned, and swirling about he plunged in on her, taking her in his arms, his hands grabbing at bouquets of her hair..."Aw honey, you are the biggest surprise package of my career!" Unbelieving, but so soaring and ready as his mouth rushed down and covered hers ... thinking, umm ... hell, it's happening. Soft, baby ... soft.
And wrong again as she shoved him away from her. "Oh for God's sake, stop that!"
"Jesus Christ, what did I do? I want to kiss you, Miss Fabian ... such a sweet beautiful mouth..."
"I don't kiss," her eyes on the parted full moistness of his lips as she spoke. "It's decadent."
He glared down at her, clenching a fist. "What're you, on the needle or something? Oh man, you gotta be the end. You don't date, you don't kiss. Well let me tell you something, I kicked playing Doctor and Patty-cake when I was ten; I mean, I don't need anybody to play with me, honey, 'cause I can play with myself ... and ... and what I need is you, dammit!"
"Not so loud," she said, and moved forward to switch on the car-heater. "Does this seat move back?"
"Sure."
"Move it."
He did.
"Get out of that heavy coat," she said.
He eyed her face for a second, nodding, "Yes," and kept his eyes peeled on her as he took the coat off, watching her remove hers, then tossing both garments in the back seat.
Paula looked at him, eyes nurturing the gangling lounging darkness of him. "Now everything."
Max swallowed. "Pardon?"
"Strip to your shoes, please, and don't speak."
"Okay," he started undressing, hungrily watching her watching him. "But this means you like me a little bit, doesn't it?"
She held a finger to her lips..."Shhh..."
And seeing her purse her mouth like that Max grew too shaky to undo his tie and simply tore it from his neck, his eyes planted on her as she removed the jacket of her suit and slowly undid her blouse, and he perspired there in the dead of winter as button after button revealed what he'd been trying to X-ray for months, those damned packed and hidden bursts half-spilling out of her bra as he got out of his shirt and saw her eyes on his hands fumbling at his belt-buckle as he followed her squirming movements to get out of her skirt, and with a gasp he saw the reason for her heavy woolen suits, because as far as he could see there were no panties ... there was only..."Unnn!" Max said, and following his eyes Paula slumped down and winged her legs apart for him and his throat went so dry he hacked out a little cough as he quickly scooted up in the seat to slip out of the trousers which she seized and threw in the back. Max wore no undershirt and seeing the bearish naked chest Paula reached up and fiercely pulled out several hairs..."Ouch!" Max said, and trembled and muttered, "Oh Christ ... " and tugged at his swelling briefs, but she said, "Wait," and he felt her warm light tapered hand flat against his abdomen, slipping so goddam slowly down inside his briefs that he was afraid he might stop breathing ... until the hand touched and gripped and prodded his big hurting tong of an erection that had been straining against the fabric and could pop ten times over every time he looked at her mouth and those twin volcanoes still strapped and hiding in the bra which he wanted to rip off and save and keep under his pillow ... and now feeling her hand caressing and pulling off the briefs ... as he watched her head lower and softly press his anxious acting prick against her cheek like it was a giant rosebud..."I'll be darned," he commented ... and she held it and wielded it and murmured, "This is you, stranger; not up there, down here..." Then raised up and let her bra drop to the floor, and Max's eyes went so sincere they burned and teared, as he swallowed and then coughed again and stared at what was waiting ... what was so alive and free and lush it had to be forbidden, but with a small whine Max reached for them..."Oh sweetheart, that's perfect like that ... aw God, look at that ... just perfect..." In his hands and palmed and rolling firm full high breasts and rising nipples of a big beautiful scholar all for him, in his hands, pressed against his mouth ... and she said, "Move back, I want to see again..." and he slid off and away and felt the heat-rays of her aristocrat's eyes between his legs and the longer she looked there the more it ached, but she said, "Stay waiting and holding like that ... the best moment to watch, most personal profile of all..." Then she reached up and pulled him swiftly down and inside as he gasped and yelled..."ohmygod, Miss Fabian!" her legs flung high and pleading and ensnared him like a vise, grindings humid, teasing..."Farther," she ordered, "deeper..." and he said, "I don't want to hurt you," and she said, "don't lie," and her heels pounded and pummelled at his haunches as he lunged more fully, circular thrusting strokes now, her legs wrapped and sucked and drawing him in tighter ... wrenching her face away from the searching persistence of his mouth, insidious crippling softness of kisses so eager to capture and seal the brand ... but locking him to her, clamping and absorbing the prescription and the remedy of him, using what she knew to be the best of him, the role of him ... guiding and riding and directing the instrument for her own personal joy, the phenomena which she found nearly as beautiful as being alone in her fancies ... not hearing Max's whimpered sobs of groans as he felt himself sinking and lost in the giddy wonder of newness and first experience ... half-fainting from the tumbling fire and force of what writhed beneath him ... and despite all the tearing passion of the woman, what Max found was cleansing, was right, as he swept full and deeply in and up and sliding fast and back and in and now their moist explosive sharings streamed and joined as they rolled and pressed and coveted the interlocking ... denying an end to it ... still caught by lingering waves of the attack as their bodies remained sealed and committed, and Max had to say it, "I love you, Miss Fabian ... aw, I'm in love with you," and she tore her face away from his dreaming mouth, saying, "Be quiet, you fool, don't you know what you're ruining?" But kept him on her because within minutes she was near again, her hands beating, tugging at his back, as she felt him slung and raiding up inside where the contentment lay, and the ease. Then, a moment later, accompanied by Max's own fresh and heaving sighs, it was over and done with and she pushed him away. Firmly.
THREE
Paula reached behind for her clothes and began to dress.
Stunned by this speeding shift of mood, Max thought maybe it had been a dream after all, his honey of a storybook-lady so naked and grappling. But no ... his body still echoed her clinging and her wanting. Let her deny what they'd given each other, let her try.
Her voice was suddenly full of caution. "It's dangerous here. It's stopped snowing and there may be squad cars," her eyes on the sustaining boldness between his legs.
"It didn't have to be here at all, you know," he said. "I do have a home."
She said nothing. Looked away from him and continued dressing.
God, he felt like such a big stupid ass sitting there not being able to move or make a decision, so immobilized by the quick coldness and change of her ... There's something so great here for us, why does she want me to feel like garbage, like manure ... when it's a lie, damn her, a lie!
"I'm finished business now, is that it?" he asked.
Paula let herself look at him again, saw the same brawny pugnacity, his body still owning and exuding everything they'd done together, his flesh still alive and reeking with what she'd discovered and made hers. But offerings not yet dead. Tremulous brute-feasts still waiting and there. And although she'd instructed herself to end it and blot out, the taunting of it still grew and pulled at her. Chemistry, Paula pounded at herself ... accident of genes and glands, for desire is a decision that is always mine.
Watching her eyes roaming and bitter, Max heard a small cry escape her lips of which Paula was unaware. And then she shrieked at him, "Why don't you get dressed, you look so disgusting!"
He reached for his clothes and quickly started dressing, knowing she watched his every move ... the briefs, the pants, the zipper, the belt; and he loved the excitement of her eyes on him, but wasn't too sure now that she did, though she did not turn away.
"I suppose you'll be telling everyone about this," she snapped, "telling 'the boys' about how I put out ... about the new notch in your belt, this hot piece of ass you dug up who has the whole world believing she's a germ-free scholar-lady ... but man, who's really the cheapest horniest little pushover..."
She hurts, Max thought ... oh Christ, how she hurts...
"I don't discuss my private life with anybody," he muttered. "Your secrets are safe with me, if that's all you're thinking about..." Abruptly he faced her and met her eyes and she looked away at once. And Max knew ... She's so unhappy, he thought, and I can make her happy. How can I tell her if she hates the words?
In control again, Paula decided to face what had really happened. The man was unusually equipped to satisfy. Really the most successful and therapeutic session she'd had in months. She'd been working exceptionally hard lately, so perhaps more of such tension's ease was indicated. More than the usual quick hour this time. A purging talent like his might be worth it. A prowess so native. Latin and Irish, that might be it. Astounding dimensions; that, too, might be it Whatever it was, Paula wanted more.
Her choice.
"Do I drive you home now?" he said.
For an answer Paula's hand went between his legs, unzipped and came quietly to rest on the warm bulge of his briefs. Gasping, Max thought he would never get used to a woman doing something like that so casually. Before it had always been his hands making the move, jamming courteously up their skirts and turning on the heat and being the aggressor like men are supposed to.
"I know a hotel that's quite safe," she said.
"Oh wow, honey ... Oh Jesus, you had me scared!" for now Max didn't care how she wanted to play, and he lovingly pressed the sweet reconciled hand at his crotch, pressed and' held it and was quite ready to hold it wherever she wanted to put it, even though she tried to pull it away now with the feel of his hands on hers. "But look, we don't need a hotel. We'll go to my place. I live alone. No danger there."
Good God, what is he raving about, Paula wondered ... is it a foreign tongue? She never went to their apartments. Never gave them the role of scavenger, the advantage of recruiting her so that she'd have to pay court and perform and do a slum-service, at their leisure, for their amusement, in the conquering midst of their security-trappings. "Mr. Sinclair, I am not a whore. I go only to hotels when I meet someone at night. And I pay for the room. Have I made myself clear?"
Holy Christ, he thought ... she wants to make a fuckin' pimp out of me. Oh God, this is never gonna work ... oh no man, not for Maxie-boy ... not that slimy route for ol Max ... not even if she stays stuck in my craw the rest of my life, I don't play ass-licker for nobody! And damn her, if what she wants is a man, she's gonna know right now that she's got one.
He reached across her lap and opened the car-door. "Out," he said, "right now. It's stopped snowing, so take a hike."
Tensely, Paula thrust out her chin and threw back her shoulders and arched a superior brow, and although Max saw her mouth tremble, he wasn't going to give a bitchin' inch.
"Idiot," she said crisply, "you'll be playing with that thing the rest of your life thinking of all you missed tonight."
She flung the door wide and stepped out onto the snowy pavement. And stood there a moment on the pretext of adjusting her coat, knowing that he couldn't close the door with her in the way. Stood there and glowered in at him, her face straining for great poise and victory. But as she watched the hulking fury of the man behind the wheel, her words refuted all attempts at composure..."I wouldn't be able to stay very long, Mr. Sinclair."
The voice sounded so small and young to him Max could barely hear her, but he turned and smiled, his face full and beaming at her, as she looked down at her feet. Primly. "My dear Miss Fabian, sweetheart, you can stay as long as you like."
As he drove, Paula sat beside him, regal and controlled. Remained silent, neither looking his way nor touching.
Max sneaked furtive glances at her quiet profile, her princess face ... so distant and away; and with each look he knew and realized the finality of what was in him...
I love her. It'll never be anyone else for me now. Maybe if I hadn't met her, if there hadn't been this past hour; but not now. She's the one.
Max's apartment was in the East Sixties near Lexington, and after a cold sweeping glance at the decor Paula neatly hid her surprise at not finding it the gaudy tinseled bachelor pad she had expected. It was an enormous and impressive three room arrangement, done in tones of subdued and contemporary walnut. One vast wall of the studio living-room was paneled and lined with books, while the other offered a stunning array of original paintings. Renoir, Modigliani, Picasso. Overhead hung a crystal chandelier of such delicate artistry, Paula decided then that the place wasn't his at all but that he'd sub-leased it. At the center of the room was a magnificently built fireplace, which Max immediately proceeded to light.
Paula went directly to the telephone to call her mother; grateful, as always, that Marta Fabian never checked on her daughter's stories, due either to faith or fear, Paula had never been sure which. Tonight the piquant little woman sounded increasingly distressed over the Hungarian uprising which had begun only a few weeks before. Marta had heard nothing from her sister, who still lived in Budapest with her husband and three boys. After calming her mother's fears as only she could, Paula went on to explain that she would be spending the night with Gretchen, her co-worker at the clinic, who, she said, had been taken suddenly ill. Marta praised her for her charitable heart and said not to worry, she would have dinner with her neighbor, Hilda.
Max poked at the fire, cherishing that fleeting glimpse of appraisal he'd seen Paula give the room, for he was proud of his apartment. Some people said he wore his home like a badge, but Max had known from the start how he'd wanted the place. No scrapbooks or autographed pictures of stars he'd never met or weird Martian mobiles hanging from the ceiling or a bunch of low-slung slats for chairs. Something solid and comfortable. That was the pitch. Something his.
Later, he'd mix Paula a drink and they'd sit and talk, and she'd see they had so much more in common than she'd ever expect. Not many people knew that he collected rare books, for instance; especially books on humor dating all the way back to old Rabelais himself, as well as all of Shakespeare's comedies and Moliere. Then he'd show her his record collection, which admittedly contained a lot of jazz albums, but quite a lot of long-hair stuff too. Mostly operas. Max went absolutely ape over Puccini. And as for Verdi, he got a lump in his ftiroat just reading the programs.
Seeing Paula put down the phone, Max went over to her and asked what she'd like to drink.
"Nothing," she replied. "Where's the bedroom?"
And her hand reached out and grabbed him there again like an involuntary reflex, and hell, she wasn't even smiling.
"Yeah ... I know," he said, bumping politely backwards and clutching her hand away as subtly as he knew how, "but first I thought we'd have a drink and chat awhile ... and ... and I've got quite a collection of books, Miss Fabian, would you like me to play a few ... uh ... records, I mean, not books. But I have books too, see up there on those shelves?" Aw Christ, he thought, I still sound like the prizewinning clown head of all time!
"Bedroom," Paula said again, and as she moved away from him he saw that she was, actually, headed in the right direction.
Max gave a forlorn backward look at his library and his Hi-Fi and his record racks. "Puccini!" he called after her. Then pointed across the room. "And Pablo Picasso in his mauve period! Oh hey, wait honey, I want to show you around the place first; we don't have to rush."
As Paula walked into the big sumptuous bedroom, her heels sank into the thick carpet. Luxury, she thought as she stripped. He writes TV nursery-drama for mass idiocy and gets paid like this. Then thought of all her years of study and scrimping to remain in school, and thought of the cramped cubicle of an apartment she and her mother shared. And, nude now, rubbed her thighs together and waited for him.
Max stood in the middle of his beautiful living room, feeling like he was about seven and a half years old and all the kids in his neighborhood had suddenly moved...
Oh nuts ... she didn't look at a single book. Not even The Would-Be Gentleman; that would have gotten a rise out of her. Pretty sick psychologist to be making a house-call. Never saw such a one-track mind. Anything above the belly-button's off-limits for her. Well shit, that does it for her; I don't need a freak like that to get my jollies-I can get all the lovin' I want. I'm goin' in there and give her such a screwin' blast, her little vibrator's gonna twitch all the way home. Then I'll toss a couple of bucks in her face and dump her in a cab...
When he reached the bedroom he saw her lying naked on the white chenille of his king-size bed, as if she had been mounted on a great big plaque. Max stood in the doorway and swallowed and stared for a second, and Paula squirmed and rolled full-circle as he caught rippling flashes of pliant buttocks and pubis, her body lithe and long and full, nipples rigid and aimed ... topping the loveliest creamiest peaks Max had ever seen from such an angel. like soup's on and the table's set and pull up a chair and a spoon. like..."unnn!" ... how could he ever throw anything like that away when she was so pretty everywhere?
Shuffling towards her like a sleepwalker, Max started undressing. But she rose swiftly and met him en route. Told him to stand perfectly still. And, her fingers full of rubbing grace, undressed him, deftly fitting him with the condom she'd found in her purse. And Max was helpless and no longer tried for conversation, with her hands ladling all those places on him like everything of his that she unveiled was some kind of jewel and should be insured.
And then ... the newer expanse and freedom of their bodies heaped together in his bed, the stream and stretch and crawl of limb's embraces which was once again a communication more eloquent and articulate than anything either of them could have said to deny the special power. And as Paula saw the stricken ardour on his face and watched the body as it hovered over her and descended, she saw the length of all of him, really, the total man-but opened up and received what her body insisted was his sublimest value. Attachments applied. Cause and effect. Sensory friction.
But soon her catchwords blurred and dissolved as time left the room. It was a world of feeling, a tender plateau ... more mutual than either of them suspected.
There were no beginnings or boundaries or endings. Climaxes interwove and relayed, each becoming the fresh starting flux of another. The thought of not touching was absurd and unbearable, was pain. Daylight beamed through the blinds and the warm addictions still clung to them, as they lay drunk and senseless with what they held, with the awe and novelty of simply staying near.
Max knew that he would never have the words to tell her what an assault these hours had been. The heady scope and variety of her body-needs, and the exquisite teasing torments she added to his, always the surprise attack or turn or movement, the perversions which she handed out like royal edicts ... sinuously cruel one moment, breathlessly soft and waiting the next
And for Max it wasn't enough. It was only the surface of what he wanted from this woman. And before she left his bed he swore to himself that he would show her what he meant. And convince her that without it they were like children playing in a sandpile. He meant kisses for his love. Kisses for the dear child-woman mouth that twisted away from his even when she was at her highest reaches of the wistful lunacy.
He chose a moment when she was near again and ready, when her eyes looked somehow innocent and humbled by the gift she found within her. And he asked, "Again, baby? Now?"
Paula nodded, her face raised and rapt and unseeing.
Pinning her arms behind her, Max quickly seized that face in his two hands, cupped and firm, and kissed her, his mouth partly open and crushing to still her cries, his mouth staying and becoming law; and he knew at once the perfection he'd been waiting for. Felt her thrashing twisting legs beneath him, but he was still inside of her and plowing ... and now it was too late for either of them to dwarf the heights they were about to achieve, for he knew there was nothing she could do to stop the flow of this moment despite the forbidden mouth on hers, as Max held her flat and powerless and made her mouth a part of him, a part of all that had passed between them ... breathing the words against her lips, the savage mumbles..."kisses and orgasm, baby ... kisses and orgasm ... one and the same ... no segregation..."
Max felt her tortured moans against his mouth as they came, and in the next instant Paula freed her left arm and made a fist of the hand on which she wore a large signet ring-a class ring. And with all her strength socked a gashing blow at Max's cheek that hurled him off her body and sent him stumbling half-way across the room.
Jesusgod, the bitch, he thought, she probably knows Karate too, and with an infuriated howl he stood there and glared at her, blood slowly streaming down his cheek. As if afraid to approach her in his fury, Max didn't move, but flung out an arm and pointed at her..."Get up and get out," he roared. "Get out of my house if you don't want to be loved." He stood there and waited, fists clenched, his face full of shock and rage.
Rising, Paula moved across the room and stood before him, the slim trace of a smile on her lips. "You have no further use of me?" she inquired.
"You heard me!" his voice clung desperately to the hostility.
Her eyes lingered down towards familiar terrain, viewing it only a second before she saw the rising. "You're contradicting yourself," and with a long manicured nail she jabbed at the tip of the evidence, and Max swore and hit her in the face with the back of his hand, and to keep from falling Paula had to reach up and grab on to his shoulder, slumping towards him and striking out another blow on the same spot where her ring had cut him.
Then, clumsily, they touched and mauled in the contempt, bodies tossed together in a recklessness of nubile intimacy neither of them had intended. Awkward sliding flesh-raids as his penis prodded crazily against her stomach and the hair of his chest became a curling jungle growth against her throat. And words were somehow gone again and anger became a fatuous irrelevance, as once more the entrapment cloaked, and Max gently lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the bed. A few drops of blood dripped heedlessly on his shoulder as Paula ripped at the hairs on his chest and madly kicked her legs in the air to make herself heavier to carry. Placing her softly on the bed, her victory smile meant nothing to Max, and his arms held all the flesh of her she was willing to relinquish, his arms taking possession in embrace. Max hugged and prized the body of her and his lips went to her breasts and made love there, as he remembered the truth of what she had become for him ... I love her, love whatever she is ... and I'll kiss my love wherever she'll let me. As long as it is her and we are close. And maybe someday she'll find out who I am and won't be so afraid to look...
Paula did look in that moment, looked down at his face, the mouth so abject and nuzzling; told herself the only reason for watching his lips' moist sensuous caressing was to scoff at his indignity and defeat and lowering. Yet, though unaware of it, as her eyes remained on the boyish searching lips that lay against her breasts and beseeched there, telling herself it was a servile process, a bowing and a nursing, the result of the conquering use she'd made of him ... Paula's hand went to the back of his head and with a detached and lingering softness, lightly held and cherished there as he kissed, her fingers playing and sifting through the thick black hair that felt warm and tumbled to the touch...
And, abstractedly, drowsily, Paula watched everything the mouth did. The mouth that was such a danger for her own. Watched the face. Watched Max.
FOUR
Avoid him, Paula instructed herself. You've been applying men to your body since puberty and there wasn't one you wanted to see again. He will be no exception. A freak composite of your most virile encounters, perhaps, but with time and care, easily duplicated. If he gossips about you, tries to shatter the image you've so carefully built up, deny everything. Say he attacked you in his car. He has the face of a rapist, so they'll believe you. For yours is the face, deportment and reputation of the purest esthete. To those who know you, you are chastity incarnate. Antithesis of playgirl. As for the others, they never saw you again. Never a scandal or an involvement; nor anything so corroding as a love affair.
For the next few days Paula left her office-building via a side-entrance, so as not to run into Max, whom she feared would be waiting for her nightly after all the time and energy she'd been reckless enough to lavish on him. She also gave instructions to Gretchen that if ever a Mr. Sinclair called the clinic and asked to speak to her, she was to say Miss Fabian was too busy to come to the phone, and continue offering this evasion until the calls ceased.
But Paula thought of Max that week. Thought of the supply not yet depleted. And wondered if avoiding him mightn't give him an importance he couldn't otherwise command if she casually allowed herself to enjoy him again. Oh but not him, she thought, he was too arrogant and sure of his bait. Others would suffice. They always had.
Paula was studying for her doctorate in sociology and had classes for three nights in a row, making it easier for her to cast put the disturbing vitality of Max Sinclair, which, nevertheless, persistently clung and invaded. Friday was her first free evening, and while she usually spent it studying, she felt much too restless to concentrate and decided to share those hours with her mother, who seemed greatly in need of her daughter's company that fall.
The two women sat in the tiny living-room and watched television together, Mrs. Fabian indulging in her usual running commentary as two hours of her favorite family shows swam by them. Then, at nine-thirty, Paula saw Max's name flash on the screen and realized she must have just watched his show without taking any notice.
The credits: 'Written by Arthur Goldstein and Maxwell Sinclair."
"I know him," Paula pointed at the screen.
Marta Fabian, a delightfully round and frenetic little woman, her plump lively face framed by a mass of curly white ringlets, now looked startled by this sudden declaration from her daughter after so many hours of brooding silence. "You know who, darling?"
"The writer of that show. Sinclair."
Paula watched the fast flush of excitement on her mother's face, touched, as always, by the easy enthusiasm of the warm, demonstrative woman who was so ready to trust a happy moment. "Paulie, you know a big television writer and you never told me? How old is he, darling? You've had dates, if a mother may be so bold to ask? Is he married?"
"Wait, dear," Paula laughed, leaning over and grabbing at her mother's flailing hands. "He's the brother of a client of mine. I've only met him once to speak to."
But Marta could not contain herself and was so starved for a little rejoicing that she bounced and bubbled about the room fluffing up decorator pillows, so excited was she by the historic advent of her genius bookworm of a daughter discussing an even remotely eligible man with her mother. For more than twenty years Marta Fabian had been told by experts that her child was exceptional and special and gifted. And Marta had meekly inquired if this would make her Paulie happier than other people. The experts had no answers which Mrs. Fabian could evaluate on any human terms. And while she was proud of Paula and bragged to the neighbors and the tradesmen, Marta feared that her daughter was so involved with her books and her genius that no man would dare go near her.
She was also afraid that Paula would never display the combination of coquetry and passion that she, Marta, had summoned to win her beloved Alex thirty years ago. Paula's father had deserted the two of them seventeen years ago because, as Marta had explained it, the dear sensitive man was plagued by a growing alcohol problem and was finally too ashamed to face them. Yet, Marta had done nothing legal about the separation, for she was certain her husband would come back to her one day. A devout Catholic, she lit candles for Alex's safe return during every holiday, and nobody could persuade her to find herself a nice comfortable widower while she was waiting.
Although her Paulie had never brought home a boy or talked about dances or cared about party-dresses, Marta always believed that if ever the right man did come along for her brilliant daughter, she would be the first to be told. And Paulie would bring this man home to her mother, and say Mom here he is, here's my Mr. Right and we're going to have a man in the family and you'll be a grandma and can start all over again with the bassinets and the burping. And now here, tonight, it had happened; right on her own TV screen. She mentioned a man. And a name, Sinclair. Oh blessed Mother of God, Marta prayed, let it be what I want for my Paulie. A little happiness at last, after what's going on in my Hungary ... a little humanity in our house.
Watching her, Paula said, "Mom, you look on the verge of tears; did you finally hear something from Aunt Irena?"
Marta sat near her and took Paula's hands in hers, her eyes blinking with smiles. "Yes, darling, but I ... don't want to talk about it now, I want to know more about this Sinclair. What's his first name?"
"Maxwell," Paula sighed.
"Wait now. Maxwell is German, and ... Sinclair I know is not Hungarian, darling, but what is it ... English, French?"
"It's a stage name, Mom. He's Irish and Italian."
"Catholic!" Marta flobbled upwards again.
But Paula immediately pulled her back down. "Mom, don't change the subject, I want to hear about Aunt Irena." The Fabians had come to America the year before Paula's birth, leaving all of their relatives in the old country.
And now, with the mention of her sister's name, Marta's dam suddenly burst as she sat down and buried her face in her hands, while Paula patiently waited for the sobs to subside.
"I even tore up the letter," Marta was finally able to speak. "I didn't want you to read it, Paulie, so you wouldn't know the worst. Your cousin Stefan, Paulie ... he was shot by the AVC men, the Communists, shot and killed the first day..."
"Oh Mama no ... not Stefan! Wasn't he the eldest, the one who was studying medicine?"
Marta nodded and wiped her eyes. "Eighteen. Two years in college already. Smart like you, Paulie ... shot down and left to bleed to death while they trampled on the boy ... till there was hardly anything left of him ... oh God, my poor Irena to look at what they brought home to her in an old garbage can somebody put him in and dumped on their lawn, Paulie. But on that first day suddenly all those boys decided to take up guns and fight what's been happening to them all those years. Irena says that in Budapest now every street is a cemetery. They are coming in the night and taking people from their houses, without papers or warrants, and putting them in camps. She says customers of your Uncle Lazlo's are being tortured and beaten to give out information they never knew in the first place..."
"What about Gregor and Vito?" asked Paula. These were Irena's younger sons, ages twelve and fourteen.
"They're all alive, thank God ... the four of them so sick with fear in that house, so afraid they'll all be killed as a reprisal for Stefan's part in the rebellion. And at this very minute we're talking they could be in a camp too, being starved or whipped..."
"Wait, Mom," Paula interrupted, "I read that refugees are entering the States every day, so surely it's not that impossible to get out of the country."
"My sweet innocent Paulie, these are refugees with money. Money for safe passage, money to pull the right strings ... Irena asks me if I know some way to finance their trip, if I will take them in..." Marta's tears rushed back, "you know how much I want them here, all of them ... they could sleep on the floor, on the ceiling ... my pretty blonde little Irena with me again like on the farm in the old days ... do I want them, Paulie? So what is the use ... do we have a penny to send them ... do we save a nickel, a dollar? You know what I am most afraid will happen? Silence. We will hear nothing. They will disappear and leave no trace, like the others, and that will be the end. Silence, Paulie," Marta collapsed in her daughter's lap, convulsive and shaking, as Paula comforted her and thought about money.
"Uncle Lazlo has nothing?"
"A few hundreds," sobbed Marta. "The rest went for poor Stefan's tuition, practically all their savings, and he is dead..."
Gently, Paula escorted Marta into her bedroom and helped her undress. Then she went into the kitchen and made some hot tea to bring her, after which she remained with her mother until she was in bed and all cried out, sitting close, holding her hand, quietly, reassuringly.
Marta's trusting eyes gazed up at her. "You know, Paulie, sometimes I think you are the mother and I am the child. Such a strong rock of a girl I have got who can help others, with such a talent to lift people out of their troubles. But you know something, darling, once in my lifetime I would like to see you do a little learning. For a woman to be such a tower of strength it does not pay, dear. Especially where men are concerned. A man wants a girl to bend a little, darling ... know what I mean?"
"Yes, Mom."
"All right, Paulie, I do not preach ... so I won't preach..." soft sobs beginning again as she thought of her sister, "had special masses said for them, lit candles ... will you pray, Paulie?"
Paula leaned down and kissed her mother goodnight. Then went to the door and turned out the light. "Sleep, dear," she said.
"Paulie darling," Marta called in the darkness.
"Yes?"
"Bring him home some night, your Sinclair. I'll make a goulash."
Softly, Paula closed the door.
In the living room she stood before the television set, clicking it on and off and on again. Turned the sound off and let the silent confection of a hair-spray commercial accelerate whole new realms of ambition for her.
The performing arts, she reflected, sitting down and watching a trio of non-ballerinas madly leaping and spraying each other's wigs. Lucrative field. Overrun by a claque of confetti-minds, all of whom possessed the drive and propulsion of the truly mediocre; for they were so positive they were third-rate that proving otherwise became a public obsession.
Paula had rarely given much thought to having a great deal of money. Not only was the grasping search for wealth too conformist a preoccupation to intrigue her, it had also seemed an irrelevance where her scholastic aims were concerned. Study, not money, would bring her what she wanted; eventually earning her doctorate in sociology, then working towards another in anthropology, and, ultimately, securing a teaching post and finding time to write. It had all been carefully planned, and if money came it would have to be the result of those attainments, the culmination of her powers, no one else's.
However, it now occurred to Paula that financial backing might get her something she hadn't even dared hope for. Her own practice. Elegant glamour-offices on Fifth Avenue with a secretary-receptionist, instead of the ignominious drudgery of the clinic. Being her own master instead of being supervised by others. She could earn enough money pandering to the sycophantic rich to spend at least two days a week on her major interest as a social psychologist, reshaping the lives of lost, delinquent young girls.
Having money could also do more for her mother than merely bringing Irena's family over from Budapest. It could liberate her from their stuffy box of an apartment. Without Paula's scholarship and Marta's full-time job in a bakery there would have been no hope of any higher education; and at present Paula's salary at the clinic-a non-profit organization-was barely enough to support the two women, Marta having recently gone back to working two days a week in the bakery.
Paula lit a cigarette and poured herself a small glass of wine from the decanter on the coffee-table. She knew full well the step she was calculating. Max's money could, for the first time in her life, give form and reason to the sort of desire he aroused in her. It would be a way to make him pay. Not pay for his wanting her, but for her wanting him. The erotic state of vulnerability he produced in her would no longer be his advantage if she, as the saying went, took him for every penny.
But oh dear God, marriage?
Paula had never cultivated the inclination to share anything with a man except his body. For her a man was an urge, not a person. And whatever his other innocuous pastimes might be, they could have nothing to do with her. She could somehow not equate the word sex with the word relationship. Sex was an act, not a relationship; and Paula could not envision herself feeling related to any man except anatomically; for one didn't have breakfast or go to the theater or the supermarket with an object of desire. One merely went to bed with it. Then, when it was over, one went on about one's business. Separately. like remembering to flush when leaving the ladies' room. Anything else was an invasion of privacy.
Sinclair.
He was emotional about her. And his was strictly the old-fashioned, breast-beating I-love-you-truly brand of affliction. Hearts and flowers and 'listen! they're playing our song!' Although she wasn't so dispassionately removed from him as not to realize how many more pungent riches were to be drawn from this man besides his money.
There was also the luxury and convenience of having such proclivity accessible whenever she had need of it, thus conserving the waste energies she usually expended in the hunt. For wasn't Mr. Sinclair, with all his devastating accoutrement, the most tantalizing appliance of them all, the top of a very long list?
And even in wedlock, 'the act' would still be her choice. As Max's wife, she would name the hour, dictate the frequency, call the beginnings and the halts, and choose all weapons. And too, he would learn very soon that there would only be a certain allotted hour or two in the evenings that she would care to see him at all.
Paula now shifted her concentration from Max's body to his possessions. An inventory. The enormous rent he must pay for that apartment, the fortune in paintings, the solid expensive furnishings he had undoubtedly hired someone to select for him. And, she judged, upwards of fifty thousand a year and still growing. All at once Paula trembled with the power that lay ahead for her ... all that lovely balance of value! Mr. Nouveau Riche who had said over and over again with his Mediterranean tongue hanging out ... I love you, Miss Fabian, love you...
Now I know why he's been on my mind, she thought; and it took my mother's tears to make me see it. He's so rich.
On the following Monday afternoon Paula left her office from the front entrance, only to discover that the man who had made such a feast of her was not there as she'd expected. Nor, she remembered, had there been any phone messages from him at the clinic. For awhile Paula waited there in the doorway, unwilling to believe he could have lost interest in her after the night she'd given him. A rare break with precedent, waiting for a man instead of taking the corrective action and procuring one. After nearly fifteen minutes passed she was so overcome with rage she couldn't bring herself to attend the class which she had been fully prepared to skip in order to see him.
The next morning, telling herself that her family's welfare was at stake, Paula telephoned Max at his studio and, with one well-aimed sentence, said that she'd been thinking about him. He seemed exuberant at hearing her voice, and if the idea of seeing her again made him so happy, Paula wondered why he'd waited for her to take the first initiative. Typical stud syndrome, she thought. And when she saw him waiting for her the next day after work, she sensed the insufferable paternal tolerance of the man who was so munificently giving her a vote of confidence despite all her unorthodox behavior in his car.
She'd never before had to account to the others for what she'd done to them in the dark, and oh how she wanted to rip that pompous gloating from his face. Instead, Paula was infuriated at feeling the same sophomoric reticence that had been so inhibiting the first time she had stood near him.
Near him. Unthinking contagion. Near the intimidation and the longing. She noticed the crowds passing by eyeing the two of them, and wondered when mere carnal appetite had been such pain for her-standing out there on the sidewalk where everyone could see what crawled in her eyes. The sensuous vibrance that linked them in this moment seemed independently alive and willed, and as such was an entity visible to the public on this street, was flaunted and on view, when it should rightfully be concealed and taken away and preyed upon.
In the car, close to the aura and the touch of him, Paula was struck by a temporary intellectual blackout. Her patterns of voluntary desire were too deeply-ingrained for her to interrelate lust with money. And so, as she sat there readying her hands for him, she forgot her mission. Forgot Hungary and ambition; and, absorbing only what was there and waiting, she was claimed once more by the anarchies.
As Max drove, he thought how brutal the past week had been for him. First time in his slightly hedonist-motivated life that he'd ever tried to stay away from something he wanted. Of course, there was never anyone else around to consult whenever he felt like fulfilling a heady impulse, so for Max freedom had been an unchallenged way of life. If he wanted to fly down to Miami for a weekend, or jet out to the coast, he'd go, man, and without thinking twice. Or if he wanted to support some down-and-out chippy long after the thrill was gone, it was nobody's business. And when he returned to the performing end of show business two or three times a year, doing casuals or one-nighters, and his agent said he was jeopardizing his image as this century's dean of wit and humor, Max simply told him to shove it and reworked the old act whenever he got the wind up. In short, as long as it never hurt anybody but himself, Max was determined to go on doing what made him feel most alive.
But with Paula, oh Christ! she was a different box of candy altogether, and there had to be a whole new book, brand new set of rules posted in the playground. The day after that first jolting night with her Max had done a lot of serious reconsidering about what he felt for her. It had always been a kind of reflex-action for him to say 'I love you' to every girl he screwed, giving them a friendly hand-up to the old summit so they wouldn't feel they were climbing alone. But with Paula he knew he meant it. That's what had him worried the next day, because no matter how hard he tried he could not connect her behavior in bed with the virgin queen he'd been dreaming about all those months. And he knew that even if he never saw her again he'd still be stuck with those first cameo-images he'd built up-trailing her down the street to the subway, like she was Goldilocks and he was one of the bears.
But hell, he'd been bangin' around long enough to know what it meant when a woman was so feverish in bed. It was a definite sign that she not only had a helluva lot of experience but was probably just as hot with every guy who laid her. And damn him to hell if he wasn't crazy about her! Crazy wild madly in love for the first time in his whole fornicating life, and it sure's hell wasn't because he hadn't hooked on a few others to see if they'd fit. And damn her, what knocked him out the most was that she remained a lady no matter which position she did it in. How the hell could she be so horny and elegant at the same time?
Max had humped a whole legion of oversexed broads in his time, and althought very few of the hungry ones were whores, they all had the same piggish eggplant look about them. Even in ermine they looked somehow sapped and hollowed-out. And most of them preferred the single guest-shot route. First the hunt then the kill then the hunt then the kill until they fell apart and ended up paying for it So Max had to face those facts and tell himself that Paula was like that too. And still he couldn't let her go. First he had to give her a chance to prove otherwise. He decided if she made the first unsolicited effort to see him again, he'd be convinced that she wasn't a one-nighter and he would, to put it mildly, cultivate the lady. So he refrained from getting in touch with her that week and it nearly killed him, literally gave him the screaming staggers ... because man, just sitting around beatin' his meat only recreated about one-tenth of what he wanted from her.
And now that she'd given him the signal, Max still couldn't swear how long he could have gone on waiting for her to make that move without tagging after her again; because God how it hurt to think about her and do nothing about it. And it was more than that too, because in some crazy way Max felt that her being here meant that she'd put a special kind of trust in him, almost as if she needed to be rescued in some way. To Max it meant that she had sought him out as a teacher as well as a lover. Yes, that was it; she wanted to learn, his Paula ... wanted and was willing. His lover-girl, his protegee.
FIVE
In bed later that night their explorings were newly languid and more various, and there was little for them to say or think or reconfirm, for the nameless healing they had found in each others' bodies was a magnetism too towering for them to grasp or comprehend, a hurtling growing thing which left each of them, in diverse ways, afraid.
And then after an hour had passed and Max was lighting a cigarette for her, Paula suddenly remembered her primary reason for being in his bed. At once she was furious with herself for letting her own senseless lust come before the needs of her family. But knew that it was not too late, knew exactly what he wanted from her.
She rose and started to dress, thankful now that she'd worn a tight-fitting black sheath instead of one of her suits. As Max sat up in bed watching her in surprise, she suggested that they go into the living room and listen to some of his opera music, and perhaps dine out together later. Max was out of bed and dressing in a minute, completely overjoyed by this idea. For here at last would be the graceful sort of atmosphere he'd wanted for them. Two adults who happened to be strongly attracted to one another, but who were also able to communicate successfully on other levels. Maybe now she'd give herself a chance to know him, he thought, and see him as something else besides a big jazzy lay.
When he suggested having some Chinese food delivered instead of going out, Paula agreed at once. Even helped him get the table ready, not making any cracks either when he lit the candles. Then he asked if she'd have a drink with him and she requested brandy, which Max hated because he was a bourbon man, but he was so carried away by the change in her, he would have joined her in a cup of formaldehyde if that's what she'd wanted.
He complimented her for her dress and the soft new way she'd done her hair.
"Thank you, Max," she said, wondering what his reaction would be to several other dresses she owned. Her underground wardrobe. Locked away in a suitcase which she kept checked at Grand Central Station. And also made her necessary changes there. Gaudy bright prints, plunging necklines, black net stockings, G-string panties, and nipple-rouge. Also, what she called her decorator-wigs. Platinum. Orange. This was Paula's costume two or three times a year when she felt inclined towards a whole weekend of the remedial bed-flitting, and might sometimes be seen-but never recognized-on Times Square, or in Eighth Avenue bars.
Watching Max pour her drink, Paula felt considerably unnerved at the prospect of socializing with an instrument of sex. The whole idea seemed perverse and disquieting, and she knew it would be a feat to absorb the full meaning of his conversation without regarding him personally, intimately. And this she must postpone until the other issues were settled. The headlines from Budapest were growing worse, and Paula was seriously worried about her mother's health. Unable to sleep the past few nights, Marta Fabian would sit up watching all-night television, unseeing and weeping for long hours, and then not eating properly during the day.
Together she and Max sat on the divan, sipping their drinks, chatting, listening to La Boheme. Max began talking to her about his work, discussing an idea for a new series next season because he and his co-writer friend Art Goldstein predicted lower ratings for their current show, now in its third season, telling her of his plans to do a comic-novel some day, or a Broadway show. In fact, he was so hungry to have her listen that he faintly realized he was shooting his big mouth off; but now that he knew she was interested in him as a human being, Max couldn't stop himself.
Paula, on the other hand, knew that she must soon switch the subject from him to 'Us,' for there was no time to ease into the correct courtesan's procedure, even if she knew what that was. The money had to be cabled to
Europe that week if the lives of her aunt and cousins were to be saved.
Gazing down at Max's hands which were folded in his lap, Paula decided to begin with sentiment, letting her hand trail the length of his arm until it came to rest, softly, in the palm of his hand. Max broke off in the middle of a sentence and looked down at the hand nestled there, the hand that had been everywhere on him except in his own.
"I've been thinking about you so much since that first night, Max," she murmured, even now wanting to pull the hand away, wanting to rise and back away from him and simply state her demands.
"Oh honey, have you?" Max placed both his hands over hers and squeezed. "I haven't been able to get you out of my mind for a minute..."
Make it a recitation, she thought, and fast. "You said you loved me, Max. I remember that."
Oh hell, he thought, she's coming right out and saying it herself, and I was gonna work up a whole six months' course for her. "Paula look, I wanted you to remember that," and couldn't hold his voice steady, "because ... oh, it's true all right; I love you, Paula ... even before I knew you, I loved you..."
"Love me enough to marry me, Max?"
Oh Jesus, he thought, stop the train, conductor, 'cause the bridge is out! Stop the world ... Max turned and looked at her, drank in the creamy smooth composure of her face. "Oh baby, you don't mean that. I mean ... that's not what you want, is it? You're used to your freedom, honey, I know that."
"With you I wouldn't ... require any freedom, Max. I don't have to tell you how completely you satisfy me..." words that were a revulsion for her, a dizziness...
His face moved closer to hers. "I satisfy you so much that you could be faithful to me, Paula?"
"Yes..." and found that she was repeating herself, "I don't have to tell you how completely you satisfy me, Max."
His face nearer now, probing; her hand so locked and trapped in his.
"You want my babies, honey?" he asked.
Lie, she told herself. Say yes to everything. No, he'll become suspicious. Modify it. "In time," she replied.
And now with that possessive face even closer, Paula knew she'd have to do something to cancel it out. She lifted her hand from his, and lightly fondling his beard, moved forward and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Then swiftly rose and went to the bar for more brandy.
"Hey, look what you did!" he called after her.
"Because it was my idea," she said, returning with her drink. "A kiss doesn't offend me, Max, as long as it's my idea and I'm not being overpowered."
"Oh but honey," he laughed, taking her hand and pulling her down into his lap, "how often do you get that idea? I mean, like every Vernal Equinox maybe ... or every eclipse of the moon?"
"You're making fun of me," humility, she thought, even if it gags; and squirming off his lap, she sat beside him again. "I know I'm not an ordinary girl."
"You sure's hell aren't, sweetheart!" he laughed, still staring at her in wonder. "Oh man ... you've got me dizzy thinking about all this. I never in the world thought you'd go for marriage. Of course, I've known for a long time that's how I want you. And I'll always want you, Paula. I'll never change about that...'cause you're the biggest dream I ever had..."
Now, she thought. It must be now. There is absolutely no more time. She rose with her drink, going to the Hi-Fi, fingering a few record albums, her back to him. "Max, you've heard what's happening over in Hungary?"
"What?" he said. "Oh ... wait a minute, you mean the rebellion, don't you? Sure, I've heard about it, honey; what's that got to do with..."
"My mother's sister and her family are over there. They're in danger. We need five thousand dollars to get them to this country."
Max said nothing for almost a moment. Sat there and stared at her back. Then turned and looked down next to him, at the imprint of her body which was still visible on the divan. Then Max got up and went across the room to his desk. Took out his checkbook and began to write.
Paula turned, and seeing what he was about, her words poured forth in a torrent. "I didn't want to blurt it out like that, Max, but we're desperate. My mother and her sister are very close. My cousin Stefan was killed, Max ... and the time element was so important ... we had to act fast, you do see that, don't you? Everything I told you tonight is true, and ... I would have managed to say it anyway eventually ... but I had to rush it because of the emergency. Oh Max ... please don't misunderstand!"
With a few quick strides Max was across the room holding out the check to her. "All that is what you should have said when we were sitting on that couch, Paula. Nothing else. Just that."
His face looked white and frightening to her, his mouth tight and bitter.
"I didn't he, Max. If we married, you would be enough for me. I don't have to tell you how completely you ... "
"Oh can it!" he said. "Jesus, the way you beg for it, I'd need a fuckin' transplant before the honeymoon was over." He went to the phone and called a cab for her. Got her coat from the closet and tossed it across the room to her. "You'd better wait down in the lobby, Paula."
"Max, listen to me..."
"I said get out! I don't feel so hot, like I'm either gonna vomit or start sluggin'..."
His voice tore and rasped in her ears. "Max, I do want you. I've never told that to a man before."
"Oh, but you don't talk to men, Paula," he said, "except to tell them to shut up and take off their pants, you don't say a goddamn word to them!" v
They were both startled by the ringing of the doorbell.
Knowing it was too soon for the cab, Max tore across the room and flung open the door, and was met with the beaming grin of their Chinese delivery boy. "You order deluxe dinner for two, boss?"
"Oh hell..." Max glanced behind at his beautifully set table, at the candles still burning. He stuffed some bills in the boy's hand, and beckoning to Paula, grabbed her purse and shoved a five dollar bill into it for the cab. "Look boy, you escort this lady downstairs and there'll be a cab-driver waiting for her, and together the three of you can eat this dinner ... and ... and you can gorge yourselves ... and then after that you guys crawl in the back seat with this lady..."
"Max!" cried Paula.
"And if you promise not to talk, she'll give you the hottest piece of egg foo young you ever had!" Max shoved them both firmly from the room and slammed the door.
His body sank against the door as he stared at the flickering candles for a minute; then went to the table and extinguished both flames with his hands. After which he went across the room to his Hi-Fi, and with a single pound of his fist against the needle ended the melting strains of his background music. Then gazed at the divan and went to it and sat down there, stiff and waxen. Sat and forced himself to remember everything he'd told her in that spot, spilling his guts to her, the whole damn story of his life. And with every word she was thinking of cash. For sex she doesn't charge a penny, he thought; but to sit down with a guy and let him talk ... and let him feel like a person, that's when the big tab comes.
Oh Christ, I was so sure she was listening to me ... thought she was interested and really cared and ... oh hell, then she kissed me ... had to kiss me ... and hold my hand too ... say she'd have my babies ... be faithful! Aw Jesus ... why the hell'd she have to do all that? A woman never dug into me like that before ... it's rippin' me to pieces because a woman never mattered to me like that ... never happened to me like that ...
Eyeing the brandy decanter on the bar across the room, Max raced over and sent it smashing against the wall, watching the stain and the dripping ... Felt his body start to shake but took a fast shot of bourbon. Then another. Glazing the hurts ... burying them ... Oh man ... aw holy shit, this isn't gonna happen to me...'cause this isn't good like this ... no, not good for me. Not for Max. Don't want to be alone ... bad time to be a bachelor ... gotta do something quick about not being alone...
He thought of Francine. Photographer's model who'd had the hots for him since the year one. Always right there on her lil ol launching pad whenever he dialed her. Good old Francie. So photogenic. Hustled a little on the side, but for Maxie it was strictly freezies...'cause it always knocked her out to make love to her Maxie. Practically fainted when he kissed her, too ... loved to sit on the couch with him and just neck. Real romantic tender-type girl. Never stuck her hands anyplace they didn't belong unless he told her to.
Max called her and she squealed and said she was half-way in the taxi already, and where have you been all these months you gorgeous-hung daddy you!
He had several more shots while waiting, getting himself all loveable and ready. And when Francine arrived, all tall and bouffant and bouncy-lipped, Max stuck a drink in her hand and sat her right down in that same spot on the divan and started right in kissing. Francie went right out of her buggy little mind; and she was a beautiful girl too ... a real stunner, in demand ... regular waiting list for Francie. But she put her hot girlie arms around his neck where they belonged and really showed him how important his kisses were to her. No phony put-on either, 'cause she really swung with him the old-fashioned kissin' huggin' way..."Love me, honey?" he asked.
"Do I love you, Maxie!" combination squeal and giggle. "Do cats have whiskers?"
Oh hell, he thought, sucking his mouth down against hers and fighting to hold back the tears, oh Christ she's such a fuckin' little moron, so goddamned stupid and empty, poor baby ... like something you hang on the wall and only take it down when you need to kiss somebody more than you need anything else in the world...
But he felt traditional with Francie, so he eventually led her from the couch towards his bedroom, holding her hand the way it was supposed to be. And then he undressed her, not the other way around, and man, was this chick built to be skewered or was she not, he thought ... bazooms way out to hell'n gone and a rippling pelvis that could drive a guy ape once he sank in the old shaft and fell in cadence ... So Max played with her, played with everything he could find on that juicy structure, bit and nuzzled and kissed and toyed, and flung her spread-eagled on his big low bed and with burning conviction groaned oh baby this is your night, this is when your ship comes in and drops anchor all over you, honey ... and Max lay his body on hers, frenzying up the old hips for tradition's jump-movements ... and wow, was there ever such a jamming and a thumping from this old pro of a broad-pleaser, clinging and panting and wail-groaning out gasps as if he were inside cute ol' Francine, and hell man! he wasn't nowheres near that paradise chasm that was yawning big enough so's a donkey couldn't miss it ... wasn't even a half a tipfull in her, but sticking to the script anyway, that script written on marble and yellin' out oh honey, ohmyGod, doll . . and pumping and slamming and crying ooh I'm really gonna give it to ya baby, and feeling his flat flap of a slapping soft penis against her pubic curls ... not hard for crissakes ... not hard for crissakes ... not in ... not even alive! Aw go hock your balls, Maxie ... leave'em to Science ... make soup out of them...
Suddenly he raised his body up a little bit "Wanna go back and neck, honey?"
But Francine stormed out from under him in a terrible fury and immediately began to dress. Max saw that she was taking it personally, just because his prick was suddenly acting like a faithful old hound-dog, faithful to a bitch he hoped he'd never lay eyes on again. So he stood there trying to think of something to say that might comfort Francie. Poor doll, looked like she was about to cry ... and he didn't want to hurt her just because he was hurt.
"Look Francie, this has nothing to do with you," Max pointed down at his ineptitude, "so don't go getting your feelings hurt"
"Max, that is the biggest insult I've ever had," she warbled, eyeing the humiliating evidence.
"And I guess you don't mean that as any compliment either, do you, sweetheart?"
In tears and fully dressed now, Francie dashed out of the room, Max racing after her. "Look Francie, it's me, not you ... it's my fault honey!"
"Then call me when you've had your shots!" she cried, and banged the door in his face.
"Aahh ... goddamn broads're all alike!" Max roared. "They want only one thing from a guy ... one thing!"
Then he strode naked through his living room and went to the bar and kept beltin' down the shots, because he didn't want to think. He'd never been the neurotic mama's-boy type, so brooding was out ... brooding was the shits and not for him ... not his schtick, not his bit ... not for Maxie. Never torched and not gonna start now. So brooding was out ... so he had eight fast shots. Then felt the heaving start and ran to the bathroom and got sick, threw up and wailed his lungs out with each heave because he was losin' all that juice that was supposed to make him stop thinkin'...
By the time he got back to his bed his body was shaking again for no reason at all and he was more sober than he'd ever been in his entire life and whew! so goddamned tired. He placed the covers over his body and tucked himself in thoughtfully the way his boozin' old Ma used to do. Then buried his face in the pillow and softly cried himself to sleep.
SIX
One evening about a week later, Marta Fabian sat contentedly alone in her living room, crocheting an afghan and watching Donna Reed. She was at peace for the first time in many weeks. Irena and her family had gotten safely across the border into Poland, thank God, and this very minute were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean on their way to her. Marta was still a little confused how Paula had managed to borrow so much money from a loan-agency without co-signers or any appreciable credit history. But she had never been one to question her daughter's unfathomable super-efficiency, because Paulie had a strong will and somehow always ended up doing what she set out to do.
Then the door-buzzer rang and Marta was so startled she got her crochet needles tangled. All her friends had been thoroughly briefed that this was one of Paula's quiet study-nights, and knowing that none of them would have the nerve to barge in for a visit, Marta wondered what new emergency was buzzing its way into her life.
She scurried across the room and opened the door, leaving the chain attached. For a second she was blinded by a mass of camel's hair before her eyes, and had to stretch up pretty high before finding the face that went with it.
"Hi, you're Mrs. Fabian, aren't you?" Max grinned down at her.
"Yes please, what is it?"
"I've come to see Paula. Is she home? I'm Max Sinclair."
"One minute please," Marta said excitedly, "Gist comes off the chain..." Then she closed the door and crossed herself three times and was so nervous she fumbled helplessly with the chain, and it seemed to her that at least five minutes had elapsed, so she opened the door again..."You're still there? Don't move, I'm having a little trouble. One minute." Then, at last, she removed the chain, flung open the door and there he stood, the man whom she had prayed would one day appear and kidnap her Paulie and turn her into a woman, wife and mother, preferably in that order and all overnight
"Come in, come in on your white horse, Mr. Sinclair," she welcomed him, "I was just this minute watching your show and wondering where you get such marvelous ideas."
Max glanced at the television screen. "Thanks a lot Mrs. Fabian, but that's really not one of mine."
"Ah, but you are so clever I was sure you wrote them all!" Marta stood back and beamed up at him. "My God, such a big one you are! And so handsome! Your face should be on that screen too, Mr. Sinclair ... and look how you almost touch my ceiling. What a smart cook of a mother you have to feed you into such a giant."
Max handed her the gift-box he carried. "This is for you," he said, "a little candy."
Marta's cheeks flushed as she hugged the box to her and did some of her gay, irrepressible bustlings about the room. "Mr. Sinclair, you make my head swim ... to bring me candy when I must watch my diet because already I am much too round for four feet eleven. Take off that heavy coat, Mr. Sinclair, before you die from the steam heat."
Watching as Max slipped off the coat she noticed the beautiful black cashmere sweater he wore underneath, and such shoulders, she thought. "In college you played football, no, Mr. Sinclair?"
"In high school," he told her.
They both turned at the sound of a door opening. "Mom, who in the world are you talking to?"
Max gaped openly at still another image of Paula that he had not yet seen. Paula standing in the doorway of her bedroom wearing pedal-pushers and sandals, a mannish looking plaid sport shirt that billowed out of her pants, her hair wildly loose and unkempt, and horn-rimmed reading glasses and a pencil stuck in her ear.
"Hi, Paula," he said, "sorry if I'm disturbing you, but there's ... something important I want to tell you..."
"Ooh!" Marta sighed giddily. "I think I'll take myself somewhere and disappear..."
For the moment Paula could feel nothing but confusion at the shock of seeing Max in this room, in her mother's house, standing so intimately near and talking to her mother. Wrong setting, she thought dimly. Men were for the outside, for the unknown names and addresses, separate from the home-world. Realms not meant to touch. And Paula felt almost afraid to look at Max with her mother in the room, her mother seeing.
"Paulie darling, don't just stand there looking so bashful, offer Mr. Sinclair a glass of the good port. Meanwhile, I will take my box of candy and go upstairs and visit Hilda. Let her get fat." Marta hurried towards the door.
"Mama, wait!" Paula called out. "You're not dressed right for that drafty hall." She went to her mother's bedroom and brought out a heavy woolen sweater, gently draping it about Marta's shoulders. "Your resistance is still pretty low, you know," Paula said, "so be careful."
Max stood there astonished at this display of tenderness and affection he now saw Paula giving so freely to her mother. This from a girl, who, he'd assumed, ran from sentiment as if it were a plague. But holy Christ, it's there isn't it, he thought ... everything I've been digging for is there, and she's got it to give, got it waiting in reserve...
When Marta was gone, Paula turned and faced Max, who was now seated on the couch, Marta's afghan piled up next to him. Paula sat on the opposite end of the couch and offered him some wine from the decanter before them on the coffee table.
"Not now, thanks."
She eyed him briefly and saw how very appealing he looked in the boyish sweater, a black ripple of hair falling over his forehead; but still found it difficult to accept him in her home where all manner of transient desire had been locked out. "Then what do you want, Max?"
"You."
"Oh? I thought you voiced all your decisions on that subject the other night."
"I've done a helluva lot of thinking since then, Paula. Even went away for a quiet weekend in the country, just to think about it."
She waited, not looking at him.
"First, I read up on all the awful things going on over there in Budapest, and I realized you had a right to be so upset, and ... so urgent ... "
Suddenly Paula forgot the shock of his visit and realized the full significance of his being there at all. And once more her great and gilded network of plans took shape.
"And I remembered something else, Paula," he went on. "The day you telephoned me at the studio..." He turned and watched her face closely as he spoke. "Your only reason for calling me that day was to get that money, wasn't it? That was all you had on your mind."
Now she saw what he was driving at, the straw in the wind to save his vanity, and while she detested the implications, Paula knew she must accept them. "That's true," she said.
"But when you first saw me that night you made no mention of money, Paula. In fact, it was quite awhile before you could think about anything but us, wasn't it?"
"Max, I ... behaved clumsily that night, I know it now..."
"You wanted me first, didn't you, Paula?"
"I ... didn't mean to hurt you..."
"Answer yes or no," he said, sweeping Marta's afghan to the floor and sliding next to her. "You thought of me first that night, didn't you?"
All right, get the words out, she thought, get them out this once and you may never have to pledge such crippling allegiances again. "Yes, Max. It had been a whole week since that first time."
"First time for what, Paula?"
"Feeling you naked and in my arms."
"Go on," he urged, and as he took her hand she thought let him! Let him do anything now so you can win later.
"And ... seeing you again disturbed me so much, Max, that I ... couldn't think of anything but that"
"Anything but what Paula?"
"How much I ... wanted you..."
"That's it, honey," and turning her hand over Max bent and softly kissed the palm. "That's what we build on. And I don't care what name you give it, I know that I'm in love with you, Paula, and it seems you've got a powerful craving for me if you're able to forget everything when we're together."
"Yes ... everything about you disturbs me, Max," she said, certain that she spoke on merely physical terms, "even now, with you so close, I can't think properly..."
"You're in love, my girl!" he grinned at her. "Those are classic symptoms, honey, so why be afraid of one little word?"
Paula quickly summoned up her favorite definition of the word love: semantic fairytale, having no basis in fact, for only flesh was fact. Desire involved objects, not theories.
She felt him pressing even closer now, knees and hands and face. "Now ... there's this one other thing," he said. "You said that with me ... handy all the time, you'd never need others."
"That's right; I've told you how much you..."
"Please, honey, don't say 'satisfy.' "
"How perfect you are for me, Max; is that better?"
Max hesitated for awhile as he considered this. "I ... guess so, Paula." Then he leaned forward and slowly poured them each a glass of wine, letting each glass remain untouched on the table before them. When he spoke again his voice was lower, respectful. "There's been a lot of them, haven't there?"
Now he wants to suffer, she thought. "Men?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Several, Max."
"For how long?"
"Years." She waited then for him to probe for details, knowing somehow that he would not. But decided to throw him more bait anyway. "But Max, in all those years you were the first man I ever saw more than once," and the richest, she adamantly reminded herself.
Max turned to her, eyes earnest, searching. "And that's the truth, Paula? Only one night with each of them?"
Usually more like half-hour, she thought. "Until you, Max."
"Okay," and there was the sound of finality to his voice. "From now on that subject's off-limits for us. We've picked it up, examined it, and now we'll let it lay. You understand me, Paula?"
"Yes, Max." Lord and Master!
"Oh damn!" he roared out his relief. "God, I'm glad that's over with..." He slipped an arm about her waist and his face moved in close to hers, waiting. As Paula saw the yearning plea of his mouth she knew it had to be her move. She kissed him. But pulled away as his lips began to caress and infringe. "Okay, so you've got a mental block," he laughed, "but well fight out that hurdle too." Suddenly he rose, took up his glass of wine and handed her one. "Come on, stand up, baby, and let's drink a toast, 'cause I think it's gonna happen for us after all . .
As she rose and took the glass, Paula thought: make him say it again, make him say it often ... additional charges for the invasion..."Say you love me, Max, I want to hear it ... "
He drew her to him, pressing his lips against her hair. "Oh ... I love you, Paula. God, I've got you so deep inside of me, so deep..."
All of which fit in with Paula's original plan to draw every possible benefit from this marriage. With Max always on the scene to remind her how outrageously she desired his body, she wanted him penalized not merely with money, but with something he valued much more-his love. She had proven how little she'd needed the others by removing them from future temptation. Since there could be no such removal where Max was concerned, she would compensate by becoming the sentimental love-figure he was so ready to make of her, while for her he remained a simple convenience. Max as a function. But giving up everything within him to be nothing more for her than that...
"A love match," she murmured, turning away from his lips again as her hand crept down between his legs and gently seized the crux of their alliance..."prodding down life's highway together..."
"Dirty beloved we are gathered here today," he laughed, but did not take her hand away until they heard Marta's key in the lock. Max quickly bent and swept the afghan off the floor, holding it in front of him on the pretext of wanting to examine its artistry. Then Paula told Marta the news, and when Max was in a more relaxed state he fished out the diamond solitaire he'd bought that day, and Marta wept and waltzed rhapsodically about the apartment, after which she made them a party with some of her special pastry.
Paula and Marta stayed up long after Max left them that night, sharing a pot of tea together in the kitchen and both, in their separate ways, still dazed by the excitement of the evening: Paula now admitting that it was Max who had provided the money for Irena's family.
"You know, darling, I am not surprised," said Marta. "Such a warm, generous man, Paulie. Here I was ready to stick you in a convent and you bring home a gorgeous boy like that."
"Mom. after you come down out of the clouds maybe you'll realize how much more his money can do for us." Paula enumerated her lavish plans to improve her career, speed up the furthering of her education and gain more power and distinction as a psychologist than she'd ever dreamed possible.
"Oh, money is nice, Paulie, but for you there is more to that man than his money, darling, and do not try to deny it."
"That's utter nonsense," said Paula, "money is absolutely the only reason I'm marrying him."
"No!" Marta pounded a fat little fist on the table, and Paula was startled by the quick rage in her eyes. "You lie to yourself if you want to. But I am your mother, Paulie, and me you do not hand such crap! I know what I see. And I see your eyes on him, dear girl, and what I see in those eyes is what God put there, and it is not cash or Fifth Avenue or your career. And when you saw me watching how you looked at him, you turned your eyes from me as if you were ashamed, and you are doing it even now. My darling it is in the Bible what you feel, so never be ashamed to love a man like that. How lucky you are, Paulie, how you have needed this."
Paula pushed back her chair and rose. "It's a little late for lectures, Mom. You can believe what you like."
After a moment or two of silence while they washed and dried the few dishes, Marta said, "Paulie, do not be mad at your Mama. Maybe you are the big scientist in the family, but where men and love are concerned I'm afraid I have had a lot more experience."
Paula smiled and squeezed her mother's hand. "Don't be silly, dear, nobody's mad. At least I'll finally be able to get you out of this rat-hole of an apartment."
Paula walked out of the kitchen, headed towards her bedroom, but turned as she saw her mother in quick pursuit. "Repeat what you just said please?" said Marta. "You mean about moving? We're going to find you something special in a new air-conditioned building, Mom. Maybe a nice little apartment on West-End Avenue."
"Who do I know on West End Avenue, Pauline? And if I did, would I live there?"
"Then we'll look on Riverside."
"You will look nowhere. I am not moving. After almost thirty years in the same building, this is my home. And this is your father's home too."
"My father's home?" said Paula, and immediately knew what her mother was about to tell her. That stubborn old story of faith and romance. Alex was coming back to her. Paula kept her temper in abeyance while her mother related the fable for the thousandth time.
"He won't find strangers here when he comes, my Alex," the tears threatening. "He knows I am waiting, Paulie, and this year I feel it even more strongly that I am in his thoughts because of the troubles in the old country where we went to school together and fell in love. So you will see, darling, this Christmas he will be here."
"Oh Mom, you've been saying that for so many years, it's getting to be ridiculous. Throwing your life away on a memory. And you're not fifty yet, you're still pretty, Mom..."
"That's enough, Paulie! If I want to live my life for love, this is my business. And God knows I only wanted one man in my life, so I am going to wait for him. And I will wait here ... where he knows the way."
Paula glanced about at their tacky, cluttered living room with the overstuffed furniture that had gone out of style so long ago. "Would you object to some new furniture while you're waiting?"
"Well ... slipcovers maybe, but that's all," Marta said stubbornly. "I am used to what I've got. And you are the one who will change, my Paulie, not your mother..."
Paula heaved a sigh of defeat. "I wanted to better your life, make things easier for you so you could quit the job at the bakery and have a little comfort."
"For me to quit being busy is not comfort, Paulie. In fact, after you leave I will probably work at the bakery fulltime instead of two days a week. Mr. and Mrs. Tovar are nice company and they need the help and I like to see the public, and why shouldn't I?"
Paula gave her a stare of exasperation. "Then I guess there's nothing we can do for you, is there, Mom?"
"Yes, I think maybe one thing," and suddenly Marta laughed out loud. "I would like a vocal coach please. Are they expensive?"
"A vocal coach?"
"Yes, darling; you remember how I used to sing all the time when you were younger, all the duets your father and I used to make when we had that old upright piano we gave to the Salvation Army? You don't remember your mother's lilting soprano? Listen..." and Marta gave out with a few vibrato trills.
Smiling, Paula nodded. "I remember, Mom."
"Of course, you were not the kind of baby for lullabies, Paulie. I used to sing to you in your crib and instead of putting you to sleep I think it gave you insomnia, and you would stare up at me so funny, darling, like a little critic. But I didn't do so bad when I sang to other people's babies, and I sang in my kitchen too, and I still do."
"I know, dear, I hear you."
"All right, critic, so please ask your Maxie if he can buy me a voice teacher so I can get myself ready for Ted Mack, and I really think that's all I'll be needing. I got the landlord to save a vacant apartment in the building for Irena's family, so I won't be as alone as you think. You didn't know your mother could be so independent, did you, darling?" v
Watching as Marta turned and strutted haughtily towards her bedroom, Paula hurried after her and swept her up in a hug. "Mama darling, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to argue and get you upset."
Marta's eyes beamed up at her Amazon of a daughter whose coloring and bone-structure was so like her father's. "You know something, Paulie ... right this minute with your arms around me, I can feel all the love you have in your heart for this man Max. Love, my darling, not money!"
"Oh ... go to bed!" Paula laughed uneasily; then turned and went into her own room.
While undressing later she gazed about at her small, compact bedroom, remembering that it was the focal point of her father's final act in this house. And, she thought ... I alone know why he will not return. I alone know what frightened him away that night seventeen years ago...
SEVEN
She was eleven.
And the stirrings and festerings had begun for her long before that night. Months before. Wakeful summer nights of the gnawing writhing half-dreams and kicking the sheets from her parched and yearning body because sheets were so inadequate. As were the pillows and old teddy-bears she rammed between the long graceful legs that straddled and rode. It seemed such an agonized eternity, that innocent waiting time of the girl changing fiercely into woman, having to subsist on the stinging rages of fevers and imagery; contenting herself with the wish-buildings and fancies ignited when she had spied on a group of twelve and thirteen year olds in a cellar, standing in a semi-circle with their pants down, their hands frantically wielding and sliding up and down in a furious breathless race to see which of them would be first to shoot the manly spray. Little Paulie peering in childish wonder with her books under her arm, so glad when they took their hands away and let her see life's precious urgencies for the very first time, let her see those pliant hidden treasures which, miraculously, looked soft and rigid all at once! Boys, whom she had always found so incorrigibly vapid and noisy, suddenly became specimens of great experiment and need. And now that Paulie saw what largess lay behind all those dirty britches she'd avoided, her longings ceased to be undefined....
... and brought the dangling memories to bed with her for months of the dark summoning fantasies which now reached at her in contour and dimension, searing and tormenting in the drowse-moistures of suspended fulfillment, hands and fingers so desperately seeking the elusive joy ... first one finger, then two and three and four at once, and never right or near enough, never the throb or the plunge she now knew was possible with a male body above hers correctly attached and inserted, her thighs rubbing fretfully against the bedding as she damned the burning distractions for competing with her omnipotent world of books and learning, as she hurled over on her belly and nudged and tumbled her pelvis up and down against the mocking fury of an empty mattress, so ready to be relieved of the torture and weight that clung to her body like a pall and an atrophy. Ready now, but too afraid and unschooled to take action. Inherently secretive by nature, it was important to her that no one find out about this prize that was to be hers alone. A solitary pleasure without group-knowledge. A pleasure to be taken, not given. And even when she found a way to trap and use one of those boys to her advantage, no one must know. Dimly, she knew she must find other neighborhoods, other cellars.
It was on such a humid summer night that Alex stumbled home after another of his chronic drinking weekends, still roaring drunk and wanting company. Marta was upstairs consoling her good friend Hilda Donath whose husband had passed away the week before. And, finding the apartment so dismal and empty, Alex threw open the door of Paulie's bedroom.
A single shaft of light beamed in against the child's body as she lay there with the blankets kicked to the floor, wearing nothing but the tops of her pajamas, her legs flung apart and one hand lowered and busy between them.
"I'll be goddamned!" howled Alex as he eyed the surprisingly developed body of his daughter, the fat little mounds of breasts, the cluster of hair above her jabbing fingers. He stood weaving and leering in the doorway, a huge gaunt man with a gross peasant face and rangy build. "You little devil, you quiet li'l Mama's precious baby with all your books ... Mama's genius ... a wallflower your Mama says you'll be ... hah! but wait, li'l baby ... let Papa show ya ... yer doin' it all wrong, sweetheart...."
He half-staggered and fell into the room. Paulie quickly took her hand away, her body going tense. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe or speak. So great and surging was her fear that he might change his mind and leave the room. But she saw that he was wildly drunk and full of coarse, rowdy mischief. Her heart began to pound out a little prayer as she watched anxiously while he unzipped himself and moved towards her. And the thrill was a bursting glory of revelation when she saw there was so much more to be had from him than those sparsely assembled boys in the cellar. Her eyes remained entranced by the long taut fullness of it as it neared her, and her lips parted and she felt the cold sweat grip her as Alex lowered his pants and crawled drunkenly over her body, laughing crazily as he held the big silken gift in his hand, aiming and angled..."Papa teach the baby ... baby learn at home, not in the streets ... but first maybe I'll go get another drink..."
He started to climb off but Paulie lunged forward and grabbed it before he knew what had happened, and after entering the head of it, she threw her legs around his hips and squeezed him bluntly down and fully inside of her. And hacked out the painful cry of child's first delight and euphoria, her body a great lacerated sob of release, her face shining with the ecstasy as Alex's face hovered close in that moment with the light on her eyes like that. And saw his child receiving him. Saw the savage unveiled welcome on the face of his quiet little girl. Felt himself stiff and inside of her, inside Marta's baby. Saw that there was no mistake and she knew who it was on her. But wrapped her legs around his back and jammed him in. Not afraid, but wanting him. Her daddy ... her papa ... his bright little girl Paulie whom he bragged so much about in the taverns. And look at the hungry face for what's happening ... look at the studious little face...
"Aw my God!" he screamed and burst into tears, deadly sober now as he lurched his body off her, full of shock and self-hatred and terrified by the look of her ... knowing what she'd wanted ... knowing that she'd known it was him..."Oh my God, Marta ... forgive me! I didn't mean this ... never meant to..." and for a moment the grief was too heavy and he fell to his knees with it, burying his face in his hands, his body torn with sobs.
Then he let himself see the face of her again, the face so full and smiling at him, her thighs stained with the blood he'd brought forth, as she spoke..."Again, Papa? I promise not to tell. Oh please don't go away, Papa ... I like it!"
"Aw sweet Jesus ... oh my God!" Alex crawled to his feet. "How can I look at either of you again after tonight ... Christ! after what I know, Marta ... and what I have done to you ... may God forgive me ... may He forgive me!" With a last guttural cry of anguish Alex ran from the room and Paulie could still hear his moaning wails as he tore down the stairs and out of their lives.
When several weeks passed and he did not return, Marta Fabian began lighting tie candles, began her solemn vigil. "Alex is coming back. I feel it, Paulie. He'll be here Christmas Eve."
... no he won't, Mama. Papa won't ever come back. We'll never see him again...
But now Paula knew what she needed, and after that night began seeking love outside the home.
The episode with Alex, which Paula saw as his trauma rather than her own, established a kind of pattern for her during those formative years. The element of surprise became vital to her. Subtle lady-like assaults that left them reeling. And before her captors could ask for more, Paulie was gone.
She was a unique case and had never failed to recognize it Her capacities of both mind and body far exceeded those of any other woman she could think of. A force and intensity which might have meant destruction in the hands of someone less equipped to harness such talents; and thus, she had evolved a successful way of life from the very same symptoms that would have rendered an ordinary person dangerously schizoid. And, since she had found no written guidelines for the adjusted kind of duality she achieved, Paula had used the gauges of instinct and control to build the protections for her and keep her safely removed from the hurts which burdened others. Average people suffered with their hidden longings. Paula turned hers into fuel.
Despite an unusually isolated childhood, she insisted that loneliness had never been the cause of her acutely heightened appetites. Girls from large families also had extravagant body-needs, although they headed for disaster when their consciences forced them to make sex an act of faith instead of the healthy outlet it truly was. But Paula grew quickly indifferent to the alienations which resulted from being years ahead of her class in school and refused to affix any blame on that environment, demanding full responsibility for her actions. She had never been victimized or corrupted or led astray. Nor had there ever been a sexual interlude that was not of her own will and selection.
At four, Paulie had become such an avid reader she kept Marta hopping back and forth to the local library branch to quell her strange little girl's thirst for knowledge. This greed of intellect produced such scholarly advances that Paulie sailed through kindergarten, first, second and third grades all in a matter of a few months.
Her deportment consistently academic, Paulie went about acquiring knowledge in the same manner she used when ferreting out sex-objects. And often the thrill of a newly mastered exam could be neatly duplicated later in the day by procuring a sensual release with which to top her victory. The two areas in which she so excelled sometimes blended most felicitously, for in each the feats were hers alone.
By the time she was twelve Paulie was so amply developed she could have passed for eighteen, and often did. At first the solitary explorings occurred once or twice a month, but grew in frequency as soon as the child learned her great knack for expedition. During those years an hour or two after school would suffice. Paulie would stare in awe and wonder at the men who passed her on the street, and the excitement and mystery each of them held for her was unquenchable. She never tired of appraising their long-legged strides, wide-eyed and peering to determine if the maddening ripples at their crotch-seams were fabric or flesh. The idea that with most of them she would never know for sure was often infuriating for the research-oriented little girl. Nearly every man she permitted herself to see was like a puzzle that must be solved. And the old axiom that no two of them were alike spurred her on all the more indefatigably to prove it.
Her face was a study of rapt innocence as she ogled their big jaunty arms that pawed at the air like the beast-kings they were, as she eyed their rough scratchiness of beards, eavesdropped on the husky promises she found in their voices.
For awhile meeting them on busses seemed simplest. The easiest way to nuzzle against the forbidden heat of a stranger's thigh without creating a stir. The marvelous thrill of surprise on their faces never failed to add to her excitement of the kill and the quarry. She was a dream-fantasy come true for them, and nothing so gratified her as seeing the joy and awe of a man of thirty-five at feeling the hands of such a beautifully developed young girl tapping at his privates. They all said she was too good to be true when she got them alone in the dark and began unbuckling. Her favorite moments were when she had them completely stripped and accessible.
The bizarre trysting places to be found in Manhattan were boundless for the resourceful child. When the weather was right, Central Park was always safe in daylight, and, during those years, even comparatively safe at night. Before leaving school in the afternoon Paulie would go into a booth in the ladies' room and remove the panties Marta made her wear, folding them neatly into her briefcase between her theses. It was a fresh sensation doing it by sunlight and really getting a close look at what was about to disappear into her; and while it was no effort for her to raise her skirts and spread out for them on a secluded clump of grass, she always demanded that they be nude from the waist down because the naked feel and rhythm of their legs was part of the tonic, too.
However, she soon preferred the museums and libraries because they were easier to fit into her schedule, and time was an important factor since she was forever being harassed by a heavy curriculum; and often, after finishing an assignment of homework, she would stroll through the' quietest aisles, and upon spotting a fellow who looked ripe for what she wanted she would first smile, then stare there, then move up and touch there, often slipping it out into her hand before there was even time for it to swell. The archives of the Botany Department at the main branch were especially suitable; lying with her coat laid out beneath her and gazing up at the noble assemblage of books while some grateful man swung smoothly up and down above her. It was the purest recreation, and at school she found that the enforced swimming or volley ball couldn't begin to compete.
Men. She routed them out everywhere. And thus, by sheer will and assertion, Paulie managed sufficient amounts of intercourse so as not to be bothered with thinking about it; and was firmly convinced that repression and false shame produced most of the neuroses which beleaguered modern society. However, with the aid of her fast and steady flow of fulfillment she felt sanely attuned to the world she lived in. In the backs of cars. In movies. In an elevator stopped between floors. On a stairway of a deserted office-building. Sprawling sliding men over her, or alongside, or at a quickie-propped angle against a shadowed wall. Salesmen and executives and butchers. Garage-mechanics and gas-station attendants because she loved the smell of the oily coveralls she stripped from them and laid against under the steering-wheels of their trucks. How simple it was for her to prove she wasn't a lonely child as everyone suspected. And how little use she had for a continuing comrade when each new man she touched was so overwhelmed by what she gave so freely.
Paulie rarely went with men under thirty, being particularly careful to avoid student-types who may have seen her on the campus. And during those schooldays she was usually home in time for dinner with Marta, and could then feel free to spend her evenings studying. No irritating phone calls from backward acned swains wanting to carry her books home from school or pointlessly maul her at the junior prom. How fastidious her adolescence had been without the salivating nuisance of a first love or going steady, or that vacuous walk down lovers' lane where, if anything truly memorable happened, you were the talk of the campus the next day. Paulie walked with no man who knew her. No commitments. No fraternity-pins or parties or kissing games or fits of hero-worship.
Giving her body without giving anything else became a sublime act of freedom; for in sex there was nothing but the gain of taking, while love, the idiots' myth, offered only loss and a martyrdom of the spirit. The mawkish insolence of kisses and petting was another part of the personality-subversion, and from the beginning Paulie made it clear to her partners that a kiss had nothing to do with the contact she was seeking.
Living such an asocial life, Paulie found no obstacles in the way of becoming something of a scholastic wizard. Her natural gifts for clinical detachment made becoming a psychology major seem inevitable, as did her scholarship to Columbia at fourteen, getting her BS in three years and going on to graduate work and swiftly securing her masters in social psychology before she was twenty. It was about that time that Paula began going to bed with her discoveries instead of succumbing to the fast manipulations in parks or cars. While the challenge of public dangers had been perfectly acceptable in childhood, she told herself that this new need for dignity was a normal symptom of growth and maturity. And so she took them to bed and the orderly regime of the cheap hotel room began.
Occasionally there were a few girls she permitted herself to see socially, but these were usually highly advanced scholars, and Paula termed them colleagues rather than friends. They shared lengthy dialectic debates pertaining to their studies, and several times a year Paula had one of them to her home for a game of chess, an indulgence which she found enormously stimulating, and the game which Marta described as her one and only vice. However, no lasting loyalties developed, due to Paula's persistence in declining all social invitations.
Aside from her formal education, Paula became an expert on such side-issues as contraception, sanitation and judo. She decided on the judolessons at seventeen, after a narrow escape with a sadistic busboy who wanted to tie her to a bed so she could pretend she was being raped. Physically, she had always been a remarkably vigorous girl, but chose judo as an added safeguard. And later, while working with social workers in slum clinics and in the field, she secured a permit to carry a gun. A small pearl-handled revolver which she still owned and would not hesitate to use if the need arose.
And now as she lay in bed recalling the perfection of her past-straight A averages and all the climaxes a girl could wish for!-Paula thought of Max's ardent proposal earlier that evening and wondered if he were truly worth giving up such a Spartan existence. But instantly assured herself that if she were clever enough she really need give up nothing. Furthermore, marriage might prove to be the strongest protection against exposure that she had yet devised. While it was true that Max's extraordinary fleshly enticements could inspire a kind of fidelity in her, she had no way of knowing how long such a state would last. If it should cease at a time when she still found it attractive to be his wife, new discretions would have to take over. New Freedoms of Choice.
Paula raised up her hand and flashed Max's diamond on her fingers, watching it sparkle and glisten in the dark ... Stud-Midas," she thought, so big and hulking and taking over. I wonder what he would say if I told him I'd had sex with my own father on this bed...
She looked at her door and saw that it was still partly open. She got up and softly closed and locked it. Returning to her bed, she lay there in resigned waiting. Held up a piece of kleenex ready to blot and remove. And then felt the tears begin. But not really, she thought; because no one saw.
EIGHT
A few days after their wedding announcement Max carefully arranged for Paula to meet a few members of his family, not wanting to spring the whole regiment on her at once. He told his mother to plan on a simple little dinner for the four of them, with maybe his brother Joe and his wife coming over later.
"Well, you can tell the little darlin' she'll get none of that heathen Paprikash in this house," said Emma Sandaretti. "It'll be Irish Stew of nothin'! "
"And aside from the corned-beef and cabbage that's still the only thing you make fit for cats or humans, ain't it, Ma?"
"Sure'n if the cats don't eat it, your father will!" Emma howled.
The thought of dining with strangers was unnerving for Paula, but she managed to sustain a courteous and pleasant attitude.. And after surveying the neglectful shambles they had made of the once-elegant Riverside Drive duplex Max had put them in, Paula's social inhibitions were swept aside as she wondered how much money Max threw away each month on such folly. like housing livestock in a castle, she thought.
Max's father she found to be a mountainous rambling man in his mid-sixties, and except for the flowing moustache bore an unmistakable resemblance to Max. The same dramatic widow's peak, but augmented by a shock of white hair above it. And also like Max, she observed, he was full of the ego-aggressions of sentiment and affection. Such chronic charmers literally demanded to be loved by everyone they met; working so assiduously to be winning and popular and well-spoken-of. Most native narcissism of all, she concluded. And when the old man overcame his initial reticence with her that night, he burst upon the atmosphere like a fireworks display.
In marked contrast to her husband Salvatore, Emma was a petite and tiny-boned woman with watery blue eyes which seemed to Paula to be apologizing for all the obscenities that had undoubtedly come out of that blarney-rosebud of a mouth in her lifetime. With a quick and seasoned eye Paula also judged the woman to be a secret drinker, and wondered if Max knew. Either whiskey or tokay, she speculated, with her linen-closets full of the empties. Paula had often treated this type in her work, and the symptoms rarely varied.
Nor could she bring herself to finish the lumpy stew the woman had apparently sobered up long enough to prepare as their engagement feast. With a polite smile she professed to be on a starch-free diet.
"You wanna save your magnificent shape for Maxie, eh?" Salvatore grinned at her.
"Exactly," Paula smiled, watching a tiny ant crawl from under her napkin and onto the plate she'd deserted.
"The girls Ve been chasin' that big bruiser since he was old enough to go to the potty by bisself!" tittered Emma. "Sure'n I don't know what it is he's got, but it's yours now, me darlin', so guard it with yer life!"
Later that night Max's brother Joe and his wife Elsie arrived. "So this is that gorgeous broad Paula we've been hearing so much about!" Joe said when they were introduced, Paula noticing that he was a much clumsier replica of Salvatore. Big, but refreshingly bereft of the family charm.
"Ma, I know we're late, but we couldn't get a sitter 'till the last minute!" said Elsie, a bulbous young woman of twenty-eight "So this is your princess, Maxie!" She fell into her brother-in-law's arms in a swamp of tugging kisses. "Aw honey, I can't wait for the wedding; all them pretty vows and sacraments ... they're new every time I hear 'em." Then she took Paula's hand and stared at her. "You look like a regular movie-star, dear, just beyoodyful!"
And you look like a rhythm-chart casualty, thought Paula, you bloated little victim of perpetual pregnancy. Probably not thirty yet, but you look a bovine forty-five with nothing but bulges to carry around on those squatty little feet of yours. But neatiy returned Elsie's smile.
"Hope all your troubles are little ones, Maxie!" said Joe.
"Yeah, better make it twins the first year so you'll catch up to us," added Elsie. "We got six, ya know!"
Six cabbages, thought Paula, and in God's image too.
"Would'ya like to come in the kitchen and have a little snorter for the road?" Emma asked as they were about to leave.
"Not when I'm drivin', Ma, you know that," said Max.
"Your Mama, she don't drive!" said Salvatore, and went into a fit of hilarity over his private joke.
"Aw, shut yer mouth, ya old greaser!" hawked Emma. But suddenly laughed raucously at a joke of her own. "Some days they should give me the St. Christopher's medal for just bein' able to walk!"
"I'll go in and have a drink with you, Mrs. Sandaretti," smiled Paula, and saw Max's expression of surprise and affection.
"Ah, now ain't that nice, me pretty one? Just us girls together and the devil take them bums!"
Paula saw that Emma's kitchen was precisely the swill-pen she had visualized-a veritable graveyard of pots and pans and unemptied garbage; and Paula was certain she'd see some species of rodent if she stood there long enough. She watched as Emma reached up to a shelf and, with a few wheezing grunts, pulled down a bottle. Whiskey.
Emma filled two shot-glasses, but Paula insisted on a full glass of water for a chaser. "Here's to you, me darlin' lovely one," Emma held up her glass, "for givin' me sweet boy the great happiness he deserves. He's been alone too long, ma'dear, so God bless ya!" Her eyes twinkled in teary bathos as she tilted her head for the shot.
Paula quickly emptied her whiskey in the sink and held the shot-glass close to her lips as Emma swiveled her head back in her direction.
"I don't believe I'll need the chaser after all," Paula smiled, seeing that the water-glass was filthy.
"What a weddin' it'll be!" said Emma. "All me kids'll get drunk and fall on their little asses. Ah ... yer such a natural beauty, me darlin, like somethin' royal, ya are!"
Sensing that the woman was about to kiss her, Paula moved away on the blithest of steps. "It's getting late, dear," she said. "I'm afraid we've already overstayed our welcome."
Later, while driving home, Paula reaped her rewards from Max. "Honey, I am so proud of you," he said. "Why? What did I do?"
"You went out of your way to be sweet to my folks and I love you for it, Paula. Especially going in the kitchen with Ma to drink a toast. Just the two of you. Oh man, she is gonna remember that. It's like you were paying her a little tribute, you know?"
They rode in silence for a moment as Max thought about how nice the evening had gone, with everything so much more relaxed than he'd expected.
"I guess maybe you like my folks a little bit, don't you, honey?" he asked.
"Yes, Max," she smiled. "They're real people."
Paula and Max were married in early January of 1957. And, while it was a church ceremony and thus soothed the papal consciences of both families, at Paula's insistence it was a much more modest affair than either Max's family or his press-agent would have preferred. Nor did Max have in mind anything so elaborate as the four-bedroom split-level apartment Paula found for them on upper Central Park West. He couldn't figure out why they needed all those extra bedrooms, unless she planned to turn them into nurseries. She told him vaguely that they would need guest-rooms, a den, a study, then promptly got him to change the subject by stripping him down and dragging him off to bed.
For their honeymoon Max had his heart set on a grand romantic tour of Europe for two or three months. But Paula maintained that trips of that length were for drifters and misanthropes, and instead chose a week at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami, which Max said seemed pretty chintzy for a honeymoon, like something you'd win on a quiz show. However, Paula didn't bother to explain to him why extended periods of leisure were such a threat for her. Too much time away from her work presented challenges and danger-signals which she rarely permitted herself to acknowledge.
The newlyweds spent their days lying and dozing in the sun, drained and monosyllabic after the feasts of their long and wakeful nights. For there were no quick skirmishes for them that week, and if they touched at all it went on until dawn. For Max there had never been such an embodiment of love. And for Paula, never such bodily excitement.
Often they lay so close at night Max felt the urge to sweep her off and away from him, on a stage under a spotlight, where he could really have himself a look at what belonged to him from head to toe. And yet, in the daytime, Paula was a different woman. For one thing, she rarely let her eyes meet his by daylight. And while he never got enough of looking at that cool and sexy face of hers-the frigid glints of the eyes in endless combat with the throbbing fullness of the mouth-it was usually in profile, since she practically never looked back; unless he deliberately did something to provoke her. Max felt the same towards her all the time, but he was getting the impression that Paula wouldn't let herself react to him until he was an actual experience for her, on top and happening, more of an event than a person. And mainly at night. The rest of the time he felt like part of the geography. He could almost hear her introducing him like that some day..."My husband, ladies and gentlemen, the peninsula to your left..."
Paula had arranged for their new apartment to be ready for occupancy on the day of their return from Miami. Max had seen the place only once, immediately christening it Yankee Stadium Number Two. But he was pleased by the size of his study, as it meant that he could salvage and utilize a great many of his personal belongings from his old apartment. His elaborate Hi-Fi system with its dual speakers and his tape-recording equipment fit beautifully; and there was shelf-space for most of his books, as well as room for his desk, and also his television set, which he regarded more or less as a tool of his trade.
Everything else in the apartment was as new and opulent as Paula's city-wide chargaplates would permit. Extreme Regence Style was the motif, and the concerted effect was an aura of relentless splendor. The combined living and dining area was spacious enough for a small ballroom, to the right of which and up a brief flight of stairs were the two adjoining bedrooms, separated by two private bathrooms and a dressing room. To the left and on the same level were the two extra rooms, which Paula now told him would be a den for him and a study for her. In the living room there was a bar just off the entrance to a galley-size kitchen, and also Hi-Fi, a grand piano and television. The bar faced enormous sliding glass doors which overlooked a terrace, as well as a spectacular view of Central Park and the East Side of New York. All this for only $650.00 a month, she reminded him. A steal, he'd replied. But everything looked so stately and formal to him, he had an insane urge to tack up football pennants on each antiseptic wall.
Marta and Irena took over the apartment on that first day, planning and cooking a festive Hungarian-style dinner for their homecoming, Irena's husband and boys arriving later. Marta's sister and her family had arrived safely from Hungary the week of Paula's wedding, in time to be present at the ceremonies. Irena was a strikingly tall, yet fragile looking lady in her early forties, her hair faded blonde and wispy, and in her eyes a constantly startled expression, as if they might still be responding to the horror of her eldest son's death on the streets of Budapest. Her husband Lazlo was a roundly pleasant looking man, but, since he spoke no English as yet, there was little he could do to communicate except smile vacantly at everyone.
"You could feed Napoleon's army in such a kitchen!" exclaimed Marta as everyone sat down to dinner that night. "Three times I lost my way to the stove, it's so big. Tell me, Paulie, how will you ever fill all this space?"
"I haven't started buying all the accessories and knick-knacks yet, Mom," said Paula, "it will be much more colorful when we're settled."
"And Maxie doll-boy," said Marta, "how do you like your new home?"
"Mom, it couldn't be any cozier if it were the Taj Mahal," Max flashed her a big smile, and Paula watched as her whole family burst into spontaneous laughter, including her Uncle Lazlo who could not have understood a word.
"My God, Maxie, you are so funny!" squealed Marta.
"The Taj Mahal is really a large tomb, Uncle Maxie," said Gregor, Irena's blonde and smiling fourteen-year-old.
"I'm hip," Max grinned at him.
"Vito," Gregor addressed his brother, "he is hip!" The boys were still new enough in the country to be enthralled by American slang.
"I am hip, too!" said Vito, who was two years younger than his brother, but whose blonde and freckled good looks were somewhat marred by a pair of heavy-lensed eyeglasses due to nearsightedness.
"I believe you are funnier than your own television program, Mr. Sinclair," Irena said pleasantly.
"The name is Max, Irena, and don't let my sponsors hear you say that."
"The sponsors," Marta laughed, and explained the term in Hungarian to Uncle Lazlo.
"Money!" said Uncle Lazlo, nodding his head and laughing. "Money!"
"This word he has learned quickly," Irena told them.
"If he's going to live in New York there's another word he'd better learn in a hurry," said Max.
"And what is that please?" inquired Irena.
"Help!" said Max.
Again Paula clung to her composure while everyone went into hysterics at what Max had said. And after dinner, when Marta told everyone that Max had also performed in nightclubs, they insisted that he do part of his act for them. After racking his brain to recall some of his old material that was clean enough for family viewing, Max finally went to the piano and sang and played a few old standards, persuading everyone to join him for a community sing.
"Paulie darling," said Marta, "you have some real built-in entertainment in this boy, you know that?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Come and sing with us, dear," Marta insisted. "This is just like olden times for me; remember the duets with your Papa, Paulie?"
"I'll sit here and be the audience," Paula said, her smile frozen.
Before the evening was over Max gave everyone a chance at the piano, insisting that each of them give out with a vocal solo, except Uncle Lazlo who begged off on the grounds that he was a tool and dye maker by trade and therefore not musical.
"Not even a tool and dye maker, poor man," said Marta. "Until he is a citizen the Union does not want him. Five years."
"I'll see if I can find him something while he's waiting," Max offered.
Big Brother is watching you, thought Paula; big Max pulling strings and mending lives. Closely, she examined the faces of her husband's new disciples. Captivated, she thought. Typical mass gullibility. The boys, of course, adored him because his performance was geared to their mental age-group. As for Marta and Irena, he was arousing them sexually, which was even more distasteful because they were so unaware of it. Paula was gripped by cold fury as she realized how hard Max had worked to win these people over. Her family. And he now had them in the palm of his hands.
Max drove everyone home that night, and when he returned found Paula in her study, busily unpacking books. She wore the faded pedal pushers and her favorite plaid work-shirt, and it did something to him to see her all unkempt like that and he wanted to jump all over her and launch a big attack before she even knew he was in the room.
But he was still feeling too mellow and jovial to want to scare her to death, so he stuck his head in the doorway and hollered, "Hey, headshrinker honey, isn't it time we made it to the couch?"
"Your flock of sheep have found other pastures now, Max," she said without looking up, "so there's no use your trying out material on me."
"Oops, guess that means you're mad at me because I clowned it up so much tonight"
"Not really," she said, piling up some books and carrying them to their shelves. "I know how difficult it is for you to resist a ready-made audience."
"Bombs away!" he cried. And then, removing his overcoat and tossing it on a chair, he moved into the room and began helping her stock the shelves. He had sensed that she'd been angling for a fight all evening, but all he wanted was to take her to bed and cuddle. And sometimes cuddling was the pure extent of his desire, but with Paula it was Big Casino or nothing. "Honey, in one way or another I've been a comic all my life. I love making people laugh. It's something I'm able to do and I'm glad of it. It's that simple, Paula."
"Nevertheless, I'm sure everyone found you a trifle crude tonight, Max, the way you pushed and projected that dazzling personality of yours."
Damn! he was starting to boil now and he didn't want to. "Paula look, this is our first night in our new home together, so why are we building a big blast over nothing?"
Turning and glancing briefly at him, Paula realized the truth of how much she wanted him tonight before the crucial warfare that was inevitable simply because this was their first day of sharing an apartment. "Oh, I suppose you're right, Max," she sighed. Bed first, she thought; battle stations later. "Why don't you mix us a couple of drinks and take them into the bedroom?"
"Wheel ... now you sound like a wife..." he grinned, and puckering up he moved in and kissed the tip of her nose.
When she went to the bedroom a few moments later Max lay half-sprawled upon the bed, his highball in his hand, his long legs furrowing and apart in his tight black ivy-league trousers.
"Your brandy's on the dresser," he told her.
Paula took her drink and sat across the room, feeling his eyes nestling about the loose-fitting bodice of the old shirt she wore, his eyes on the beginning cleft of breasts she knew was visible. And now with silence at last mutually desirable, they watched one another, appraising in anticipation. After a few sips of her drink, Paula rose and moved towards him, her hands ready. A ritual merely sensuous and unrecorded, new anonymous yearnings for the secret places. Upon reaching him, a few more seconds elapsed, her fingers investigative ... silently, maneuvering.
"Dammit baby, just for once why can't I do the undressing?" Max blurted out.
Paula lurched away so violently she knocked the drink from his hands, ice-cubes dropping between his legs where she'd unzipped him, as he wriggled and shot to his feet. "You're always taking off my pants, Paula, but I never get the chance to take off yours..."
"Oh, will you be quiet!" she cried. "You unfeeling, graceless lout, you're determined to kill this whole evening with your words, aren't you? Your flip and brassy clown's words that offend and ... and mutilate..."
Oh Christ, he thought, why does she have to turn everything into such a bitchy personal attack? He'd been undressing women off and on ever since he'd started to shave, and with few exceptions they'd all loved it. But with Paula everything was ass-backwards; which reminded him that as long as she practically lived in her goddamned diaphragm he was gonna forget about rubbers and stop taking the 'dual care' she demanded at all times. The squirmy things split on him anyway, even when he squeezed three of them on at once. And besides, she laid down entirely too many laws considering she was nothing but a woman-sanitation, contraception, no babies for at least two years, and forever talking about those damned birth-control pills that were still in the laboratory stage. Until they were out on the market Max was still a guy who believed in accidents, so maybe he'd show her one tonight.
"And your television scripts are atrocious, if you want the truth," she was saying.
"Jesus, I thought we were getting ready for bed, Paula, so why the hell are we suddenly hacking away at my scripts?"
"Not scripts, Max, gibberish! That's what I call that idiot-dialogue you write every week."
"Now look, Art and I and our producers are taking that show off the air this season when it's still way ahead. And for your information, Genius, we're still getting some pretty high ratings..." his voice rising with each word.
"Which proves what a pitifully low taste-level this country has sunk to."
Goddammit, a minute, ago he'd wanted to take her clothes off and now he wanted to bash her head against the wall. "Oh what the hell do you know about adult humor, Miss Brainfever, sitting in that clinic all day long with your bleeding hearts?"
"Those are people I help."
"Balls! Those are people you use, to jazz up your ego and purge your sins."
"My ego, my sins?" she shrieked. "Why, you sick, pathetic lecher ... you..."
"That's right, your sins, you horny little muskrat..." And with a sudden laugh Max rushed over and grabbed for her. "Now come here, baby, we both know what we want tonight and it's us holding on to each other and not saying a Goddamn word..." Seizing her in his arms, Max's hands traveled and kneaded all over body..."Aw hell, honey, I love you so much ... God, do I love you!"
But she tore his hands away and moved back. "Oh ... love! How you do throw that word around, Max, forever talking in song-titles, you bumbling, overgrown torn cat!" She headed towards the door leading to the bathroom.
"Love! If it weren't for the excitement you find with me, you'd be molesting little girls in the subway this very minute."
As she turned and walked through the bathroom, Max felt pissed-off all over again. "You're goddamn right I would, if one of 'em didn't goose me first. Is that where you got your start, Crotch-Fingers, on the subway?"
"You're close ... keep guessing!"
"Oh nuts!" he said, and suddenly having no heart to fight with anyone, Max flopped down on the bed in exasperation. Then he watched as Paula walked through the second bathroom, through the dressing-room and into the guest room. Fpllowed her every movement as she went to a dresser and took out what looked like a nightgown. Then, as she began undressing, Paula softly closed the guest room door. Max felt a chill, a desolation, and for a moment he couldn't move.
Finally he bolted to his feet and raced after her, flinging the door open. "Hey honey, you don't have to spend the night brooding in the guest room just because we had a little fight. Why get yourself all miserable and lonely when you know we're gonna make up any minute?"
In her nightgown now, Paula went to the closet and reached for a negligee, after which she sat before the dressing-table and began brushing her hair. "Max, you may as well get used to it. This is not the guest room and was never meant to be."
"But you said..."
"I thought it best not to worry you until after the honeymoon, but ... this is my bedroom, Max, and if you don't believe me, look in the closet and you'll find my entire trousseau."
Max moved across the room like an automaton, doing as she asked. In the closet were her clothes and shoes and hats, all brand new, never worn. Sleek trim therapy-suits by Chanel and Mainbocher and Dior. As ascetic looking as the rest of the decor in their tower. And gazing about the room Max identified other personal items. Photos of Paula's mother, and her aunt and cousins. Books. Mental health journals. And on the dressing table, all neatly arranged, her colognes and perfumes.
Max stood watching as she brushed her hair, immobile, finding no words, no sanity. And then at last..."Paula, we're married. We sleep together now, don't you know that?"
She rose and went to the bed, and, slipping in between the covers, she took a book and her reading glasses from the nightstand. "I'm not able to sleep with anyone, Max. I have to sleep alone."
"What're you giving me, in Miami we slept together a whole week."
"If you remember, Max, the only sleep we got in Miami were a few catnaps on the beach, hardly ever in bed. Marathon lust is fine for a honeymoon, but I have a whole new career to consider now, and if I'm to get my rest we'll simply have to ration the passion. You see, Max, I do have humor; I made a funny."
"Who the hell's talking about lust, for Christ's sake?" he demanded. "I'm talking about a husband and wife sleeping together the way my folks did ... and yeah, your folks too ... sharing a bed, waking up in the middle of the night and finding each other and ... and breathin' together, and ... not being alone, goddammit! That's what I'm talking about."
"Shouting won't cure my insomnia," she told him.
He stared at her, wondering if he should let himself feel relieved by this simple explanation. "If that's all it is, you'll get used to it, honey. I mean hell, you have to try it first. I know for sure that I don't snore, and I'm a pretty quiet sleeper, Paula ... and there's no way I'd keep you awake. I mean, I wouldn't go on bothering you once we finished for the night..."
Paula thought of what she'd inevitably have to say to convince him, and hated the necessity for such a confession, hated the intrusion of his standing there with his landlord's right to know. "Max, I can do anything in bed with a man except sleep. And if I lay next to you in bed every night it would be I who would keep you awake. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He shook his head. "No ... no, I don't believe it. Maybe it was like that for you with other guys, but not with
. ... , me...
"Especially with you, Max, because you attract me more."
"Oh Jesus, let me get this straight!" he began pacing about the room. "Are you saying it's impossible for you to lie next to me in bed every night without wanting to keep turning me on ... and on and on?"
She nodded. 'To know you were there and still accessible would be to keep wanting you."
"Accessible?" he burst out. "Holy Christ, you make me sound like an air-pump!"
"I'm talking about removing a temptation, Max, not a necessity," she said. "And only with you completely out of reach would I be able to sleep." And how she wished she might dare give him an even closer glimpse of the truth than that and tell him that in her eyes men were utility-items, and there was no reason to be near one of them in the dark once his services were at an end. She found it such infantile hypocrisy, their mewling cries of...'I wanna sleep with you, baby, sleep with my arms around you all night long! She'd often wondered what her role was to be during their long hours of unconsciousness. While they slept and were totally unaware of her existence, she was nothing more to them than a prop, a crutch. No distinctive identity as a woman, but, rather a security-symbol, a thing to hang onto when the lights were out and the goblins were near.
"You know what I think you're doing, Paula, trying to use some kind of flattery to make me go for this lousy deal, telling me...'honey, I'm so hot for ya, I can't sleep with ya' ... Well, bullshit! nobody's that hot for nobody!"
"What other reason would I have?"
Max took his time in answering; sat down on a chaise lounge and kept staring at her, wondering if he'd ever know when she was for real and when she wasn't "Maybe you just like to be completely alone unless you're screwin', is that closer?"
"Oversimplified."
"Then maybe the real truth is that you can't lay next to any guy without crawlin' all over him, not only me but any guy who looks half-way juicy to you. Christ, maybe you can't even stand next to a good-looking guy without getting your ass in an uproar. Don't think I didn't notice how you looked at those beach-boys down in Miami, starin' between their legs like you wanted to rip their trunks off and see how much they had, right there in public. And hell, maybe that's why you don't handle men in your work, afraid they'll give you the old itch, or maybe smell the scent on you ... or afraid you'll start unzipping while you're issuing out therapy, is that it, Paula, tell me, is that the kind of crud you got?"
As he stood over her, Paula calmly turned off the night lamp, throwing her face in shadows. "Better go to your room now, Max. You've got all the facts."
Immediately Max knew that he'd slashed closer to the truth than he'd wanted to, because he had hurt her, and thrown between them something he was so afraid to have her face, the indefinable ingredient they both had to fight and blot out. He loved her, so he wanted her well and happy, not hurt ... or so removed from him that he could never hope to reach her. Why had he let her force these words from him when he knew that, in time, they would cease to be facts, cease to have meaning? Why hadn't he been stronger and waited?
"I'm ... sorry..." he said and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Paula lay there in the dark for a moment, holding back the tears which so maimed and rotted. The blunt-edged candor of Max's words was something she was generally able to cast out. The one limitation, choosing to specialize in women because she had convinced herself that women were more vulnerable and defenseless and needed help more than men. But the taint and the flaw persisted. Professional dealings with men invariably demanded a tense and strained performance from her. Not that she had ever, in any isolated circumstance, lost control. Yet, even during the most prosaic interchange there would come that restless tremor of arousal, a self-conscious awareness of structural gentler. She had never had a man for a friend. In the past there had been situations which made it mandatory for her to place herself on equal terms with men who needed her help as a therapist. There were the years during her early training and field work with psychiatric social workers who were near and witnessed her every reaction. It had not then been possible to discriminate, and those had been years of pain for Paula, though pain which had always been masked, never detected. Eventually she had earned her reputation as an expert in dealing with the problems of delinquent young girls, managing to secure her assignment to the women's clinic on Fifty-Seventh Street. And now that she was to have her own practice, the danger had been eliminated. No longer need she feel hounded by the fear that any man who stood close to her somehow knew the truth of what she would want of him in another setting, thereby blocking the superiority she was able to display in all other phases of her work.
With the years she had learned to push this limitation from her mind. Yet, Max had suspected and dug for that pitying advantage, and in seeing her handicap had used his revelations to 'get' to her. His first real retaliation, and she would make him pay for it. Tonight. In a few moments.
When Max returned to his room he got undressed and slipped into bed. And it was rough. He had a fast, buD-headed urge to pack his clothes and race back to the old apartment. He'd always slept alone there, so it wouldn't feel so unnatural to him. But God help him, he knew he couldn't do it, couldn't leave her. And dammit, he felt like taking an ax to those closed doors between them and dragging her to his bed and not being so noble and patient with his submerged and sleeping beauty, goddamn her, but forcing her to try, at least for one night, to try sleeping next to him. But no, she flatly closed her steel-trap mind on the whole subject, so damned positive she had all the answers because of all that science rattling around in her, head. But a man and his wife sleeping together had nothing to do with science. It can be like a law of nature if you happen to love the one you married. So many couples he knew told him that sure, it took a little conditioning at first, but then it grew into a habit like everything else, and soon one of them couldn't even get to sleep unless the other was there. Just there. Part of the same life.
Alone at night
Despite the many years he'd had his own place, this had been the one bachelor-hazard he'd never hardened to. A man hasn't got a thing in this world, he thought, if he looks up at night and it's all black and there is no one looking with him. like every night you're rehearsing for the grave. And no matter how great and conquering you've been during the day, or how much greater you expect to be tomorrow, without love to fill those empty places at night a man is nothing but a lost little snot-nose kid crying out for the Mama he's outgrown. Because alone at night is when love counts the most...
Then Max heard doors opening. Finally his. And Paula stood there before him. like a dream, he thought ... like the goddamned blessed virgin in a dream!
He saw the shadow of her naked body as she slipped in beside him. He put his arms around her and drew her body close to his..."Oh honey, honey ... you don't have to say anything, don't have to talk..."
"I forgive you, Max," she murmured, "I wanted you to know that."
He was content with the stiff, unmoving embrace. But Paula placed his hand on her breast. "It isn't as if I won't be in bed with you for a little while each night, Max. You know I'll always want that..."
He let his hand slip from her breast and encircle her waist, restfully..."Just want to hold you, honey, that's all, just hold you ... feel you next to me ... bet we can both doze off like this, Paula ... we're both tired, honey, let's try. Easy ... and soft ... and together..."
"Yes, Max." Pulling the drawstring on his pajamas, her hand deftly lowered and slid between his legs. Massages, fondlings. Calculated, effective.
"No, Paula..." his mouth nuzzled against her shoulder, "in the morning. We'll sleep together first ... let's try, sleep together, honey..."
"Doesn't feel like you want to sleep, Max."
"Oh hell, that doesn't mean anything ... I can sleep all night with it like that."
"Such a waste," she whispered. It was hard and erect now, and after pulling down his pajama-bottoms, she slid her body under his. "Raise up a little, Max."
"Gotta sleep with you, Paula ... gotta prove we can do it..."
"A little higher now," she said, and then, "fine!" And he let it glide slowly and half-sleepily inside of her.
"No rubber," he warned, "better stop."
"Don't worry, we're clean," and helped the entering, arching her back.
And then Max was fully alert and awake and his movements grew steadier, lurchings concentrated and fast as she squirmed upwards to greet the lengths of all he had to give her in the night.
She kept it in and locked and made it happen twice in twenty minutes. How easy it was going to be, she thought, whenever she wanted it. With Max's arms still about her, Paula saw that he was now falling asleep. Out of curiosity she waited. And saw that it was true, he slept easily, quietly. She watched his face. Poised. The ripe flaring mouth of him that always seemed to turbulent was now in repose and undisturbed. Relaxed, no heavy breathing. Junior's at peace because he's got his Nanny, she thought. And then, involuntarily, her fingertips touched the warm cushion of his mouth, pressing lightly until, suddenly she was aware of the gesture and pulled her hand away. How idyllic he looks like that, she thought; then savagely tore his arms from her body and got out of bed. Went to the door.
"No!" Max shot up in bed and shouted only once. Then saw her leave and heard the doors close between them.
He fell back down in bed and glared up at the ceiling. She's more afraid than I am, he thought ... gotta remember that, can't let myself forget how afraid she is to admit there's so much more she has to-give me besides sex ... so she's the baby here, not me ... she's the one to guard, the one to wait for...
Then he clutched the pillow where her head had been and pressed it to his face, inhaled the mild lady-scent of her, placed his arms about the pillow in embrace and cradled it close to his body, sealing in her closeness and the warmth of her promise. And went to sleep like that.
Sure, it took a little conditioning at first, but in marriage it grew to be a habit for Max, holding Paula in effigy.
NINE
Before feeling free to launch her new career, Paula searched carefully for a suitable housekeeper, and in Millie Sorensen at last found the woman she was seeking. A big, sturdily built Norwegian lady in her fifties, Millie had been widowed for a year, and a recent family bankruptcy had left her in dire need of an income. For Paula, Millie's lack of local experience had been her most persuasive qualification, since now the old threat of gossip was to be fought on a larger scale, making it ideal that Millie's background would not coincide with the realms of affluent Manhattan clientele Paula meant to develop. Although she doubted that she'd ever be so remiss in her own home as to give any servant food for scandal, there was still an unsettling margin of risk, and it was so much easier to be militant. Worlds diverse and monitored. Categories sifted.
It required a longer search, however, for Paula to find the suite of offices she wanted on upper Fifth Avenue. There was a sumptuous effect of quietude in the three thickly carpeted rooms that included a waiting room, a separate room for her assistant, and her own receiving room, which was magnificently draped and furnished. The most impressive new appurtenance was an immense and intimidating desk of solid oak. What a superb instrument to keep her detached from the confection of pseudo-sufferings she planned to treat here.
The task of finding the right girl for the reception room was her next hurdle, but in Eudora Lipton, Paula was certain she'd hit her target. Eudora, who studied nights to become a psychiatric social worker, was small, dark, wiry and the slightest bit cross-eyed. And also possessed one of the most winning smiles of welcome Paula had ever seen.
"I love people, Mrs. Sinclair," Eudora said in the interview. "Sometimes I get the feeling I'd like to pick up the whole wide world in my arms and give it succor, because everybody's so unfulfilled, don't you think?"
Despite being a little too voluble on such topics as sexual solipsism, progressive dehumanization and the subliminal female castration complex-"That's penis-envy, Mrs. Sinclair!"-Paula found the girl to be a fiercely loyal and slavish aide-de-camp, and attributed most of her new Park Avenue following to her machinations. Eudora proved to be an exceptional leg man, having always been gregarious enough to possess the sort of connections Paula might otherwise have spent years attaining. The girl sang her new employer's praises at every lecture hall and seminar she attended, and within six months Paula was not only firmly established, but something of a vogue mystique. Hailed as a new wave specialist in all areas of female disorientation, her waiting room was soon brimming over with the dowager-faddist trade.
Eudora treated each of these distressed heiresses like newly crowned royalty, and some of her advice was very practical. "Overcharge them, Mrs. Sinclair, or they'll never trust you."
"Twenty-five dollars an hour!" puffed one buxom and allergenic matron. "Why, I can get a full psychiatrist for twenty."
"Oh well, Mrs. St. Denis," said Eudora, "if you feel you really need a doctor, why go right ahead." A technique which usually proved infallible. And after the first year when word got out that the hourly fee had risen to thirty dollars, business showed a marked increase.
The first year of her marriage was easily the most progressive of Paula's career. As a surprise birthday gift, Max bought her a chic little Porsche, since taxis were always late and public transportation in New York was such an enervating rat race. After a few months, Paula felt free to volunteer one afternoon and evening a week and all day Saturday doing counseling at the new Manhattan Psychiatric Center for Special Guidance. For Paula, this made it all worth while, having daily to molly-coddle a stream of psychosomatic misfits with too much time and money on their hands; and her one objective which had nothing to do with personal ambition still involved guiding the countless young girls who came to New York alone and were so swiftly caught up in the circles of narcotics and prostitution. Her baby Camilles she called them, and was appalled at what an alarming number of these lonely ones fell into deeply depressed states, succumbing to the near-catatonic pattern of drifting, not caring, not resisting. Victims of men, of course; often made vulnerable and corrupt by a single night's association.
During the first eight months of their marriage there were weeks when Paula and Max rarely saw each other long enough to speak. There still remained their ritual of combustible night fevers, but even this was somewhat diminished. While it was true that academic fatigue was Paula's most potent aphrodisiac and she wanted Max as compulsively as ever, due to the demands of time, she now wanted him faster. Aside from her new practice, her classes at Columbia increased to three nights a week, the earning of her sociology doctorate fast becoming an imminent reality.
Luckily, Max was every bit as intense about his career during those months, he and his co-writer Art Goldstein rabidly working up the pilot-script for their new series. Together with his wife Eadie and their three children, Art had a big, rambling house on Long Island, and the two men worked in Art's huge vault of a game-room every night, also fulfilling their staff-writing assignments during the day.
Although Max resented the way Paula had begun to snub his family as soon as they were married-not even seeing Marta for months at a time-he was still too much in love to stop giving himself the hard-sell approach where his wife was concerned. So maybe it was true that her nightly sojourns into his bedroom every night were getting a little freaky. Naked in the dark. No names used. No questions asked. Blindfolded and dueling. Pessaries and Trojans at sixty paces. Man, how she loved feeling unrelated and unintroduced while they did it.
And since it was always so physically perfect and consuming for him, could it ever be enough, Max wondered now. No. Enough for the time being maybe. But not enough for forever. Static in terms of forever. Something had to grow from all those orgasms besides their own sensation. And that's what she would find out and come running to him with the big scoop. Then maybe she wouldn't specialize so damn much and love him in every room of the house. In the morning. In the rain. Or a bench in the park. In a typhoon. In a fuckin' earthquake she'd love him because he'd be with her and she'd know who he was all zipped up and not touching her, but her boy, dammit, her boy just the same. And who knows, maybe some day she'd be able to point him out in a crowd.
One night Max came home late after working with Art, and hearing Paul's tape-recorder going in her study, he went in and reminded her that his folks' big anniversary party was coming up that following Saturday.
"I've already phoned your mother and told her I'd be in Chicago for a conference."
Max had gone to her for a brief hug, but Paula rose from her desk now and moved away from the steaming summer claim of him in the silly Tahitian sports shirt and tight loafer-denims he donned each night for his story-sessions.
"What conference, Paula?" he asked, watching her as she busied herself at the filing cabinet. "That's just an excuse, isn't it?"
"Max, I do not enjoy such affairs," she said, "and I see no reason why I should pretend otherwise."
"Honey, do you realize we haven't been to see one member of my family since we got married?"
"You know what a heavy schedule I have, Max. Tell them I'm busy."
"I've been telling them that for months. Or maybe you don't have any idea how much those two love you. Joe and Elsie already passed some remarks about how you must think you're too good for them."
"You may give Joe and Elsie an A in Clairvoyance."
He glared at her. "Did you mean that to be as bitchy as it sounded?"
"I mean that your mother and father live in utter filth, Max, and unless I care enough to correct it, squalor depresses the hell out of me."
"Unless you care enough..." he began, his words stopping as he felt stunned by the hostility in her voice, as if she'd wiped out everyone he loved with a single sentence.
However, Paula forcibly softened her next words, remembering that she must still insist upon Max's loving her if she wanted to go on winning. "Max, I'm sorry, I'm overtired, didn't mean what I said, nothing personal. It isnt that I dislike your parents, they're both very ... sweet. It's mostly the way they live. So disorganized, desultory ... "
"You mean they're slobs."
"Oh please, if only you could be more objective about them, Max, I wouldn't be so afraid to speak."
"Oh go ahead and speak, Doctor! Diagnose the livin' daylights out of them. My old lady's a lush and my old man's a broken down old dago who smells of garlic-bread and lasagna. Is that how you want me to see them, Paula ... stick them under a microscope and forget I'm related?"
"Max, how can I reason with you if you're going to get emotional?"
"Everybody's gonna get emotional, goddammit!" he yelled. "Sooner or later everybody gets emotional, Paula, so when the hell are you gonna get the hang of it?"
He swept out of the room and strode through the vast reaches of their living room to the bar, perching himself on a stool and pouring a stiff bourbon.
Paula followed him, quietly. Sat on the stool next to him. Touch him, she instructed herself. Touch him softly, lightly, and don't let too many moments pass before you do it or there'll be a loss.
"Your folks came over on the goddamn boat about the same time mine did," he was saying, "so you've got as much of this immigrant slop on you as we have."
"Not really. My mother never lived like that."
"Oh bullshit! it's been so long since you've seen your own mother, she could be running a call-house and you'd never know it!" At once Max gasped at his own words. "Jesus, I didn't mean that! My God, poor little Marta ... what the hell's wrong with me anyway?"
Now, she thought. "We've both been working much too hard, Max; it's easy to lose control and take it out on each other..." She reached towards him and gently squeezed his arm.
"Oh Christ we have so little time together, Paul-admit, that's the worst of it ... " Turning, he jumped off the stool and put his arms about her. "We've never even been to a movie together, you know that ... never held hands in the loges..."
Distraction accomplished, she thought; his mind is back on us instead of them. But now that it was safe to, she slipped out of his arms. "No time for all that now," she chided.
"All what?" he demanded. "You know something, Paula, that was gonna be nothing but a great big hug. I know you think I'm some kind of Rasputin, but I'd like to show you it is really possible for me to put my arms around you without getting a hard-on."
"Then why do it, you silly fool?" she asked jokingly. "Oh Max, I know your mind. I know what you want," heading back towards her study. "I'll be in later."
"Oh will you? Well, kindly tell me the exact hour so I can set my wrist-alarm and have it all stiff and throbbing when you crawl in."
"You're a scream," she effected an over-the-shoulder chuckle.
"Paula!" he shouted after her. "Come back here and talk to me, goddammit, I need a friend in this house!"
"I said later, Max," she said, losing patience again. "I still have an hour's work ahead of me."
"Well ... you're goin' to Ma's party Saturday night if I have to drag you there . ... "
"I prefer not to watch that woman drink herself to death, if you don't mind..."
"Oh Jesus, that's a lie, Paula ... you sonofabitchin' liar!"
But she had gone in her study and slammed the door, locking it.
When she returned to the living room later she saw Max sprawled on the divan watching television. She went to the bar and poured her usual brandy nightcap. "Watching anything interesting?" she asked, carrying the drink towards her bedroom.
He said nothing. Pretended not to hear as he stared straight ahead, eyes stormy, mouth set and bitter.
Hostile, she thought, and felt the shudder of arousal. Not speaking. Hating and at war. These are the nights I wait for.
When she went to his room later, he shouted at her, "Beat it, I don't want you anywhere near me tonight!"
"I know," she murmured, slipping in beside him, "it's the same for me too."
And their clutching hour was more studiously prolonged than it had been in weeks. It was always like that after a fight, after the mute impasse of combat when they weren't forced to respect one another or even be civil, and discovered there was so much more they dared do to show their mutual contempt; for when respect abandoned them, all the blessed little defilements rose up to take its place.
What passed between them at such times represented a frightening change for Max, and he didn't like to dwell on it. Because for him, too, it was more soaring and exciting right after a quarrel in which they had once again proven how incompatible they were as friends. With Paula too furiously absorbed in her career to let him truly know her, there could always be that bewildering new thrill of strangers-in-the dark whenever they made love. Paula was teaching him all the furtive pleasures of transiency and anonymity. Copulation in enmity, purest form of communication; passion in bulk, unrefined. For Max, such an alliance was a staggering revelation, as there had been nothing like it in his experience. With all the other women he'd had if there had even been a suggestion of personal dissension all desire would leave him. First we had to get along, he recalled. Then we got in bed.
Paula was teaching him a great deal while he waited for the love she kept so hidden and buried, waited to teach her. Only his stubborn hope for something better in their future kept Max such a willing student. She made it so easy to do whatever she wanted in bed; and he wondered what would happen to him if he went on letting himself be such an eager victim. Was there the danger that he might change before she did!
But the next morning Max awoke to the old happy rationales of the genuinely loving. Hell, compared to a lot of other marriages he knew for a fact they weren't doing too badly. He'd known so many guys whose wives slept in the same bed with them every minute of the livelong night, but never gave them so much as a handshake. So these guys still had to go to cathouses to keep from playing with it, or jumping on some ripe looking chick walking down the street. Wives like that turn out a brand new crop of potential rapists every year. And Jesus, how much lousier life would be for him if Paula were to sleep with him all night but never let him touch her. That would be the true moral decay, and such torture he didn't even want to think about it.
And besides, how about all the guys who'd told him the little woman only gave out four or five times a year, as convincing them that was natural for women, really putting the fear of God into them that it was abnormal for a wife to want it as much as her husband, making them feel like dirty-minded old men every time they slipped it in. And who the hell wants to screw a martyr? Man, that could really put the stopper on you, feeling her suffering underneath you while you tried your damnedest to stay hot. Husbands with that kind of an albatross tied around their balls usually ended up keeping young chicks or picking up tramps or getting the clap or getting blackmailed or exposing themselves in public or peeking in windows or becoming nervous wrecks from masturbation-hangover.
Who needs it, Max thought, again thinking that what he and Paula had could be a helluva lot worse. And what a relief it was to know he'd never have to worry about syphilis again, or have to pay for it again, or be bugged by popping in his sleep the way he used to if he had to go without it for a month or two. No more starvation diet for him. And just recently he'd read that the frigidity rate among American women was increasing every year, because more and more of them were afraid to let themselves go, afraid to open up and enjoy their husbands, as if all that fun were a sin when it was really perfectly normal. But oh man, how wonderfully free Paula was of all those guilt-complexes. A healthy animal, his wife. She knew what men wanted. No, one man. Him.
She had said he was all she needed, and had proven it. But dammit, she was so busy right now maybe he was all she had time for. If it were only her job, he could understand it, but all that charity work and the classes almost nightly. Why that driving need to fill every waking hour as if he wasn't there to show her how much else there was to do to stay happy? Carrying work home every night as if it were some kind of protection, as if the sky might fall if they planned one free evening alone at home together. He didn't care how dedicated she claimed to be, nobody worked that hard unless they were trying to forget something. So dammit, what was she running away from, and why the hell couldn't he let himself identify it? Was she running away from him? Or them? One guy's love or a thousand guys' pricks?
No, like bad food, bad thoughts could also be indigestible, so he cast them out. Up-tempo was better. Hoping was sweeter. Warmer. Paula felt much closer to him when he thought of her in terms of all she could be. So what the hell, they had a two-career marriage. Tons of them cropping up lately. Meaningful emancipation. Anti-gingham apron, anti-kitchen stove. Mid-century female. And most guys married to such gems weren't nearly as lucky as he was in other departments. The paradox that thrilled. So maybe she was frigid from the neck up, but the rest of her was gangbusters. And man, didn't he know what he had! A treasure. So all right, she worked hard. It was the way he'd lived for twenty-eight years, so what kind of God-like specimen did he think he was, expecting to alter her whole personality to suit him? He didn't count, because she was the one with the talents and the gifts. The power to heal. It was great and he was proud of her. Hell, wasn't he always bragging about her?
She was bigger than life, that woman. His woman. There next to him every night. For a little while, a little trembling while. And no other woman even existed for him now, so it had to be her, unless he wanted to become a monk. Other men had to hunt and sweat nightly for what he had whirling beneath him every night of his entire biological life. Jesus, she was really like a fantasy, the classic sex-slave most poor slobs could only dream about And he had her. Woman most gifted. Oh ... wow!
TEN
Paula returned from class one evening that summer and heard the Hi-Fi unit blasting from their apartment as soon as she stepped out of the elevator. Upon entering the living room she saw that Max was hosting a small impromptu celebration around the dining table. It was a close, humid evening and he shared enormous mugs of beer with a couple whom Paula had never seen. To her surprise, Millie was also seated at the table wielding a mug of beer. As was to be expected, their housekeeper's primary devotions had gradually shifted to Max. Although she did not sleep in and thus heard none of her employers' night hassles, Millie had so frequently seen Paula ward off her husband's affectionate embraces that she had reasonably deduced it was another of those half-marriages wherein one mate did all the giving for both.
"Hi, honey!" Max shot up from the table and pointed his mug at Paula in a salute. "Baby, you're just in time to congratulate a couple of comic geniuses! Art and I sold our pilot!"
Millie abruptly set down her glass and got up from the table. "Forgive me, Mrs. Sinclair, but I was about to leave for the night when Mr. Sinclair insisted I have a beer with him and his guests after dinner. I know it was wrong of me. I do hope you're not angry."
"Of course not, Millie," Paula's voice was clipped but pleasant. "I trust there was enough food for everyone?"
"Oh, we made do just fine," Millie assured her. "Of course, we killed the whole roast, so if you want a snack later you'll have to fry some eggs." She laughed nervously to cover her own brashness, then grabbed her coat and hurried to the door, whispering to Paula in passing..."Isn't it wonderful, he sold his pilot!" At the door she turned and waved. "Goodbye everyone, nice meeting you!"
Art Goldstein now rose from his seat and gave Paula a cordial smile of greeting. Art was a balding, tubby little man in his mid-forties, with a high, shiny forehead and large, black eyes which, Paula felt, were uncomfortably penetrating. She took an instant dislike to the man, resenting the cold appraisal she saw in those eyes.
"Drop your books and come join us, sweetheart," Max said, and then made the introductions.
Paula sat at the table with them, but said that she could spare only a few moments, as she had a full night's work ahead of her; inwardly trying to conceal her displeasure with Max for not warning her about this great gathering beforehand.
"I guess you're still not broken in yet as a gagwriter's wife," said Eadie Goldstein as the men began to talk shop. She was a happily plump matron of thirty-nine, her coal black hair coined so full and tottering it gave her a mildly top-heavy effect But Paula noted that she possessed a beautifully smooth and creamy complexion, and warm I hazel eyes. "Soon you'll learn mat with these guys everything's a yok or a gas, and just wait till Max auditions all his new material on you and everything you like turns out to be a bomb and he hollers that you're killing his talent, and you're up all night with his nightmares and his ulcers and you could get nauseous altogether ... "
It wasn't often that Paula could relate to a woman with whom she had so little in common, but in Eadie she perceived an inherent compassion and permissiveness that was enriching to be near. Yet, the censure she felt in Art's attitude was unmistakable, as well as some thinly veiled ' remarks about the 'bitch-goddess concept' in modern drama. And finally, as Paula rose to leave mem, she was even more certain of his disapproval.
Max, feeling a little high, rushed around the table to give her a goodnight embrace. As his lips neared hers, Paula gracefully turned away and gave him her cheek, feeling Art's big perceptive eyes following every gesture.
"You like the idea for the new show, Paula?" Art suddenly asked.
"I'm afraid I'm a poor critic." An enemy, she thought. Not only does he think his precious buddy-boy has found himself a cold and sexless wife after watching me avoid Max's kiss, he also suspects I have no interest in Max's career.
Safely in her study, Paula opened her barricading books which shut out the world with all its crowded unseeing faces. Faces judging in ignorance. Uncaring eyes hating everything that set her apart from them. Not sheltering the enigma, but hating. Happily, it was a world she did not need.
After the Goldsteins left, Max went to her study and said he was sorry she and Art didn't seem to hit it off, and hoped she hadn't taken any of his sarcastic remarks too seriously.
But Paula was ready for this. "Believe me, Max, I am used to enemies," she was smoking a cigarette, a cluster of case-files spread out on her desk before her. "Unlike you, I don't panic if there's someone on this earth who doesn't fall all over me making me feel wanted. I've had to face the haters and the envious all my life, and if you want the truth, I thrive on being unpopular. Yes, I find it enormously stimulating to be resented wherever I go, a great and monumental challenge. Hate gives me courage."
Max listened to this patiently, then spoke softly. "But you're so sure of all this hatred, Paula, just because one guy..."
"Oh damn you, Max," she cried, crushing her cigarette out against an ashtray, "damn you, I don't think about it, don't you realize that, I don't think about it!"
He saw her hand tremble as she took up her pen and made an effort to resume working. Then, impulsively, she slammed the pen against the desk and rose. And in silence, her face ashen, she strode passed him, heading towards her bedroom.
Oh hell, look at her, Max thought ... how she needs someone close tonight. It would only have to happen once for her to learn who to come to. She thinks I belong to that world full of haters too, thinks I'll laugh at her if she's unhappy or imperfect, and that's all right for them, but not me; she's got to know it's different with me...
"Paula, wait," he said, "I'm coming with you."
At her bedroom door, she turned and glared at him as he approached.
"We don't have to talk, honey," he was saying, "but dammit, you need..."
"I need to be fucked, Max," she finished the sentence for him. "That's all I need from you, husband, because you're hung like a moose, husband!"
"Oh God," he groaned and turned his back to her. She wants to kill us ... wants us dead...
"I've had the diaphragm in all evening, so there'll be no waiting," she added and went into her room.
Hate is what she uses to love me with, Max told himself as he undressed. She felt nothing for the others, never saw them more than once, so felt nothing. But for me there's feeling every time we're near. And she must be convinced that I love her now, or she wouldn't try to hurt me so much, so often ...
But that night Paula wanted destructions more various, wanted all his lover-reachings made lewd and slime-hidden under rocks and crags where no one could see what the nice attractive young couple did with each other's members when the lights were out. There was the quick tearing assuagement of her hands fluttering like birds-of-prey between his legs as Max reached persistently to kiss her mouth ... but felt the exquisite revulsion as her lips avoided his and traveled down the length of his body, her mouth hovering high for an instant as her eyes drank in the taut repast ... and the lowering, imprisoning, tongue swirling about the hot tipped fullness ... the raiding moistness hungrily gliding downward ... as he pressed his body back and down as if to deny this contempt of shock and sensation, as here in his grand new palace of a home his regal queen-prodigy of a wife was giving him a blowjob ... round mouth full of him now ... and with this tongue I thee wed ... and do you take this empress-harlot to be your lawful ... this lady of a mate who sat on a throne whenever she wasn't in the dark with her legs up ... no, not a wife and mother, dear census-taker ... a psychotherapist and cocksucker ... my lady of a wife ... lady of the mild colognes...
And still he could not be frightened off, for he had to make it a new tenderness, another way for them to be close, and no matter what she did, it would remain clean for him. To convince her that any act was natural as long as it existed between them, Max slung his body downward and took her in the same way, gently parting her thighs as his mouth lunged and prowled with desperate lush seeking and wonder ... hearing her groans as she kept at him, the whole throb-thickness of him surrounded in her now for lady-thirst and swallow ... loving married mouths staying locked and pledged with the dear devourments ... as with each owning caress of his lips Max knew that the more she hated herself and wanted him convinced of her filth, the more he would love her. Because love hid the dirt, even though she couldn't see its shielding. Love hid and expiated. They drank.
A few moments later Max lay alone in his dark cavern, and the sounds came through to him. Sounds of muffled weeping. She found the pervading hostility between her and Max more of a relief than an agitation. What a power that was hers nightly; to know how completely Max loved her and to go on giving him nothing but sex. Sometimes it was too exquisitely tortuous to think about: to satisfy all her needs and leave him in hunger, to let her lips linger close to his, only to twist away when he tried to kiss her. And then, in the fury of that frustration, he would take her. Charging, hurting. Paula would often find herself thinking about it during the day, the way Max sorrowed in intercourse, letting his body go all greedy and usurping while the rest of Mm wailed in torment. However, she must really manage to think about such sensations less frequently during the day. Time and place for everything. Moments guarded. Moments secure.
Max and Art's new series opened to unanimous rave reviews that fall, but a few weeks later they discovered that a resounding critical success meant very little to the nation's rating experts. Their Trendex and Nielsen readings were shaky right from the start, and it appeared that nobody had the right answers.
It was then that the two men decided on something they'd been thinking about for years, collaborating on a Broadway show.
"Hell, we've been headed in that direction ever since we peddled our first gag," Art said.
"But Jesus, Art ... a couple of tinhorn hucksters like us making like Noel Coward, aren't you scared?"
Art nodded. "I'm scared shitless or I wouldn't even try it."
They also decided it was the best insurance against having to pull up stakes and head West. By 1958 television production in New York had none too silently begun to fold its tent and move to Hollywood, and up to that point Max and Art weren't buying anything that Lotus-land had to offer. So, when their series was cancelled that January, they began the painstaking preparations for their first Broadway revue. Because of their reputation and credits, they started getting queries from producers and agents as soon as the news leaked out, so they didn't lack for professional encouragement. But it was a new medium for them and progress was slow.
"Maxie, you're still trying to write for a bunch of corn-fed biddies in Duluth," said Art. "We don't want a good clean family show any more, for Christ's sake, so come up with some smart garbage already or we'll close before we open."
"I know, I know ... offend everybody and we'll have a hit."
"Well, kindly remember we're doing this show to make money, not to impress your..." Art abruptly halted his words, thinking how close he'd been to mentioning Paula and her esoteric standards, not exactly envying Max his brilliant iceberg of a wife. Seeing the sharp glare Max was giving him, Art lamely finished the sentence..."impress your public..."
Occasionally, though not often, there were a few empty evening hours when Max found himself alone in the apartment, with Paula at class or doing another stint at the Center. He would insist that Millie sit down and have dinner with him, and afterwards he'd drive her uptown to the Washington Heights apartment she shared with her sister. Millie was good company, so that killed a good portion of those stray hours. And it would have been a lot rougher, he thought, if he didn't have so many friends he cared about. Imagine how it must be when one loner married another. God, what a nightmare, like playing double-solitaire. Of course, this way he had a helluva lot of privileges, and with one minor exception, anyone would have thought he was a bachelor; except most bachelors considered that one exception not so minor. In fact, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is what most bachelors considered it. And when Max was at his loneliest, he forced himself to remember how life had been for him when he was single and lived alone. And knew it was better now. Much. Because she lived here. Same address.
Fortunately, Max was too conditioned to the sound and movement of people to seek out solitude that wasn't essential to his work, so it was rare that he found himself dining alone. There were constant invitations from his family as well as Paula's; and it had become a favorite and haggling topic for his relatives to discuss what a strange marriage Max was having for himself, and Max could almost find it funny that it was probably the easiest line of resistance for them to assume Paula was frigid.
The warm empathy between him and Marta became a solid bulwark for Max. By now Marta was relegated to seeing her daughter only at holiday time, and no chummy, wistful lingering over the family dinner table even then. However, Max found great comfort in the relaxed confabs around Marta's kitchen table, Irena and the boys often joining in. When he was growing up his mother's kitchen substituted for the big fireplace they never could afford, and sooner or later everybody in the house warmed themselves in that room. And now here was Marta holding court in much the same fashion, full of rousing stories and vignettes about the old country, about the grace of living in Europe in the peacetime of thirty years ago. Max loved hearing about this world that would never again exist, and how he marveled at Marta's endearing speech patterns which brought characters so graphically to life while she reminisced about them. At one point he was so swept away by Marta's fervent belief that her husband would some day return to her, he hired a detective agency to trace the man, deciding not to let Paula in on the secret until her father was found. However, too many years had passed and the search eventually proved fruitless. Marta told Max she would never forget his thoughtful gesture; adding, of course, that her faith was still unshattered. Alex would be home next Christmas. She had a feeling.
Max found that he was seeing a great deal more of Marta and Irena's family than his own. Being with Marta was still another-way for him to be close to Paula, a warmth not often available to him at home. But also, there were the kids. Gregor and Vito were the brightest and most perceptive lads he'd ever known, and that winter Max took the boys on many weekend trips to the Catskills. Occasionally Art's three boys would join them, and it would be two station-wagons bulging with mayhem. For Max it was a revelation to discover what a wild tonic it could be just being included in all the prancing horseplay the kids cooked up. But then came the letdown when he dropped them off at their homes and remembered he wasn't really Daddy Warbucks after all.
One day early that spring Marta phoned Paula at her office, and after a few pleasant amenities, she casually mentioned how marvelous Max was with children. And then, not too subtly, she said, "Paulie, what are you waiting for, give that man a baby."
"Good heavens!" Paula had almost forgotten how whimsical her mother could be. "That's all I need at this point."
"No sweetheart, that's all he needs. Don't you know what that man needs, Paulie? You see his face every day and you don't know what he needs? You should see him with Irena's boys, it could break your heart."
"Max knows I'm in no hurry to help overpopulate the world," amusement giving way to annoyance.
"Paulie, darling, listen ... the way you're so efficient and with today's modern methods and hypodermics, you could work right up to the last minute. Two weeks away from your desk maybe. Two weeks to make him happy ... "
"Mom, please, I haven't time to go into it over the phone. And besides, this is mostly your own eagerness to become a grandmother, so why not admit it, dear?"
"I will admit no such thing, Miss Smarty-Brains! It is Max I was thinking of. My God, this is a family man, Paulie, it's in his blood. What do you think you married, a puppet?"
Paula banged down the receiver and thereby began a new rift between the two women that lasted several weeks.
As the months and days built her securities higher, Paula felt it was especially significant how dispassionate she remained while counseling the many women who brought their sexual maladjustments to her office, brandishing then-neuroses like badges of caste and status. What they wanted most was to be listened to, endlessly; and a great many of Paula's days went like that, stationed behind her desk in full goddess-regalia while watching the verbosity of these women work on them like a cathartic. Their age-old struggle to romanticize sex acts was, she felt, an insidious and aborting propaganda, forever leading them to expect something so utterly apart from the orifices of reality.
For Paula, if the concept of 'romance' existed as any valid entity, it could be found only in the results of one's own personal creativity. There was the love story for the ages-the devotion from within. But sex in itself-particularly its objective: the orgasm-was neither romantic, ugly nor beautiful-it was simply there, a compost-necessity, like fertilizer or electricity. You didn't ignore it, nor did you rhapsodize over it. If you were adult, you were abstractly grateful for the plentiful supply and went sanely about your business.
ELEVEN
One evening that summer Max was busy revising one of the final sketches for the show when he heard the muffled sounds of Paula returning home from her night at the Center. He knew it was a good chance to snatch a few moments with her while she had her nightcap, but then remembered that the show was to open in early October so he'd better keep his nose to the grindstone. Besides, he'd see her in bed later anyway, applying the word 'see' in a figurative sense, much as the blind did. Vaguely, he recorded her footsteps in the loving room, heard her find some muted Bach on FM. Then a chill swept through him as he heard a series of sounds which were altogether alien in his house. Sweet, tender sounds. Sounds of ... lovemaking?
Max ran to the door and hurled it open. "Paula! Who the hell'd you bring home with you?" Then he stood in the doorway and gaped.
Paula was tumbling gaily on the carpet with a black cocker-spaniel puppy, vintage roughly six weeks. She fondled the tiny dog with such rompish, guileless joy, Max's first thought was that she must be stoned out of her mind.
"This is Smokey," she announced in a little-girl voice, "and isn't he the cutest most adorable li'l ole fella you ever did see? One of the girls at the Center asked me to keep him while she's in the detention-home, wasn't that sweet of her?" She and the puppy continued to roll and cuddle all over the carpet, the dog obviously adoring her as he bounced at her and repeatedly licked her face.
Max stared and shook his head in awe. "Damn!" he muttered. "I don't know about you, Paula, I just don't know..." And he was too tired to try and analyze why she could be so affectionate with a dog and not with him. Was it something maternal flowing out of her? And if so, did it mean this was a good time to insist on having a baby? Exasperated, Max turned to go, but was averted by the spectacle of Smokey piddling on Paula's priceless carpet.
"Ooh, we gotta get dis lil fella paper-trained," said Paula. "Wait'll Millie sees that ... "
"Jesus, if I did that I'd get my throat cut!" said Max.
"But dis precious li'l guy, him don't know da house rules yet."
"Oh shove it!" Max went back to his den and slammed the door.
Smokey yapped at him while Paula giggled and nuzzled and clambered with her new treasure. "Don know what ta call him but he's mighty lak a rose," she sang, a touch of Marta's vibratto in her tone.
Jolted anew by the first song recital she'd ever given him, Max decided he'd had enough of everything for one night-his work, the dog, and that whole harem of female personalities he had married. So he tore out of the apartment and got pissy-eyed drunk for the first time in months, winding up in a plush East Side call-house and insisting on a trial necking session with each inmate before settling on a partner for the night, a plump little gymnast who took his money but complained to the house-mother that he was 'impudent' and asked her to throw him out.
"What the hell does she mean, I was impudent?" he asked, thick-tongued but defiant "I didn't say a damn word to her."
"She means you can't cut the horse-radish, Charlie, and we don't give massages here."
"How perfectly ridiculous ... nay, slanderous!" he scoffed. "Whilst it may be true that I have a married wife at home, I am eager, nay willing, to be an adulterous lecherous cad with one of your diseased employees..."
"Your spirit may be willing, Mister, but your ding-dong's weak, so blow, Buster, and fast!"
Outraged, Max goosed her fast and ran out into the night. And went to a bar where he met another scavenger fatale, this one with tresses of titian and eyes to match. "Look honey, I had all my ornaments shot off in the War and I think I'm gonna throw up, but can I sleep it off at your place?"'
"Twenty bucks," she commiserated.
And when Max woke the next morning to discover she hadn't molested him, he gave her an extra twenty as a virtue-bonus and raced back to Paula...'cause man, he had no trouble getting it up with her, drunk or sober, and he was ripe and ready for just the kind of performance that had her climbing the walls...
But it was past nine and she had gone to her office, leaving a note on his bed: 'Take care of Smokey until Millie arrives-give him lots of love.'
Max staggered into the living room, then to the kitchen where he found the puppy bouncing from one pool of urine to the next. "Aw ... " cooed Max, "is ooh mama's li'l darling? Is ooh da sweetest li'lol baby mamma ever had ... is ooh mama's li'l ol immaculate conception?"
He rolled all over the kitchen floor with the puppy, splashing from pool to pool.
When Millie arrived later she found them both asleep on the living room sofa. "For heaven's sake, Mr. Sinclair!" she shook him.
"Don't touch my baby!" Max leered up at her like a mother-cougar, "it's my first!"
Max and Art decided to call their show, "Up yours!", convinced that it would be mainly a lot of euphemistic dirt that would sell their Broadway debut to the public, hoping the little old ladies in their audience would think the title meant 'up your spirits' or 'up your chin.' They went into rewrites and rehearsals in late August, often working eighteen hours a day. Paula took one look at the script and was convinced anew that as a purveyor of adult ribaldry her husband was still nothing more than a side-walk minstrel. She told Max not to expect her at the opening, unless he wanted to be embarrassed by having her walk out after the first vomitous scene. Max was much too busy to let this throw him, although he said that soon his friends and relatives were going to think he'd made her up, so few of them had ever seen her.
Both Marta and Irena urged Paula to join them at the opening night, berating her for her disloyalty when she refused. "Your own husband, Paulie!" said her mother. "Something like this will happen to him only once in a lifetime, and you are staying away?"
"Mom, I'm sorry, but I read the script and it's nothing but a series of pornographic blackouts."
"But my dear Paula," said her Aunt Irena, "Sex does exist, you know. When will you take your schoolgirl head out of the sand?"
In September the beginning of a new semester held too much challenge for Paula to be concerned about the weeks Max spent out of town with the tryouts. And as luck would have it, Paula was invited to speak at a sociologists' conference in Chicago while Max toured with the show. It was a perfect opportunity to show him that her work was also vital enough to take her out of town, and while she was away there were other forms of retaliation that occurred to her: the longed-for sampling of variety, old excitement of the hunt. However, she was too often under the watchful eyes of her colleagues to consider the risk. There would be other times, she told herself; and soon.
And back in New York her schedule continued to be demanding. Three nights a week in class, her daily workload, most of her free time at the Guidance Center, and often an emergency summons to Juvenile Hall to champion one of her lost victims-all of which was more than enough to displace whatever lacks her husband's absences presented. Some of the girls she had helped were starting to write her letters now; months, sometimes years after they had happily married, or gone back home or taken a cure for drug addiction, telling her of their new lives, of their gratitude. Paula took the time to answer each of these letters, for it was an opportunity to dwell more fully on the image they had of her, to see herself through their eyes. How conclusively it illustrated that, for her, the life of the mind was omnipotent. All other levels of existence were independent of this life, and therefore need never be reckoned with.
Such a lofty state...
Max didn't see Paula the night of his opening, the party at Art's house lasting until the morning reviews came out, so wildly favorable that they spent the rest of the day in conference at the theater. On the following night he arrived at the apartment around midnight and went straight to bed. But wide awake, wondering if she was, wondering if she'd missed him at all when he had toured New England with the tryouts, even though she'd made quite a point of mailing him a post-card during her week in Chicago, Max refusing to let himself dwell on what she might have been hinting, but still unable to keep from wondering if she'd found someone else for a quick hour or two.
Then he heard her footsteps and knew he was acting like a crazy hopped-up teenager because he felt such a surge of excitement that he began to tremble ... unnn! I want her more every time I think of her, the horny witch ... always want her more...
She stood near the bed and let her nightgown drop to the floor. "I don't want any distracting arguments about my not showing up last night. It wasn't really your work I was rejecting anyway, Max; most of the latrine humor in that script sounded like Art, not you..."
Damn, I don't believe it, he thought, she's apologizing. First time!
"Come here," he said, and drew her body down against his, holding and hushed, hands swimming...
Later, still stubbornly joined, he said, "the show's a big bit."
"So are you."
Laughing, he seized a fat globe of breast and devilishly squeezed it. She reached down and savagely tunneled a tapered fingernail deep into his anus. "Up yours, gutter-boy."
"Ouch ... oh Jesus, I think you broke my clavicle!" And serving up the breast, he nuzzled his beard-bristles against it, then bit hard. She clawed and dug at his back.
"Sadist!" he said.
"Megalomaniac!"
They were home. Communicating.
Leisurely kitchen talks, long winter's nights before the fire, reading aloud together, dancing together, bridge parties, weekend trips, family weenie-roasts ... all of it here, capsuled and compressed in the dark where they could touch it, touch what they hadn't, as yet, found anywhere else. Even on Sundays their only variation was that it started earlier and lasted longer. She'd drink a little and he'd drink more and then bed and fifty-seven different varieties. Not a game of cards or a play, or even watching TV together very long before her hand reached out for the fun and games that had nothing to do with the sanctity of the fireside.
But they were home.
With Max's resounding Broadway success, he truly became the Mr. Wonderful of show business that season. Even some of the more cabalistic critics admitted that, despite the revue's tasteless affinity for anatomical repartee, it was almost consistently antic and zany. Choosing this moment to commercialize on Max's personal popularity, his agents played up his lowly, rags-to-riches background, and the new year 1959 saw him back in demand as a nightclub performer, busily concocting fresh material for the more mature image he'd attained since the old days. After the new show was thoroughly polished, Art returned to the network as a staff-writer, but Max said he felt grabbed by that old itch to appear before live audiences again, determined to take advantage of the fact that he was suddenly a hot property.
He did full-time club dates as well as weekend casualsstandup monologues as well as song-parodies and imitations-and often didn't find it practical to sleep in his own bed more than two or three nights a week. Judging by the furor with which Paula received him on those nights, Max decided that she did not like these disappearances one bit. So ... tough titty, he thought; let her tell me to stay home if that's where she wants me. Let her admit that she wants me closer oftener and I'll get myself a job in town and never sally forth again. But she's gotta tell me ... I'm not telling her ...
Then, in March of that year, Paula received a special brand of notoriety in her career which she had neither coveted nor expected. For a little while it seemed to detract from Max's growing limelight, although Paula was certain that no one could accuse her of plotting such competition.
It was one of those rare days of false spring in New York. With snow still clogging the ground, the temperature suddenly climbed to the mid-sixties. The brisk March winds simmered and stopped. Even traffic seemed to slow down. And then in Paula's office building came a gradual stir and a hubbub. Excited voices in the halls. Sound of police sirens. On a window ledge of the twenty-seventh floor there stood a seventeen-year-old girl, threatening to jump.
Paula's wide experience with such girls was remembered and she was called upon at once. Eudora told everyone later that she had never in her life seen anyone so quickly alert in an emergency, that it was uncanny to watch Mrs. Sinclair in action, a veritable Valkyrie of a therapist, Eudora raved.
When Paula reached the floor she found a white-haired priest at the window, dividing his murmuring attention between his rosary and the stricken girl.
"Move back, old man," said Paula. "Don't give her a sermon on the mount, give her something to hope for!" She clutched him by the arm and shoved him away from the window, the crowd gasping and appalled as they heard the sleeve of his habit rip. And even more agape when, seven minutes later, the desperate, hollow-eyed girl took Paula's hand and stepped inside off the ledge.
She was chuckling gaily at something Paula was telling her.
"Oh, that's wild!" the girl kept saying, her hilarity perfectly natural and not even bordering on hysteria. "That is the wildest!"
Evening newspapers had the story, a picture of Paula with a shielding arm about the girl, who had been hospitalized for observation. Paula was annoyed by everyone's attempts to exaggerate the incident as something epochally heroic, and insisted she did not remember anything she'd said to the girl, had no idea what she meant to do before reaching that window. There had been no thought, only instinct.
However, Eudora remembered in vivid detail, telling anyone who would listen. "She was telling her jokes, I swear to God. One punch-line after the other. Maybe a whole new approach to dementia praecox-we who are about to spill our guts all over the pavement, laugh it up!"
After transcending his battery-grievance, the priest was quoted as saying: "It was a miracle. They were friends immediately. I have never seen such a display of sublime rapport. A God-given gift."
Paula didn't get Max's reaction until breakfast the following morning, at which time he read the report aloud.
"Oh Max, put that paper away," she ordered him. "I'm sick to death the way everybody's making such a melodrama out of nothing."
"Now look, lady, don't try giving me that 'shucks, 'twarn't nothin" routine, because you did something real great and there's no getting around it."
"Nonsense. It was part of my job; don't even remember it."
Max watched her, grinning. She's modest, he thought, wanting to whoop and holler with the discovery. My brittle baby with all the ego-drive ... she's humbler than she knows...
Suddenly he rose and dashed around the table, and with a sweeping flourish, went down on his knees and took her hand in his, lowering his head and kissing the palm..."Bellissimo! That was an act of love, what you did for that girl, Paula, don't you know that?"
"Good God!" she pulled her hand away. "An act of what?"
"Love!" he roared in her face. "Don't look at me like I just hit you with a wet douche-bag, it's a perfectly good Anglo-Saxon word and you acted out every syllable of it yesterday. Here, read it for yourself ... it's in black and white so it must be true." He shoved the paper at her, and when he saw her cheeks flush red under his attack of praise Max loved her so much it tore and gutted at his insides.
"Too early in the morning for ... for such histrionics," she muttered, clutching her gloves and handbag and rising.
He followed close behind her as she headed for the door. "You also used my material to save that life," he told her.
"Now what are you raving about?"
"It said in the paper you were feeding the kid punch lines." '
"Ridiculous ... I don't remember..."
"Subliminal!" he cried. "Yeah, that's the word."
"What's subliminal?"
"Me, Paula, the way I'm rubbing off on you. You're using gags in your work now; where do you suppose that's coming from? Don't you know that means you're taking me with you now wherever you go, not just between the fuckin' sheets, for crissakes, but everywhere! I'm ... I'm in your heart, you nut!"
And now he was all over her. "Oh baby ... baby, think about it. Let yourself go, and think ... " his hands traveling, arms pulling her to him, his mouth lurking, pleading ... as she fought and pounded at him as if he were an unknown assailant ... until he backed away and was off her and panting-but eyes triumphant. He gave her a sly grin. "I know all your secrets, Dragon Lady. You can fool all of the people some of the time ... but not this baby, aw hell no, honey...'cause you try too hard to be a shit heel to really be one ... and I'm on to you, you ... big put-on!"
Paula dashed across the room and up the small flight of stairs to her dressing room. Max waited, and she appeared again in a moment, her stole, hat and Mainbocher sleek shift all in apple-pie order. He watched her stride elegantly to the front door. Oh, man, he thought, she's more ham-mola than I'll ever be ... and I'll be her exit line's a lulu too...
Paula turned at the door. "I can only conclude from that performance that you're either drunk or, like most nightclub entertainers, you've started taking dope."
She slammed the door amidst Max's roisterous laughter and applause.
He sat down at the table and reread the story in awe. She's the goddamn Statue of Liberty, he thought ... lifting the lamp of shelter. Smokey, now a full-grown spaniel, managed to nuzzle open the swinging door leading to the kitchen, and leapt up in Max's lap, whimpering and licking.
And as Max hugged the dog to him and read the story for a third time, his flesh suddenly crawled with goose pimples of revelation and he started pounding on the table, Smokey barking with his master's excitement ... Oh Christ, how many more hints do I want, he wondered, and what the hell am I waiting for, a brick bassinet to fall on my head to know that she's telling me she wants a family? Look how she hung on to this puppy, how she helps all her lost little fledglings. Damn! My girl wants to give birth and she's too brilliant to know how ... doesn't know how to say the words...'Make me pregnant, honey, 'cause I'm ready, and that's not a jazz-organ you're stickin' up my twat, it's a babymaker!' ... and oh man, the time has come ... yes, by God, the time has come the walrus said to ... to fill this house with life! Parts of her life, parts of mine ... growing under our eyes, noisy and drooling and so damned sweet to know they're ours! So I'm gonna show her the ropes. But first, gotta have a plan. Course of action. Gotta think. But ooh, how I want that woman's kids ... it's like a passion the way I want kids from her body ... almost like the hot and creamy way I want her body, the way I want to see our kids coming out of that body ... want her sprouting from our pleasure ... want other bits and pieces of her in case she runs away from me, my Paula so young, my dear one so damned afraid...
But hell, I can't sneak up on her with this, gotta map out strategies and maneuvers...'cause it's gonna take two to play this game. Consenting partners or it's no deal. Yep those are the rules. Marquess of Queensberry. She has to want it too. Not just me. Us.
TWELVE
Max knew that with Paula he'd have to find all his hidden persuaders in bed, because if he wanted any sort of an audience with that queen he'd have to go through her body to get it. It seemed strange to him, using orgasms to brainwash his own wife, but then, not strange at all when you thought of Paula. So, on the pretext of wanting to spend some time writing new material, Max told his agents not to book him anywhere for the next few weeks. It was true that this was how he occupied himself during the day, but late every night he left himself free to perform at home.
Knowing that sex still remained Paula's first overture for reaching, he glutted her with it nightly. A plowing, unrelenting chain of attacks, more frenzied than ever because now he was the one dishing out the big surprises, engineering all the raging oral assaults which she had initiated; but without the hostility now. With tenderness. Every lunatic squirm and twist of flesh she wanted Max gave her, leaving her gasping and tremulous with the new satieties he'd brought to her. After the first week of such massive doses he felt the stunned and clinging joy of her as she pressed and held him to her, speechless except for the small whimpers of incredulity, as if she were being presented with something too fulfilling to be trusted. And her hands did more than prod or grip or claw-they caressed the gift of him, made love to his bestowals. Anchor-man, lover-man ... and soon-to-be father-man, all wrapped up in the same lovely nonsectarian package. And that's what she had to see, that it was all part of the same action. No specialized compartments for love, but one big sweeping urge ...
Their nights went on like that. Soon Paula skipped a few classes to begin earlier. Missed several nights at the Center. Wanted to take advantage of the cycle. Not questioning it, or discussing it. He half-expected her to gloat over what she might term his new debasement. But neither of them found words for it. Except that body of hers, he thought ... oh Jesus, that sweet-tasting body never shut its mouth! Told him everything. Made love to him in languages that couldn't be written or thought or even stammered.
After a few weeks she told him she would have to pass up a night or two for the usual reasons, but said she would come to his bed anyway. Wanted her hands on his body. Wanted to do things to him as a spectator, with him lying perfectly still and letting her. And wanted a dim lamp turned on so she could see and prize what she fondled. Max decided the time to strike must be drawing near if even her period didn't scare her away from him.
Another week passed before he felt primed, felt the courage stemming from his body to hers and back to his again. An April night. The rain beating against the windows made everything seem right to him somehow; cozy and sheltered, wonderful time for nesting. Max lay flat on his back as her fingers trailed and encircled, eyes seeking the thrust of what the soft light reflected. Then her hand fiercely gripped his warm and jutting fullness and with swift up and down strokes she began an undulance and an urging.
"Hey, watch it!" he tried to stop her.
"No Max, let me please..." hand faster, insistent..."want to see the fountains at Versailles ... want to see the ripples and the geysers..."
"No ... oh honey ... oh hell, wait!"
And Jesus, it was such a helpless naughty spritzing feeling to let it happen like that, but who the hell cared as long as it excited her to watch? Then, not giving him an instant's respite, she slid her body under his and moistly rammed up deep inside of her what was still firm and staying, and while plunging above her Max told himself that after this one he would finally tell her what they both wanted, what their flesh could do for them besides ... Oh but now he drew back, jabbed forward, hoisted her higher, held her sweet pearly-white ass in his hands and slammed crazily up and swirling, their tangling becoming as urgent as if it were their first time ... but going somewhere now, a real adult destination in all that ruthless surging ... scouring for new villages to plunder and populate, fresh juices to flow into man's image ... until, at last, the brief locked madness ... then sighs explosive...
They lay still, her fingers toyfully dabbing at his tentative softness. "Amazing," she said, cradling the length of it, watching its ascent once more, "how this triples its size with just a touch. Phenomena of the ages..."
He reached over and bristled his beard against her breasts, then pressed his mouth between them and blew hot breath there. "You look at it as if it had a life of its own," his lips raising and brushing the rigid nipples, as he hoped that line hadn't been too subtle a beginning, because tonight she had to get the message.
"I look at it and think where it's been, what it's done," she said lazily, "that's where the wonder is. It looks so inanimate now, but think how its mood can rear up and change..."
Max lay back down on the bed. Took a deep breath. He was ready now, and dammit, it wasn't going to be like changing the subject. No, it had to sound like the same subject. "Honey?"
"Hmm?"
Oh Christ, suddenly he was so tense with it he almost felt like bawling, and what the hell would he want to go and do a thing like that for ... because why couldn't he let it out easy and natural, even though there was so damn much at stake and he knew it could never be the matter-of-fact conversation piece it might be with other couples, he still didn't want it turning into a fight, didn't want a bunch of screaming insults growing out of all that wonder she was talking about without realizing what she meant ... "Honey ... you're right," he began again, "it does have a life of its own."
"I didn't say that, Max, you did. I just meant it was a huge lovely appendage, and possible the only status symbol I've ever hunted."
"No, I know..." he muttered, "I'm the one who said it had life," his words rushing, tumbling ... not cool, dammit, but all sludging and emotional..."Power of life. I mean, it can give life, Paula. It can ... triple its size by producing a lot more just like it ... I don't mean more pricks, for God's sake, I mean ... well, you know what I mean?" Aw hell, he sounded so clumsy and backward he wanted to die ... because it meant so much and he knew he was starting to shake with how much it meant. But goddammit, it had to be done with words, didn't it ... and right here and now ... not drawing up diagrams or writing it in a poem ... had to be said. But gently, you sonofabitch Max, gently!
He felt the slight change in her, a shifting. Felt her switch roles. Could almost hear that brain of hers clickin' and fartin' away. Her hands left his body and her eyes went to his face. "What's wrong with you Max? You look like you're about to ... to cry or something..."
Oh Jesus, and all he'd felt was a goddamned lump in his throat. But it was true! He felt his eyes and they were wet. Snotnose little kid wants to be a father, does he?
"Honey, you said two years ... and it's more than two years now dammit, and I want kids!" Listen to him, shouting at her ... listen to the gentle growling bull playing it sweet and easy ... and he couldn't stop the sound, the slob and whining sound ... all wrong and getting worse..."I'm not gonna wait...'cause you're the only woman I'll ever love, so damn you, Paula, you're my only chance. So I want us to start a family and the quicker the better!"
Paula lunged up and away from the spectacle of foolish tears streaming down his cheeks. It was a startling, uneasy sight for her, this instrument of desire so quickly transformed into an object of erosive pity, and she felt disgust and embarrassment for him that he would let himself be seen like that. But more than anything, she felt she'd been used. "A family! So that's why you've been courting me all these weeks with that throbbing brute of a body of yours ... trying to melt me down, get me ripe for the kill."
"No, don't you use words like that for it..." He grabbed the sheets and mopped at his face. "I know I'm saying everything wrong, but maybe I want this so much I just can't talk about it ... 'cause it chokes me when I try to get it out in words, but ... but dammit I'm thirty-three years old and I'm Irish and dago and I gotta have kids!" Max was suddenly standing up in bed, his body naked and writhing with what he wanted from her..."babies are the only answer for both of us, Paula ... babies will set things right, and you'll know what I mean as soon as you hold the first one in your arms, 'cause you'll love it on sight ... and it'll make things right ... make this right..." pointing down at the bed.
"I don't require little child-crutches to justify my pleasure, Max. At the moment I'm not ready for children. I want to think about it. Want to plan for myself. At least another year."
"All right, you take time and you think about it, Paula, and then if the answer is no ... well, I'm not gonna let it stay no, 'cause I'm not letting us go on like this forever ... screwing and grinding my nuts off ... banging our lives away till there's nothing left but slime, because I want you to see me like I am, instead of some heavy-hung moron you turn on and off like a fire-hose 'cause goddammit, look at me, Paula, I'm not a thing, I'm a man ... not just a piece of meat, but a man ... so you look at me for once and see something else besides this..." he clutched between his legs and waggled it at her.
"Oh for God's sake, Max, have a little pride! If you want to go to pieces, do it alone like a dignified human being. This is all so pointless of you, and so ... so unattractive..."
But as she went into the bathroom for a robe which hung on the door and draped it around her, Paula knew that she wanted him in this moment, standing there like that, all loose and damp and lumbering, wanted him, the damned brawling howling ape! Then, before she could retreat into her own bedroom, Max raced ahead of her, blocking her path and yanking her back into his bedroom. "I'm not finished with you yet!" he yelled at her, slamming the door behind her. He saw the tight battle readiness in her face, and knew that he'd lost the ball, at least for this one night that was going to be so crucial for them, so full of promise ... thinking maybe the only way to get her pregnant was to catch her with a gadget-free cunt some night and fuck the livin' hell out of her, and keep fucking her until she was gorgeously knocked up ... and maybe she'd leave him, but he'd keep the kid ... Aw no, Christ ... what was he thinking of? They both had to want it, wasn't that the deal? Wasn't that everything?
"Max, I'm really ashamed for you. You look such a mess. So ... " she swallowed, " ... undesirable ... "
"Tough shit in spades, baby, but I happen to be a human being and I am not ashamed who the hell sees me cry. Tears are not a crime, Paula. Animals wish they could cry like we do, but they can't. But sure, honey, I cry ... and it's about time you knew exactly what you married ... I cry and I bleed and I sweat. And what's more, sweetheart, I shit and I fart and I fuck and I suck, as you well know, Princess Bangtail, as you well taught me!"
He saw the trace of a smile on her face, as her voice went gentler..."Max, we'll both give it some thought ... " one hand going involuntarily between his legs to hold the loose heaviness there, while the other dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of her robe.
She wants me to think about sex again, he thought, because she's physically afraid of the rest of me, the way I grabbed her, the way I'm yelling my filthy-mouthed head off. Thinks I'm going to beat her up. Oh hell, what happened, he wondered, moving out of her reach; how did I let it come to this when it was going to be such a simple homey little fireside chat ... and why the hell do we start screaming at each other as soon as we're out of bed ... as if we blame each other for how much we like it ...
"Of course, you do see that shouting won't solve anything," she went on smoothly.
"Okay, okay, humor me, I got it coming." He went to the closet and put on his pajama-trousers, thus hiding those distractions she always relied on whenever things threatened to get too personal between them. "But listen, Paula, you know my family, so just think how I feel. My brother's two years younger than me and already he and Elsie got six kids..."
"That sow of a wife of Joe's?" she shrieked; and with a start, Max turned around, unable to believe the roaring, trembling sound of her. "Is that what you want for me, Max? You want me to look like that ... that walking dung-heap?"
"Oh now wait a minute, don't you start diggin' at my family again..."
"That blob of a female," she began pacing hectically about the room. "Oh that ... glandular dumpling, that eruption, that vegetable!"
"Shut your goddamn mouth, they love each other ... they're happy!"
"They are obscene."
Seeing her detachment dissolve into such a flaring rage, Max found himself caught up in this rarity, the phenomena of disturbed emotional fury. Not disturbed between her legs, but emotionally ... and showing it! Where's her brilliant control, he wondered ... and what finally got to her, mentioning other people's kids? Christ, look at her, slashing around the room like she's ready to set fire to the place. "Paula, they're a good example of what we could be if we gave ourselves the chance," he said. "Joe says a man with lots of kids has the whole world in his lap. He's got respect and prestige that nothing can take away from him."
"Sweet Mother of Christ! He should be the gagwriter, not you!"
"He says a man with six kids can walk like a king, no matter what happens to him."
"Oh God, I don't believe it," she glared at him. "Where could that mountain of bad manners and bad breath walk like a king? My God, to throw in my face the nauseating couplings of those two dinosaurs as an example of communal superiority! It's obvious how they hate each other's bodies or they wouldn't keep having children..."
"Don't insult them, they've got more love in their..."
"A toad of a spineless jellyfish like your brother Joe has six or seven household orgasms and this unique feat, which is copied in barnyards the world over, this alone is his sublime contribution to society, after which he does nothing but sit on his ... fat testes and point to these babbling discharges as his sole claim to fame."
"Holy Christ, where did all that shit come from?" Max was jolted by her cynicism, yet still full of wonder at the soaring vehemence of her. "There's nothing babbling about his kids. They're great kids, every one of them. And having a big family means a helluva lot more than just fathering these babies; a man raises his kids, and supports them and ... watches them grow. That's the big job, just being there when they grow up."
"Disabled veterans, that's what they're like," she went on, "Demanding preference wherever they go, practically stopping strangers on the street to brag about their fatherhood status...'Please be nice to me, Sir, I'm married-got a wife and six kids at home.' And what happens to the little woman after eight or nine pregnancies?"
"She's fulfilled."
"Gutted, you mean. I see them by the dozens at the Guidance Center ... not even thirty, some of them, but dazed and wallowing blimps in a state of arrested shock. Well thanks a lot, King, but not for me. Sex isn't going to make a victim out of me ... turn me into some sort of brood mare dropping mutations all up and down the countryside ... draining my individuality ... dissipating my progress..."
Max sank down on the bed, hearing the echo of those edicts, the finality ... Sounds like the end of the argument, he thought. Meeting adjourned. Lecture-group go home and sack out. No more to be said about babies. Ever. And I can't leave her because she's with me every minute and I love her. What does that mean, that I'm stuck with only a body because she wants the rest of her to rot? Desperately, he groped for some logic behind all those violent fatherhood aversions. And then Max remembered something personal and tried it aloud. "Look Paula, I know how hurt you must have been by your own father, the way he failed you, ran out on you..."
Her face went livid. "Oh you liar, this had absolutely nothing to do with my father!" her voice rising again as she stared hatefully at him. "I was being completely impersonal tonight."
He met her stare. "Impersonal," he nodded. "Oh brother, that's the word all right. Shooting your head off about everything but us, about trends and ... and social conditions, when all the time it happens to be very personal with you, Paula, because you are blaming me and practically every other guy for what your father did to you."
"No ... oh you don't know, you don't know!" She rushed over to the bed where he sat and struck him in the face with the back of her hand. Catching both of her wrists and holding them, Max rose. "Jesus, it sure looks like I've been hitting you where you live tonight, Paula, and I don't know what the hell any of it means, except that you don't want my babies."
"You're goddamned right," she said, tearing free of him. "Babies from you, Max ... little tadpoles of lust and greed! Men like you and Joe shouldn't be allowed to have children ... defective, Mongoloid ... brawling jungle-types, beating your chests ... creating nothing but your own sperm...! "
"What's left for us, then, huh, Paula? You think we oughta be gassed maybe, or castrated ... or put on the rack, or burned?"
"But it's quite true, you know," she said, backing away from him towards the door, "Any offspring of yours would be reciting Joe Miller at three, table-hopping in Lindy's at six, and after that, Max, he'd dress like you and ... talk like you and clown like you ... another boor, another buffoon!"
In a fast leap Max seized her by the wrists again, pressing his face close to hers. "Or it could be a little girl, Paula, and take after you. Fuckin' everything in pants by the time she was twelve!"
At once Max saw the transformation in her face, slight, only the barest essence, but a falling, a bailing out. He let go of her.
"Oh..." she murmured, and absently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Then a brief tremor about the eyes, lips parted, stricken, and she turned to leave the room.
Frightened by the look of her, by the shattered haunted thing that had entered the room and settled on them like a mist, Max was caught up in a sick and mournful remorse. Everything strong about her had gone weak and lost in that moment, he thought, hurrying after her. "Oh Paula, listen ... I didn't mean to dig into you like that. It's just ... well, you say something bitchy to me, so I gotta say something bitchy to you, but please don't look like that ... because anyway, it's not such a great big worry. I mean ... it's not hereditary or anything..." Oh God no, he thought; why were they hanging themselves with words tonight?
Paula gazed up at him, eyes bemused, uncomprehending. And Max saw that she was, somehow, away. Removed. Taken from him. As in a small voice she inquired, "What isn't hereditary?"
She's not accepting the word, he thought, canceling out the whole subject. "Oh honey ... God, I..." He put his arms about her and it scared him even more because she didn't push him away. No resistance. He held her softly and she leaned there, reclined there in his arms, expressionless ... What are the words for loving, he wondered, if we found all the words to kill tonight? "Paula, please forget everything we said ... tomorrow we'll start fresh."
"I'm ... tired, so tired all at once," voice not agitated, not tense, not hers, Her body seemed to go limp in his arms as he lifted her up, carried her into her bedroom, wishing to God that she'd kick and fight to get free. But Christ, she let him carry her to bed like a baby...
"Sit there a minute, honey, and I'll get your nightgown."
She was obedient. Waited. "Don't know when I've been so tired," she murmured, "So silly, isn't it?" He took off her robe and she stood up, nude and still, letting him slip the nightgown over her head. Then he lifted her again and slipped her under the blankets, tucked her in, fluffed up the pillows for her. She let him do this ... And oh damn, it wasn't fair, he thought, the way he had to hurt her and tear at her to make her sweet and pliable, make her a girl to protect. How could he be happy about it when he thought of what he'd had to do to get her like this? Jesus, I'm so hooked on this baby. Kids or not, I have to stay, have to hang around...
But tonight was too rare, and he'd already been such a bastard, so maybe he'd press his luck and take advantage. He crept in beside her under the covers, taking her hand in his, breathless with new hoping. "I ... better stay with you tonight," he said softly; and then in a whisper..."darling."
Paula said nothing, lay still. And he was afraid to believe it, in her bed like this, so calm and right. But a moment later the imagine crumbled. "You've helped me enough for one night, Max, go get your rest." Not mean or sarcastic, not with any feeling at all. But definitely said.
"Okay," he said, crawling out on the other side of the bed. "I am tired, honey. You sleep well." He headed for the door.
"Max?" she called faintly.
"Yes?" he turned, and she said no more for so long that he started getting scared all over again. "Yes, honey?" he spoke again.
"Breakfast," she said. "See you at breakfast."
"Sure!" he grinned across the room at her, but she switched her nightlight off and left his smile in the dark.
Max went back to his room, not bothering to stop the new stream of tears, letting them roll and trickle but wishing he were built more like a rock inside than he was out so maybe he could take the kind of torture his love was turning into, take it like a man. But no, he couldn't take it, not without letting go ... because oh, how she looked ... oh God, how she sounded like a stranger, like a foundling...
He sat on his rumpled bed and thought about the night. Mission demolished. I can't change her, and can't replace her. But wait a minute, dammit, let's look on the bright side. Love is bigger than fertility, isn't it? What're we, a couple of breeding factories? Hell no, we've got more ... Jesus, there's so much more we have to live for. Got our jobs, haven't we? Careers? Goals? Meaningful roads ahead to pave and trod and pile up the old bankroll, and build together and grow rich and old together ... Hell, it's such a stimulating future! Space Age coming and us climbing every mountain ... He shoved a fist in his mouth to hold back the rocking grief, clog up the sobs ... buried his face in the blankets to stop the spineless slob sounds of him ... kids do this when their toys are stolen, not men ... so hold them back, you clod! ... Plug up the crawling chicken-shit noises because they're not gonna help her ... Your tears can't do a thing for her, so shut up ... so ... Oh you Goddamned crapper, stop crying ... now, save it, dry it, stow it, shove it...
But the sobs stayed. His body shook with them.
THIRTEEN
For the next few weeks Max didn't want to think or make a decision. So, for awhile, he did nothing to lessen the new nightly intensities with Paula. Gave her all the wild exotic innovations she craved. It was so easy not to stop, when the only other alternative would be to share nothing with her. And she made such a religion out of sheer physical feeling, it was sometimes touching.
But without his big objective the new voracities were left to feed on themselves. Without hope, sex became a somber thing for Max, his body a mass of functional joy while the rest of him remained enshrouded in impotence. Yet, Paula had never clung to him as she was clinging now, and Max felt his body becoming even more precious to her as she tried so fiercely to make the mere machinery of him a substitute for love; thereby relegating him to the one static form: hot plunging male inserted nightly. The exorcism.
And then he knew he couldn't. Oh no ... no more of it please! Not without change or promise. God, not the same unenriching mating in the fields, like gypsies pumping in an outhouse; because for Max an abrasive new brutality arose and took the place of his respect for her, supplanting his great empathy regarding the doom he feared awaited her. It was a harshness much stronger than their old enmities. He issued out violence to her in bed and felt the terrible joy-power of the punisher, as with every entry he whipped and chastized for all she still denied him, mouthing the filth of four-letter words, giving everything they did a label of the streets ... You eat me and I'll eat you and darn it, baby, that's love!
No, he had to put the body of her away from his hands, the body that could become such an easy, hate-filled dragging down. Where he did not want to go. Where he was afraid to go. Even with her. Despite the pounding rough indignities he handed to her now, Max did not love her less, so he knew there would eventually have to be something with her. But not hell. Not yet. With each aggravated sensual thrust of loin and limb he was convincing Paula that she was right after all: lust was the all-encompassing nirvana, the endowment.
If there were not going to be children, he needed something else to fill the void, something his. Having a thriving career and getting your nuts off every night might sound like Paradise to some, but not for him. There had to be something in between, and he meant to find it.
In the meantime, however, Max let his work claim more of his attention. He and Art began drafting sketches for a new Broadway show, their first success still running. Max also started thinking seriously about the comedy novel he'd been putting off for so many years. Yet, as rewarding as these activities were, Max still felt the cold and gnawing emptiness.
Then one afternoon his sister Anna paid him a rare visit and gave him a new alternative. She said she wanted him to know she'd be making another stab at marriage soon, but added that he'd better keep it a secret since her fianc� was not the sort many people would approve of.
"Especially not Paula," Anna said, "because it looks like I'm still hooked on guys who need to be mothered, and after all that wonderful therapy she gave me. Of course, Julius is a bone fide heterosexual and all that, but being a musician he looks as fagoty as they come, although when you scratch that surface, out comes King Kong. A real swinger, you know what I mean, Max? Guess we'd better elope, huh?"
Max gazed thoughtfully at her a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No dice, Anna. No underground stuff. As long as you've found yourself a real man this time, you've got nothing to be ashamed of. So this time your big brother's gonna give you a day you'll remember."
Hell yes, he thought, there were other people who needed him. His own family, who'd almost forgotten what he looked like since his marriage. And maybe for just one day that gilded cathouse he lived in would look like a home.
In June Paula would at last receive her doctorate in sociology, and during those weeks hopefully awaited the summer term at Columbia, for she was now setting her sights on an anthropology degree. How stirring she found the promise of new academic excursion, and how good to be reminded that she was, after all, an essentially cerebral being. The fuel-thirstings of her flesh were still trained and corralled downwards into her body, were the engine-room, below deck, while she was posted above in her remote control, at the helm and on her course and steady-as-she-goes, unencumbered. The cages of desire were transitory, soon to crystallize and decompose; and she found that only theory was real, and only the highest reaches of learning, growth.
But there were disturbances for her that Spring. Hostility-currents-popularly known as the human element intervened. The related ones, the pointing, accusing love-demanders trying to crowd you under their arms, hoping to bind you with ties which were purely accidental or genetic. And Max, suddenly becoming such a ruthless power-machine, so churlish and swearing. He rarely treated her with respect these days. No softness in his tone of voice, no smiles. Not that it seriously annoyed her, except that Millie was noticing his abruptness, and it looked bad. His stampeding diesel tactics in bed were beginning to bore her too; new brute-patterns, all tough and jamming. Where were those softly teasing buildups he used to insist upon ... his languor of suspense and finger play, his denied and starving mouth making its kiss-attempts while she watched his heady anguish as she turned her lips away? She couldn't actually say that he appeared in a hurry to get it over with, because they were usually at it again in a few moments. But hurried then, too, wasn't it? Oh well, he had his own career-plans, she must remember. Said he meant to work with Art again on another revue that summer, and even mentioned drafting his first comic-novel in the fall. Laughable really. Imagine that sideshow barker, an author.
In May Paula's Uncle Lazlo died suddenly of a stroke. Marta, for some morbidly disproportionate reason Paula could not make out, insisted on relating the horror of her brother-in-law's passing in detail. It happened in a crowded elevator in his office-building. An express elevator which let nobody out until it reached the sixtieth floor. Lazlo was standing in the middle of all those packed people, Marta told her. And when they arrived at his floor, and one by one everybody got out, it looked like Lazlo had been dead ever since the main floor and the crowd had been holding him up; because when the last passenger walked out, he slumped and fell flat on his face, breaking his nose and glasses, and dead like that, Marta wept, on the empty floor of an elevator with no operator because it was self-service; and then, she added, before anyone could run to help him up, somebody on the main floor pressed the button and brought him down, and when the door slid open there he was on the floor still dead like that, without anybody ever being sure on which floor it first happened to him with those strangers pushed up around him not caring if he lived or died...
Marta seemed even more bereaved when Paula refused to attend the funeral.
"Mom, to me funerals are barbaric masochistic rites and I'll have none of them."
"Oh Paulie, not even your own mother's maybe?"
Paula sighed. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," wondering why martrydom must always blossom concurrently with the products of the womb. Women give birth so they'll have someone around to watch them suffer. Captive audience. Approve and commiserate, children, or go find food and shelter elsewhere.
"Paulie, you must at least put in an appearance," Marta pleaded on the phone, "as a kindness to me and poor Irena, who doesn't stop crying, because nobody knows yet which minute or which floor that poor man left this world. And your cousins, too, Paulie, they will need your strength at a time like this."
"Mom, first of all, I hardly knew the man."
"Paulie, such a thing to say ... he loved you!"
"Nonsense, he was terrified of me."
"That too is love, you foolish girl."
"Oh look, dear, I'm busy now. Yes, that's it, tell them all I'm much too busy to go. I'll send flowers and a check."
"Oh Paulie, it is you they want to see. We all want to see you, darling, but it is you who shut us out. We don't do the shutting out, Paulie, you do it."
"All right, Mom, no more please ... I've a very sick client waiting to see me."
"A sick stranger!" Marta burst into tears. "All right, you stay there, and ... you rent out your head for thirty dollars an hour, and you bury that stranger, Paulie. And I will tell you something; if I do not see you kneeling and crossing yourself at that grave, you are no daughter of mine. I mean it, you are my only daughter who I love dearly and well be through..." the last words muffled by sobs, "we'll call it quits and that's all. I mean it!"
For several weeks thereafter Marta hung up whenever Paula telephoned her. And Irena returned the check, writing her a wounded preachment of a letter.
One night towards the end of May Max returned home late after a haggling session with Art involving their new show. The two men hadn't been hitting it off too well lately, and not only did Art seem to have some rivalrous resentments regarding Max's new ambitions as a novelist, he also let too many snide remarks about Paula enter the conversation to suit Max. A lot of double-entendre about her egghead influence making him think he's another Aldus Huxley, and insisting their new show be a fast and gutsy replica of their first big hit instead of the arty book-show Max preferred. Max was too fond of the whole Goldstein family to want any rifts, so he agreed. But next time around, he thought, it would be solo. Solo for his novel, and also his next show.
But right now he was dead tired and didn't relish the scene that waited for him with Paula.
She was in her dressing-room, getting ready for the night, when she heard him walk into her bedroom.
"Hi," she called out. "Go to your room, I'll be there in a minute; just one more dash of scent where it counts."
"No, honey, it doesn't count, because tonight I don't want to fuck, I want to talk."
Paula swung open the door and faced him. He looked unshaven and badly groomed, wearing that absurdly loud sports-short. "Max, I don't know what sort of mood you're in, but I've told you before that kind of language is getting on my nerves. I know how many naughty words you have in your vocabulary, you needn't trot them out every time we become intimate."
"Become intimate!" he barked out a weary laugh. "Oh ... whee! That has gotta be the kickiest line of the year!"
How she detested him like this, so cynical and defeatist.
"Anna's getting married next month," he announced.
"Is she? Oh Max, I'm so glad for her," Paula was genuinely pleased. "She deserves a little happiness." She sat on a boudoir chair, reaching for a cigarette on the table nearby, waiting for Max's light. He didn't budge from where he'd sprawled himself on her bed. And Paula wondered what day, what week he had stopped lighting her cigarettes, when he had stopped everything except ... the necessities. Not that it was a worry for her. Merely a point of research.
"We're having the reception here," he said. "A big one."
"What reception?"
"For Anna. After her wedding. We're gonna toss a wingding for that kid that she'll remember as long as she lives."
Paula stared at him. "Here?"
"That's right, Paula, right here in your little ol ice-house. For one night we're gonna fill every corner of this joint with real live happy swingin' human beings."
Paula rose and went to the door. Gazed out across the staircase to view her immaculate salon-size living room, where everything was so rare and priceless and in place. "The guests," she murmured, "Who will they be, Max?"
"Everybody's relatives, Paula. From my side, your side, and Anna's boyfriend's side. Julius is Armenian, so we told him to invite both sides of his family, including a grandmother who plays the meanest bass-violin you ever heard!"
"Your brother Joe ... and Elsie, and Emma and..."
"And all their cousins, aunts and kids," he finished for her. "At least those big enough to crawl. Anna says she wants everybody she loves surrounding her, so that's what I'm gonna give her."
"No," she heard herself issue the order and spoke louder..."No, Max, it's out of the question," tightly clutching her dressing-gown, adamant thrust of chin. "I won't have it. All those careless people. No, they'll wreck the place. I'll put the furniture in storage before I let them..."
"You'll put nothing in storage," he told her. "I paid for every stick in this crypt, and if those guys get a bang out of tearing things apart, maybe I'll even join them. And furthermore, Madam Freud, you're making enough to refurnish a dozen places like this if you have to."
Paula tried to visualize her lovely austere apartment overrun by Max's family, the din and pandemonium of tumbling brats and hacking in-laws. God no, she thought, not here, don't let him. Doesn't he know I can't handle social swarming crowds of people? One at a time, to be treated in my office, but not like this.
She turned and glared at him. "Why are you doing this to me, Max?"
"Oh Christ, I'm not doing it 'to' anybody, I'm doing it for Anna ... and maybe for all the times I didn't do it for anybody. In this one night maybe I can pay off some of those obligations, because I'll tell you, Paula, I am sick to my stomach having to explain to everybody what an ... antisocial bitch-goddess I married."
"Ah ... bitch-goddess! That's your friend Art talking, isn't it? You two sit around discussing me, Max ... do you? Perhaps comfy little Eadie gets in on it too, nice homey round-table dissection ... And maybe you go to them for advice ... And if they're such endearing confidantes, why not let them give your parties?"
"Because I have a home of my own."
"Yet, it's away from that home that you choose to discuss your wife with comparative strangers."
"Oh shit..." he sighed. "Paula, I don't talk about you to anyone, except to lie my head off and keep building up your noble icy image. 'She's too busy and too dedicated to entertain!' It's over two years now and nobody believes that. I don't know what the fuck they do believe, but they sure's hell don't believe that!"
Paula walked out of the room, went slowly down the stairs. Moved about the living-room, fondly touching, guarding everything she had built here, her tower, her fortress, now to be invaded by the grabbers, hordes of them ... voices, hands, faces...
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Max standing on the staircase, watching her. "Jesus, you'd think we were going down with the Titanic," he said.
Paula sat on the divan, her back to him. "Everything was so perfect for us..."
Not being able to hear this, Max raced down the stairs and stood before her. "Look Paula, nobody's gonna set fire to the place. I mean, I have a little pride in my home too, you know, so ... it's not as if I was gonna hand everybody an ax at the door and tell 'em to go to it."
She ran her fingers along the thick brocade of the sofa. "Well, one thing's certain. I won't let you use Millie. I don't want her seeing what cretins my in-laws are."
"Oh wow!" he laughed. "You're too late. She already knows."
She gazed up at him. "Meaning what?"
"She helped my Ma throw a couple of parties on her days off. Millie-likes people, and we never have enough around here to suit her. She and Emma hit it off real great too; you should see them together, spinning yarns and slopping up beer in the kitchen."
"Millie with Emma? Millie actually saw ... them?"
"That's right, honey, and the next day she canvassed Park Avenue, telling all your clients what slobs your husband's folks are."
Her eyes scaled his unkempt breadth of body. "Petty little victories like that really set you up, don't they, Maxwell?"
"You're goddamned right!" He went over to the bar and poured himself a shot of bourbon.
He's chosen this as my punishment, she thought suddenly; he knows I'm not adept at giving parties, so he wants this pain for me, wants to watch me faltering and unsure in the midst of his friends and family, wants to watch me in the maelstrom, going under and censured ... to pay me back for not giving him babies! A huge sophomoric prank of a reprimand...
Max swirled about on the bar-stool to face her, his voice gentler. "Paula, if you're worried about your hostess duties that night, relax and forget it, because your mother and Irena will be here to help you."
"My mother!" she exclaimed. "But she ... hasn't spoken to me in weeks."
"Well, she's speaking to me. And she's already made up a list of what she's gonna bake for that night, and what's more she's been helping Anna pick out her new clothes."
The boiling rage racked and tore at her as she fought to keep him from seeing it. "What you're saying, then, is that you won't need me here at all, isn't that it?"
"That is not it. Everybody wants you here, Paula. It's up to you, what you want. Nobody will force you to be here and ... take over your duties..."
"Don't tell me my duties, Max; spare me that please."
"Well all right, look, if the whole idea throws your bowels in such an uproar, maybe we'd all have a lot more fun without you!"
"And what will your sister think of that? Anna's my friend."
"Oh, friend my ass, she's just another brain you picked and forgot about."
Her voice rose now, no hope of controlling it. "I forbid my mother to be here without me! You call her, Max, and ... and you tell her I'm staying away that night, and she won't want to come. Call her!"
"She doesn't expect you to be on the scene, Paula, so it wouldn't be any news to her. In fact, those were her very words to me on the phone today. She said she doubted that you would want to be here, but hoped that she and Irena could ... maybe make it up to me."
"Oh, of course, make it up to you, Max! Yes ... yes, they're so worried about how you suffer, aren't they? Love-starved, love-filled foster son, taking any crumb of affection they care to throw him! My mother ... so eager to spare your feelings at any cost ... my mother wants you to be so happy, wants me to drop a litter once a year to keep you pacified ... my mother wants you to be everything to her, wants you to hang around with loaded diapers and be the son she never had ... and be the man of the house, all loving ... and ... lifting ... my mother ... wants ... you..." She stopped. Stopped all sound. Her head was suddenly reeling, and how she detested the echoes of her own voice, the mewling pleas and loss of face. And she needn't be humble at all; for where Max was concerned, didn't she always have the trump card?
She reached for a cigarette on the coffee table, appraising him more coolly now. "What night is this reception to be held, Max?"
"Two weeks from Saturday."
"A Saturday night?"
"Yes." He watched her, waited.
"Since I won't be welcome here that night, where do you suppose I'll be going?"
Oh Christ, he thought ... oh the bitch, the bitch! And knew at once what had been in the back of his mind, knew that in spite of everything there hadn't, as yet, been any other guys for Paula. But Max also knew he had to laugh this off, couldn't let her see that he cared, for that was part of the program now ... to be indifferent, unfeeling, and let her think he wasn't jealous any more ... So hold on boy, and let her fly that one night if that's what has to happen, let her fly...
"Maybe you'll have a class," he said.
"On a weekend?"
"Well, you're at the Guidance Center most Saturdays, aren't you?"
"They wouldn't recognize me at the Center, Max, not dressed the way I'll be that night."
He shrugged. "So what the hell, go nude ... See if I care..."
"No, Max, not nude. And not me either." And now, at last, she told him about her underground wardrobe checked in Grand Central, describing the cheap wigs and makeup and B-girl costumes, her Times Square disguises.
Max listened, absorbed, rejected. "I don't believe any of that, Paula ... you'd never let yourself look like that, not with all your pride."
"Oh you fool, don't you see, it wouldn't be me looking like that, but a horny hungry broad just dying for some big out-of-town salesman to come along and ram her..." Suddenly she began to laugh, the hysteria building. "Oh Max, wouldn't it be something if I got pregnant that night? Oh man ... oh wow, man ... Wouldn't that be a gas?"
"I said I don't believe you, Paula, and I'm bored, so can it!"
"Wait a minute, I'll show you proof." Paula rushed into her bedroom and dug into an old purse she hadn't touched in ages. Finding the locker-key, she hurried back to the living room and tossed it to Max. "Here boy, catch the key to my dirty double life..."
Max caught it, examined it. And he knew. But kept his face tense and expressionless.
"We can go there tonight, Max. Wouldn't you just love feeling all those black lace under things in your hands, wondering who'll be tearing them off me that night?"
He threw the key back to her. "Look, Paula, in case you think you're threatening me or something, let me tell you that times have changed, goddammit, and I don't care whose pants you crawl in, as long as you don't bring him here and corrupt the dog. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret-the only time I think about you these days is when I'm on top of you. Real wild when it's happening, but when it's over, I start thinking about the really important things in my life."
"Fine," she said. "It helps so much to know how tolerant you're being, not letting it get under your skin when you think of another man diving between my legs and kissing all your favorite spots..."
"I want a beer," Max climbed off the stool, headed towards the kitchen, "Feel like a boilermaker and there's no beer at the bar..." He couldn't listen to her any more without showing what he felt, and he knew what a great big mirror of a face he had; whatever was going on inside of him showed up on his face, and damn her, she wasn't going to see it. But oh hell, everything was backfiring, and everything was so goddamned mean. He wanted her at home that night, not just to keep other guys off her, but for once to let her learn how to share the warmth of his friends and his family, who meant her well, who were not enemies. But now there was nothing left for either of them but a lot of sick pretense. He had to pretend he didn't care who laid her, and she had to pretend it was hate and spite that was keeping her away from that party, when he knew it was fear.
Paula stood a few feet from the closed swinging door that led to the kitchen, as Smokey dashed out at her, yapping and leaping. "Think of me that night, Max!" she said, the dog now cuddled in her arms. "Maybe I'll have three or four of them, and they'll be waiting in line to get their hands on me, while you're here, dipping in the punch-bowl ... and serving your guests, and performing for them and being so wholesome and winning while your wife is having a jazzier time than you could ever give her, you hypocrite, oh you sanctimonious great white baby-kisser, wanting to spend your life playing house, playing Daddy! Think of me getting it, Max, while you throw rice at your little sister, when you hug your mama and papa, and sing and dance for the company. Oh yes, you'll be thinking of me that night, Max, because you don't fool me for a minute with this big beastly cynical act you've been putting on, pretending you're not 'involved' with me any more, that I'm not on your mind. I know what I am to you, you sick fraud of a clown ... Don't you know I feel all that love oozing out of you whenever we're in bed? And no matter how much you may want me to think it's big grownup lust, it's the same little-boy lovey-dovey you've always felt, Max ... big-prick Max ... and if you want to know how I can tell, it's the way you watch my face when
I come ... your eyes staring down into mine to catch some of the happiness...."
"Oh God ... make her stop, don't let me go in there ... let me think of Anna ... and the family ... and real love, and..." Max sent a bottle of beer crashing to the floor in the kitchen. "It slipped!" he roared out. "I didn't throw it, because I don't care, goddamn you, Paula ... I am not disturbed ... and ... I don't give one good red hot fuck what you do from now on, you understand that?"
With a sigh, Paula smiled, tilted her chin. Then, with the dog still nestled in her arms, she went to her bedroom.
Max slumped at the table in the kitchen, making boiler-makers, guzzling them down fast, hoping he'd either get paralyzed or vomit. As long as he could cut those visions of her out of his mind, crush those cameos she had painted for him that were eating at his brain, digging at the pit of his stomach ... What I don't see won't hurt me. Logic. Common sense. Guys on her and guys in her ... and dammit I can only close my eyes on the outside, not inside where all the pictures are ... But aw no, by God, Anna will not be the one to suffer for this, 'cause I promised her ... and she's gonna have that night, and me too, I'll have at least one night with all my family under my own roof where I pay the rent and all the goddamned bills, don't I? So who the hell needs permission from that depraved superior slut of a degenerate cunt in there? Sewer-ass bitch, she's so sure I'll cancel that whole night just to keep my pussy home where it belongs, but she can hang by her tits before I give in to her ... Always so goddamned positive with all that royal blood flowing up her uterus! But just let her go on whistlin' in the dark like that, 'cause she knows I don't care any more how faithful she is, and she's not as sure as she sounds. I didn't light her cigarette tonight, she caught that, oh brother, did she catch it ... And I'm gonna stop showin' up for breakfast too, and if I'm busy on Sundays, the hell with her ... and no more nightcaps together ... and no more plenty, and man, she misses every minute of me that I don't let her have ... that's why she screams out all those shitty insults, 'cause she wants all that stuff, all that romance and respect ... and it's driving her nuts going to bed without it ... She loves it, damn her, 'cause she's a girl, that's why! And ... girls thrive on all those little attentions I'm not gonna give her any more ... gonna starve her out till she comes crawlin' for it ...
A half hour later he was howling queasy drunk in the kitchen. Whorehouse, he decided ... that's where I'll spend the night. Tail all over the place and it won't yell at me and call me clown. And maybe if I have faith, this time I'll find a broad I can get it up with ... Someone besides Miss Gash-Box in there! Someone all burnin' and blisterin' and makin' me go boinng! like I used to, just touchin' me and then, pow, wangbang all over the place and I'll be a man again, a man with anything that's female ... maybe ... if I say my prayers ... somebody new'll give me a hard-on, for Christmas maybe...'cause I been good ... maybe ... He let his head rest on the table ... Or maybe I'll call a taxi and tour every cathouse in town, screwin' nothing but the madams ... That'll be kicks ... New booster-shot for the ol bags ... or maybe screwin' their whole damn family and their maids and all their little usherettes ... And if I can't cut the sagebrush, so what the hell, I'll slip 'em a fifty and maybe they'll let me watch? Yeah ... peepin' Tom stuff, very chic, ol boy ... teddibly 'in' this season. Sure, chic ol Maxie gettin' his rocks off just by sittin' and peepin' ... like some eight-year-old broken-down tomcat. Sharp? Oh man, that's the only way to live. So let her go ... let her bang . ...
FOURTEEN
On the day of Anna's wedding, Paula had her own schedule perfectly timed. She left home early that morning to spend a full day at the Guidance Center. At noon she allowed an extra hour for a perfunctory appearance at Anna's church service, which was held in a small cathedral in the Village to accommodate most of Julius's friends who, Anna said, wouldn't be caught dead anywhere Uptown. Paula congratulated the bride and groom and said how sorry she was that she wouldn't be able to make the reception, explaining that there was a big alumnae reunion to be held that night and she had been chosen as one of the hostesses. She hoped they understood how strong those old sorority ties were, adding that this particular celebration had been planned for months. After giving Anna and her slackjawed vis-a-vis a wedding gift-a personal check-Paula managed some laconic but gracious words of greeting to most of the Sandaretti clan. And to Max, a dutiful wifely embrace in passing.
The afternoon hours seemed interminable, as her anxiety for the night ahead became an inexplicably chill and shuddering thing. Why such trepidation in place of the old excitement, the unbearable suspense? She knew exactly what was to happen to her that night and wanted every moment of it, was starved for the tension of gamble and intrigue. She had never felt so at home as she did in bed with a man whose name she would never know, whose face she would forget immediately after the body's devouring. Steamy taut thighs on hers, men without tears or claims, sweet decor and members of them on sheets tucked in by hands never seen, men spread out and waiting with their alien untasted flesh of hot pliant pubis, that haven of genitalia which did not ask to see her identity card before letting her in for the sharing, offering her the depravity that cleansed, asking nothing in return but her own sensation. Yes ... this was what she wanted tonight, not the naggings of the hearth, but freedom.
And certainly everything was in order. The key to the Grand Central locker was safely in her purse. She had rented the usual sort of room on Forty-Second Street near Eighth, making a point to register after leaving church that day so that she wouldn't have to do so in full costume. And, as a minor coup de grace, registered under Max's real name: Mrs. Mike Sandaretti.
It had been years since Paula had given herself to this impersonation, and that afternoon the flurries of hesitation and reticence beclouded her hours. She had an odd feeling that what she was about to do was somehow compulsory, as if she'd been ordered to perform tonight. But not so, because, as always, it was her own choice. Not babies and families and parties, but night and anonymity.
She left the Center at five and, not having driven her car that day, took a taxi to Grand Central. Commuter traffic was relatively lessened on Saturday, and the cavernous rotunda seemed strangely suspended and ominous to her; like a stage awaiting the star's entrance before coming to life, or as if it knew of her preordained mission and wanted to see if she would go through with it. Caught up in this pull of inevitability, Paula knew she must give the show that was expected of her. After all her rehearsal-time there was too much at stake now to turn back. And besides, Max would be waiting later to hear all the details.
She removed the suitcase from the locker and went to the ladies' lounge in the waiting room. There was a woman attendant mopping the floor. Paula told her not to be surprised when she emerged from the booth because she was going to a masquerade party and didn't have time to go home and change. The old lady looked so plainly disinterested, Paula wondered why she had taken the trouble. She wasn't doing anything illegal, so why worry how it looked to people she would never see again? It wasn't as if the woman knew what she'd be doing later. Nobody knew. Or cared. That's what made it such a bracing release.
She chose an isolated booth and began undressing.
Opened the suitcase. Her Pandora's box of a time-capsule. Everything preserved just as she'd left it. She thought of ancient Egyptian queens being buried with their pretties, though none returned to dig them later. Grisly idea, she thought; and not in the least aptly placed. The contents of the suitcase looked fresh and new to her. And hence, no necessity to push back the clock after all. Time had stood still for her, the tools of desire as unchanging as the needs that had given them birth.
The platinum wig would be ideal tonight, so audacious and crude. Short and flashy and close-cropped. Paula gazed in the mirror, so eager for the relief of finding someone else there, finding that responsible stranger who would keep all the weight on her shoulders as she used to. Ah yes, there she is, that pavement-sensualist! She will monitor everything I do tonight, and will be held accountable if all the thrills are not exactly the same.
Paula peered more closely in the mirror. Something not quite right about the hair. Properly blatant and gaudy, and yet, somehow, not as vivid. Dated. It was 1959 and me big bouffant hairdos were catching on everywhere. This coiffure was an anachronism, flat and out of style. Oh but how ridiculous, she thought, how very inconsequential! The character she was about to portray was underprivileged, and therefore could not afford hairdressers or the luxury of staying in fashion, so why should such fatuous technicalities matter to her?
like the wig, the dress also bespoke time's passing. Longer skirt. Not more than an inch or so, but she saw. How many years had it really been, she wondered. The last time at least a year before her marriage. Fifty-six. Perhaps even fifty-five. Quite possible for styles to change in four years, she admitted, but not people. First desires were the most poignantly remembered, so it was natural to want them reprised over and over; and in that sense, she thought, it is four years ago and it is also now. Time the infinity, the borderless ... sending me out on Forty-Second Street to find what I always find there, that perennial chorus waiting and dangling in readiness, still and lifeless until they feel my hands on them...
She bought a bottle of brandy. If the years refuse to blend, liquidate them. With a few drinks introduce the past to its future. Added novelty for the night's regalement. She had never fastened one of her dispensers to her while under the influence, so who knew what lush new delectations she might find for the lucky winner tonight? Under the grip of yon grape ... under the un-Paula platinum ... under freedom's yoke...
In the room now and staring at whoever that was in the mirror, staring back at her. Dress V-necked and sateen and sequined. Neither sheath nor shift. And aren't the rounder necklines 'in' this year, Milady? Oh for God's sake, what does it matter? No fashion model I tonight; instead, if you look closely in the shadows you'll see that I'm a ... I'm a ... what am I? Whatever it is, it's transitory, labels done in invisible ink ... fading on the morrow. But for now, I'm a ... nameless faceless walking fever, a malady contagious, communicable only to the male of the species. To catch what I've got all he need do is handle the contaminated area below the jugular vein and presto! we're in quarantine for the night , . .
Hot and sultry room. Gold lame stole flung over the dress. Part of the hope chest. Endearing as crinoline, veiling the hot throbs of breasts they all wanted rolling in their hands, plunged in their mouths ... because they were flesh-eaters and addicted. Room full of heartbeat and pulse, echoing a thousand erections ... sensory garbage not yet removed, worlds of feeling forever gone and coming. Paula ogling her reflection, unbelieving. Paula drinking from the bottle. Paula sucking ... gulp, slurp, ravenous red lips ... warm round prowl as lady-hyena did drink her fill ... How gross and blowsy I look in that mirror ... and that vulgar visage is still me, damn her! Still the therapist-me, still the queenly me at the church and gracious and bestowing. The costume underneath is showing ... how do I burn it off? Lurking under the paint is that other performer, that hogging one, waiting to go on and take over when it's not her world. She never came with me before ... what does she want? Mirror ... like a page from an old family album. Oh look, there's Cousin Paulie way back in '55 ... didn't ladies dress-funny in those days, Mommie? Olden days? Other voices thumbing through the album, voices not fooled but recognizing her true lineage...'No, of course she doesn't look funny; she's my psychologist and I pay her thirty dollars an hour because I'm an over-sublimated Lesbian housewife, so how could she look funny? Turn to the next page and you'll see she's only doing research, dressed like that so she'll know how it feels to suffer and thus better alleviate the oppressed ... ah yes, that's who she is, the mother of us all!'
Paula was high.
Third of a bottle gone.
Heard giggles in the wallpaper-peeling room and knew they were her own. AH gay and cuddly and clinging after a few drinks and no dinner, which rendered her adorable. Helpless, honey! That's what men wanted, something swooning and vapid with its legs spread out like poor-butterfly wings. Gave them the illusion of sabre-toothed conquest, those soggy hairy infants romping through life with mother's-tit in their eye, beasts of cherubs pouting to be weaned all over again every time they touched a woman ... making cradles of climaxes ... calling their wives 'Ma' who called them 'Pa,' especially the childless ones ... because apexes cannot be reached without the memories of old wombs, old nipple-dominaces ... so come quench yourself, Junior ... Mommie's getting primed...
With her lipstick she wrote a four-letter word on the mirror so that whatever man-loot she scraped off the streets would get the right vibration as soon as he entered the room. Wrote m i n k. As in fucks-like-a, she chuckled. Mustn't talk like Max. Fornication and elocution do not mix. Do not enunciate please, inject! Sex is not a romance language, it's a physic. Patted her flat declasse platinum. White mink. Slashed more lipstick on her mouth. Damp bright tremulous kissless mouth, say the word, Paula, the word that rattles your vitals! Repeat after me and tongue your lips and groan a little ... She said "Men," clutching the fullness of her breasts and heaving them towards her reflection..."Men..."
And went out in the neon to play harlot.
Not noticing the others, her fellows, her contemporaries lined-up and waiting to be bought. Tortured parchments of he and she whores, letting them think she was one of them but not-belonging even here, not looking at them, disassociating. Wanting only their public, wanting to give, not prostitute. Marriage was legalized prostitution and therefore sanctified. But this was for love, and no evil can exist as long as nothing changes hands but the flesh.
In twenty minutes she returned to the room with a young detective who was quite prepared to arrest her for soliciting. But when Paula made no mention of money, he changed his mind and settled for a coffee-break instead. But settied for brandy. By now Paula's vision had grown fuzzy enough so that she wouldn't have to remember his face. Said his name was Terence King and his old lady was in politics and man, if she could see him now! Said he was new with the Vice Detail and his Mom had saved for years to buy him the promotion. And swore that no lady who did it for love belonged behind bars, and there should be more like her.
"Always did it for love," she told him, "ever since I was the tiniest little tot ... I loved doing it..."
But when she wanted to linger over undressing him, Terence told her to cool it and had them both stripped and swirling in a few seconds. As soon as she felt him firmly attached, Paula seized the pasty pugnacious face in her hands and passionately kissed its grubby lips. Max-type kiss, soul-kiss. Max would die for such a kiss, and let him, she thought ... yes, I'd rather he died than let him do this to me ... knowing what he'd get out of it ... insurmountable kicks he doesn't deserve with that trespassing mouth of his ... lording over his punchbowl and his catered blood-kin bacchanal ... So she kissed the detective, working her lips and tongue into the foul gutless mouth that was equally undeserving of the treasure and the rarity...
"Like that, cop-lover?" she mumbled into the fumes of salami-breath.
"Ummm..." he moaned. And then it was all over for Terence and he leaped away fast and grabbed his under-things.
"Wow, honey ... you're somethin' else."
"That's the language," Paula made full identity and wriggled her legs in the air.
Then he looked abject. "My wife is pregnant."
"Sorry, I am not an abortionist."
"That's not what I mean! I mean she's eight months gone, you know what I mean?"
Paula nodded and hacked out a shrill laugh. "Apologies accepted. And the room directly to your left looks like the John, but it's really a confession-booth, so hop to it."
"Jeez, you're hard to figure," Terence laughed magnanimously. "You gonna hang around for awhile?"
"Why."
"I got a few buddies on duty tonight who'd like a little of that."
"They got big ones?"
"How the hell do I know?" he laughed again. "Jeez, you're hard to figure."
"How many."
"Three, maybe four..."
"All right, one at a time, please, and tell the first one to bring a bottle of brandy."
Dressed now, the detective went over to the bed for a fast last grab at her breasts, and lower. "Umm ... regular ol hot valley you got up there, baby, and man, if the Vice Squad's gonna be like this I don't never want it no different."
"No-how..." she murmured.
"Hey, what's your first name, doll?"
"Emma," hand reaching to unzip him again.
He moved away. "Okay, Emma baby, I'll start sendin' them up, every half hour or so."
"Splendid. They shall all be soundly kissed."
"Regular ol kissin' bug, ain't'cha?" He was at the door, drinking in her sprawling nakedness again, as Paula puckered up grotesquely and blew him a last confection. "Oh wow, honey, you're..."
"I'm somethin' else!" she said, still posturing rosebuds in her mouth, "Like in semi-detached ... like in higher than most ... "
The rest of the team parlayed cooperatively. One every forty minutes or so. Four more crime-busters, four more stampers-out of city-slime sin. Seed mastiff-boys like you on the force, and with nightsticks like that you'll certainly go far ... and tossed the last protector a five dollar bill for his efforts because she said his was the first wedge-shaped one she'd seen in year ... slapping the money down into his plaid shorts as he dressed, and he laughed until he wept because he was a fuckin' Captain and he sure thought it was funny, him getting paid by a chippie.
Paula's last thought before passing out was that if she had been a poor defenseless minor those public servants would have been contributing to her delinquency ... then the faces streaming by, those she had counseled at the Center that day ... the illiterate and unwed mothers ... young girls so helpless ... with men ... like ... that . . on ... the ... loose . .
With a start, she opened her eyes and looked at her watch. Three p.m. Beauty nap made her thirsty. Mouth dry, head pounding, some pain and tenderness in the vaginal regions. She found a bottle, several large gulps remaining. Thought of the five specters of men who had lain with her here tonight, wanting them again some time when she was sober, so she could feel the onslaught and the purging ... not remembering any of their sliding lunges of flesh except the first. Terence whose mother was eight months gone. That's why she never drank with the others. Why anaesthetize when she wanted so terribly much to feel that friendliness going into her?
After a few more sips, she suddenly knew what she was going to do and let out a pealing, defiant laugh. Going home to holy-slob Max and let him see her like this, his lady-scholar in gold lame and platinum and plastered. How revolted he'd be at the sight of his precious queen falling right off her pedestal, his honey-hunk of royalty with the scepter up her ass that had been squeezed as dry as an old orange-rind by five assorted stud-cops while rumbling around inside of her looking for the jollies he'd tried so hard to hoard and drink ... oh Max! Gonna show you my tramp-face and tell you where the mouth you wanna kiss has been tonight ... gonna strip down and show you their fingerprints and tell you how I necked and petted with my ramming sweeties ... big-king Max, trying to be so tame with body-primeval ... come off it, thug, lil Paulie knows a throwback when she sees one...
Hazily, she thought of Anna's reception party, but at this hour felt sure there'd be no food or punch or Lower East Siders left to befoul the airs of home ... all gone off to tuck their bleating little whelps in their cribs ... baste the gurgling bastards in Johnson's baby-oil ...
It was ten minutes till four when Paula unlocked her front door and, happily, saw that the living room was quiet and deserted. She tried to maintain her balance long enough to navigate across the room to the bar. Got my own brandy ... vintage stuff ... aged...'45 ... that was a good year ... school year ... went to bed with straight A's...
She was about to pour a drink when she noticed the light beaming from under the kitchen door. Max still up, sitting in his favorite room, maybe reading Variety and smoking his stinking pipe, maybe waiting up for her, oh stalwart exalted scoutmaster so forgiving when I've had five (count 'em!) plungers in one night! Come hug and kiss your li'l social disease, honey ... still a lil lipstick they didn't lick off ... want leftovers? ... wanna scrape the leavings? ... wanna kiss-kiss, wanna smooch?
When only a few feet from the door, Paula heard vaguely familiar voices, but was lunging too fast to halt the momentum. She pushed the door open and shrieked: "It's true, it's true, blondes do have more fun!" And then gasped as she saw not only Max seated around the kitchen table, but several members of his family, as well as her own. Joe and Elsie, Emma and Salvatore, Art and his wife Eadie. Aunt Irena. And Marta.
Paula's mother stared with alarm at the strange platinum blonde staggering in the doorway.
FIFTEEN
Everyone gaped, startled, not immediately recognizing her. Paula's first disjointed thought was that it was the most repugnant tableau she'd ever encountered, all the faces lumped together in a single mass of censure. "Well ... if it isn't the linoleum set!" she greeted them, thinking how inane and yeasty they looked squatting in their servants' quarters, their kitchen Shangri-la with its glaring overhead light, coffee-klatsching or chewing-the-rag ... obscene way to communicate in a luxurious apartment ... looking like a pack of smelly immigrants..."Why don't you all get back on the boat?" she cried. "Steerage!"
Max half-rose, his face stricken at the sight of her, but straining for a hearty grin. "Why Paula, look what those sorority-gals did to you. Whew, honey ... that must have been quite a party your friends put on."
"This is ... Paulie?" Marta's mouth fell open.
"I'll be damned!" exclaimed Art, his expression a mingling of surprise and amusement. "It's the Playmate of the Month!"
"Aw ... the Saints be praised, what've ya done to yerself, girl?" asked Emma. "Is it an experiment, then ... a bit of homework?"
Slowly, Marta got up from the table. "Paulie, what is it? You ... you look so sick, darling."
With difficulty, Paula made out her mother's face. "It's okay, Mom, it's me all right, lil Paulie Fabian with the giant noble brain ... and the busy, busy tail . ... " she ripped off the wig. "See Mom, it's me. Been to a ... a masquerade ... we drew straws and I picked 'whore' ... wanted to get the feel of the oldest profession."
"But she's marvelous!" squealed Eadie, her round face beaming with delight. "I keep hearing how superior and elegant she is, and look at her, Art, she's got more pisazz than any of us!"
"Eadie means you're a swinger," Art said, his eyes still appraising and sardonic.
Paula stood weaving there in the doorway and gradually realized what was happening to her in the glare of those kitchen-eyes. Enemies advancing, apprehending. Oh please no ... not like this ... She stared down at the glittering wig in her hand, touched the sequins on her tight-fitting dress, and the full horror of her mistake swept over her. Oh God, the nightmare blunder, the terror that had been pursuing her for years. Discovery. And here, where she lived, so secure behind all the impregnable masks; here at the scene of success, such failure! To flaunt such an image before these people in her own home under her own name ... Oh no, not permissible, not until I'm ready to die can they see this face of me ... The wig still in her hand, Paula watched her mother moving uncertainly across the kitchen towards her, and the trembling began. False lashes and mascara on Halloween skull that was splattered with a grief nobody knew existed. And then the sounds retched from her throat. Surely not her public tears, public shrieks of imperfection ... with her mother standing near stretching out the comforting arms, ready to shelter and embrace despite the shambles and the taint ... Oh God, please don't let her near me with this knowledge. Let her believe the sweet lies again ... Oh make her innocent so I can go on being what I was in her eyes...
But now her body shook with its denials and she heard the drunken child's wails spewing from her lips. ... "Oh Mama no, turn around and don't look at me ... please, I'm so ashamed.. not like this ... Max, tell her it isn't me! Forget what you see, Mama ... it was a party, a game ... I'll change again and you'll be happy..." Then, stumbling backwards, she lurched away from the sight and ran to her bedroom, slamming the door, bolting it.
Everyone fell silent, watching Max as if awaiting some signal, and all stunned by the hoarse, screaming fits of woman-despair they heard from Paula's room!
The Sandarettis exchanged mystified glances. Could this be their boy's brilliant scholarly wife, so far above them, so aloof?
"She's not used to drinking," Max told them, ushering everyone out into the living room. "She absolutely never drinks, because this is what it does to her. Gives her a crying jag, and ... you know, being a psychologist, she hates for anyone to see her like that. I mean, it's so embarrassing for her because it practically never happens, believe me."
Everyone stood around uneasily, pretending not to hear the cries from Paula's bedroom.
"Oh hell, stop explaining, Max," Joe threw an arm about his brother's shoulder, "No news to us that women can't hold their liquor."
With relief, Emma took up this cue of levity. "If it's me yer referrin' to, ya unnatural son, you'll get the back of me hand and lose yerself a babysitter to boot!"
"Aw come on, Emma," said Salvatore, making an effort to keep his big sympathetic eyes from peering in the direction of Paula's bedroom, "We gonna go home now, so you get a head start on shutting up your mouth, okay?"
"Elsie knows which women I was talking about," Joe said.
"I'll have you know I am not a lush!" Elsie deliberately exaggerated her resentment, hoping to distract some of the worry from Max's eyes.
"No, you're a lushette!" Joe quipped. "Hey Maxie, ya get it? Pretty good gag, huh?" glancing at Max to see if he'd laugh. But at the moment Max was anxiously watching Marta's face as she listened to the alien sounds of anguish from her daughter.
"Marta, honey, look," said Max, "it's just like I saidshe went out with some girl friends to this masquerade party, and they got her drunk. Probably be teasing her about it tomorrow. Friends of hers, you know ... they always have lunch together, play these little tricks on each other, know what I mean?"
"No, it's more than drinking, Max," Marta said grimly. "It's ... well, my God, it must be something. She doesn't dress like that, doesn't look like that ... and she doesn't cry."
"But I remember what she said today at the church," said Salvatore, "about how she's gonna go out steppin' with her schoolgirls. Not so nice, though, to serve such a lady all that liquor," a gleam of mischief in his eye, "'cause they can't all kill a gallon a day like your ol lady."
"Aw, go and scratch, ya dirty old greaser!" Emma lifted an arm as if to clout him, but Salvatore ducked.
"Well, it is very strange that she would consent to such a costume," said Irena, just recovering from the shock of her niece's performance, "And I still cannot believe what I have seen."
"Say listen, everybody has a secret desire to be what they're not," said Eadie Goldstein. "That's what masquerade parties are for, to bring out your alter ego..."
"Hey Maxie," Art said jokingly, "Maybe now's your chance to show her who's boss, tell her to lay off the sauce or pow! Right in the kisser."
"Art, are you crazy?" Eadie tugged at his arm. "You know Max better than that, he's a loving man, not a bully like you."
"What bully?" demanded Art, averting his eyes from the sharp glare Max was giving him. "You can't even remember the last time I slugged you."
"That's only because the kids are getting big enough to protect me now!" Eadie laughed.
Trying not to let it sound too urgent, Max now reminded everyone of the late hour, and in a few moments he had quietly gotten them all to leave. Marta urged Irena to let the others drive her home because she wanted to stay.
As soon as they were alone, Marta rushed up to Paula's room and repeatedly tried the knob. Then knocked on the door. There was no answer. Despondently, she returned to the living room and, with Max, sat silently there, listening to the incredible evidence of her daughter's distress.
"Max, I am afraid. Suddenly I have this terrible feeling, like a chill, like I don't know who that is in that room. She wouldn't even let me in, me ... her own mother."
Max went over and knelt beside her, taking the small fat hands in his. "Mom, she's going to be all right. She just doesn't like to be seen like that."
"Like what, Max?" she searched his face. "Are you telling me she's a heavy drinker? My God, her father drank, you know. But Alex, poor darling, was a weak man, and Paulie has the will of iron, and she never..."
"Hold it right there!" he stopped her. "You're on the wrong track, honey, 'cause I am the only boozer in this house."
"Then what is that, please?" Marta pointed towards Paula's bedroom. "Even as a little girl she never cried..." she raised her voice for Paula to hear. "Your Mama was always ready to comfort you, Paulie, but you never needed it. And ... now you need me but I can't come in?" The tears poured down her cheeks. "Oh Maxie, what is happening to her? I never know what is going on inside that girl, if she is happy, if she is suffering. Everything is such a secret with her."
"Oh come on, hon, don't cry ... please!" Clumsily, Max put his arms about her, hugging and dabbing at her face with his handkerchief.
But Marta pushed him from her and ran up to Paula's bedroom door again, pounding on it fitfully. "Darling please, this is your mother! Let me in. If you are unhappy, let me hold you. You are only human, Paulie. We all cry, God knows, but if we do it together we will maybe laugh a little sooner..."
"Balls!" shrieked Paula.
"What did she say?" Marta turned to Max.
"Oh Christ, come away from there, Mom," he took her arm and guided her back down to the living room. "She's sick from drinking. Don't you see, she can't hold it ... makes her hysterical ... "
Marta called over her shoulder. "If it's because I was hanging up on you when you phoned me, I was mad, darling, because you would not come to your poor Uncle Lazlo's funeral, may he rest in peace. But Paulie, you will call me again tomorrow, and I promise, darling, cross my heart, Paulie, that I will never again hang up on you." And fresh tears once more as Max led her to the divan. "Never needed me, that baby. Baby? Oh, that is so funny," but crying even harder. "When was she ever a baby, Maxie? Oh I know she loves me, and even though she mostly studied, we were very close when she lived at home and I knew that she knew I was there . . .and it was enough for me. So yes, she loved me, but never really needed me. When she was ten already she was doing everything better than her mother, you know what I'm driving at, Max?"
Max gave her a quick, darting glance, and suddenly wondered if he wanted to know what she meant. Because if this woman actually sensed the truth about Paula, he didn't want to be told. Oh hell no, he'd rather go on believing there was someone who still had the highest of illusions about her; then maybe he wouldn't feel he was fighting such a lonely battle.
"Nobody could do anything for that girl," Marta went on. "Max, do I know her? What do you think, sweetheart, look at me."
But he averted her eyes. "It's getting awfully late, Mom."
"You know, Maxie, sometimes I am afraid she will end up all alone with those secrets of hers, that brain of hers. You should know how alone she always was, my genius baby in there, alone in school because the others were older and did not invite her to play with them; but not alone now, because you are here, sweet boy..." the flowing tears again, "Oh God, tell me you won't leave her, Maxie!"
"Not a chance."
She touched his cheek. "Like Eadie said, you are a loving man, Max; and such a pretty party you gave tonight for your little sister's marriage." She leaned forward, probing his eyes. "And listen, you think maybe I do not know how it is for you here? You think I am blind, Max?"
Christ, no, he thought, rising, no more of this! "Better let me drive you home now."
"No. I will sleep here on the couch, or in your den. And in the morning she will see, her mother will be here, and ... she can tell me everything . ... "
"Oh no, Mom, she won't thank you for it, believe me. Paula doesn't like people to see her when she's ... upset ... "
"People?" Marta pulled him back down beside her. "Maxie, what does that mean? Not even you should be near her when she is miserable? If not you, who else? That's what you are for, sweetheart ... that is why you are here."
With a grin, Max reached over and kissed the tip of her pudgy nose. "That's how she is, Mom, so what're we gonna do, shoot her?"
Marta examined his big expressive face closely again, then threw her arms about him. "You great big lovely boy, tell Marta who is really the unhappy one in this house?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, now can it!" He pulled away and got up. "I mean hell, what are you all of a sudden, Dear Abby or something? Now come on, let's hit the road; it's almost dawn."
In the car Marta was quietly reflective, and Max prayed he'd get her home before she opened up and let out all those suspicions she might have had for who knows how long. But finally, as he gave her a goodnight hug at her door, Marta spilled out everything she'd been thinking. "Max, listen," she began, "Listen, a man like you, a ... a ... loving man like you, darling, and a girl like that ... well, listen, this isn't easy for a mother to say . ... "
"Marta, believe me, it doesn't have to be said."
"No, the time has come for me to tell you that you must be patient with her, Max. I am her mother and I watched her ... and I knew and maybe I was afraid of something like this ... and now, married a few years already and no babies. You think I need a brick wall to fall on my head? She was never ... never what you could call a lovable type, you know what I'm saying, darling? All right, so you are a big healthy and, if you'll excuse me, passionate man, but by now you should know that all women cannot enjoy ... uh ... sex, Max ... I mean ... well, yes, that's the word ... sex ... you see, Max? And if my poor Paulie is what they call ... God, I don't know how to say it scientific ... an untouchable, yes, if she is like that, well ... listen, darling boy, so you have to be patient with her, Maxie ... and gentle, because in my experience ... Say, what you are you laughing at ... this is very serious!"
"Aw, you're beautiful!" Max roared with his hilarity, tears of relief and delight springing to his eyes.
Marta eyed him anxiously. "Your wife cannot make love like a normal woman and you are laughing?"
"Honey, you're gorgeous!" Mopping his eyes with a handkerchief, Max flung his arms about her. "Mom, I love you so much at this minute I may even come up and go to bed with you!"
"Don't talk dirty, please; I think you are a little drunk yourself. All that punch tonight. And the way you and Joe kept pouring bourbon into that bowl ... You think Marta does not have eyes in the back of her head?"
"Yup, Marta sees all and knows all," he grinned; then pulled her close for another hug that left her wheezing. " 'night, sweetie, 'night, fairy godmother...."
"Say listen," she said, getting her breath, "You sure you can drive home?"
"Positive."
"Well, remember what I said, Maxie, all good things come to men who wait. So ... you be gentle with her, all right?"
'All right."
It was after five when Max returned home that morning. Before going to his room, he stood in the archway near Paula's room and listened. Total silence at last, he thought gratefully, and hoped that sleep would blot out the whole night for her.
He had just crawled into his pajamas when he heard her call out to him. A sound that was crisp and alert. "Max, would you come in here please?"
He ran quickly through their bathrooms and dressing-room and opened her door. "What is it, Paula, are you all right?"
He saw at once that she was, and knew that by now he should be used to her speedy transitions. Propped up in bed in a fresh bed-jacket of simple, tasteful lines, hair pulled back in the workaday chignon, face washed and free of tears, and Smokey fast asleep in her lap as Paula stroked him while she spoke. Max wanted to take her in his arms, but it was such a natural impulse he thought he'd better save it.
She spoke fast, her tone precise, sure. "Max, first of all I want you to know that drinking was all I did tonight. I sat in a cheap bar and drank until closing. I touched no one; much too drunk for that. Instead, I fell asleep in an all-night movie and then came home." She turned and gazed calmly at him. "Do you believe me?"
"Yes," he lied. "I ... know too much drinking spoils it for you." And wondered if she could ever suspect how crazily happy her he had made him. If she cared enough to hide die truth from him, it meant that she wanted him to think well of her; the first shred of hope he'd had in months. He knew Paula too well to doubt that she'd accomplished what she had set out to do. For days it had been a most deadly objective with her. But Max had fully expected her to taunt him with the details, expected more of the gloating bitchery. But instead, she had shielded him from all that manure instead of pushing his face in it. Kept the pain out of his reach instead of wanting to see him squirm. And now he wondered desperately if this wasn't a good thing for her to have done, a hopeful thing, for him. If something changed in her tonight, let her give him another sign, even another lie, and he'd wait for her again.
And when she was ready, he would be the one she saw . ...
"I also want to thank you for covering up for me, Max, telling everyone about the masquerade party. I've been thinking about it. Very plausible. And coming from you I'm sure they all believed it." Tenderly, she stroked the sleeping spaniel.
Max pulled a chair next to her bed and sat down. "I'll sit with you awhile and ... we can talk."
As if she hadn't heard him she said, "You did convince them, didn't you?"
"Oh yes, Paula, they believed me. And anyway, they could see right away that you were . ... "
"I was in costume."
"That's right."
"Yes, a very good story," fingers gently caressing her pet "And simple too. Not contrived. That part about my girlfriends letting me drink too much. Fits in with what I told them earlier, about going to a sorority affair. Excellent. We can say one of their husband drove me home after seeing I'd had one drink too many. After I get the whole vast network of details straight in my mind, I may call your mother in the morning. Then she could tell your brother Joe, because it's that wife of his who would do most of the gossiping, to say nothing of your friend Art . ... "
"Oh no, Paula, Art would never ... "
"I may even have Eudora phone them too," she went on, "as a witness. She'd back me up. Eudora's my friend." Voice almost metallic now in its precision. Utterances incontrovertible.
"Paula, if I were you I'd just let it ride."
"No, Max, you see, there can't be any doubts. Appearances mean a great deal to me."
"I know."
"I have this enormous responsibility. To the young and impressionable. The structure of discretion I've built has been like granite."
She was silent for many seconds then, as Max watched the loving hand stroking, cherishing the sleeping dog.
"The way your family saw me was never meant for their eyes. Terrible mistake in timing. And of course they can't know I'm like that only when I want to be, at the suitable time and place. You're sure they believed you?"
"Yes, Paula," watching the loving fingers, the lady's hand.
"Good. Very important. You are what people say you are; nothing more, nothing less. So you must guard what they say. like a minister of propaganda, you must be ready at all times to suppress the unsavory concept."
Max studied her profile, the classic high cheekbones, full strong mouth, face devoid of makeup, but imperious, and oh so sure.
"If no one sees you fall from grace, you haven't really fallen at all," she said, "It's as simple as that."
"Like the theory about exploding a bomb thousands of miles from civilization," he ventured. "They say if it goes off and nobody hears it, it's as if it hadn't made any noise at all."
She nodded. "Yes, very much the same principle."
Except that it's the end of that bomb, he thought, no matter who hears it explode.
"Well, then everything's in order," she said. "No sloth, no loose ends. Excellent. Tomorrow's Sunday. I'll sleep late, perhaps even a mild tranquilizer."
He waited there, near her in the quiet.
"My mother. She believed you?"
He nodded. "More than anyone, Paula."
She said nothing. And then everything. "Very important, the impression one makes on one's mother."
Max saw the trembling begin, the dog awakening and gazing upward, Paula's hands quickly covering her face.
"Oh honey look, she believed me. Your mother loves you!"
She switched off the light on her nightstand, throwing the room in darkness. "Please leave me alone now." Same choking sobs as he made out the silhouette of her head turning away from him, lowering and burying herself in the bedclothes, going into hiding, because this was the closest he'd ever been to the need and the heart of her and she wanted to run...
But no, dammit, he was too close now, and too ready to help. Let her get used to being helped, he thought ... and let it come from me first. He moved nearer and lightly touched her shoulder, and was suddenly frightened by the quick rasping cries of her, more agonized than before, so bursting with pain that he wanted to pull her hard against him and crush whatever it was that was chasing her. But her hysteria mounted and he was afraid to move, began thinking of doctors, ambulances..."Paula, for God's sake, I'm here," he cried, "I'm here! Can't you get it through your head that somebody's here, that you don't live in this house alone?"
"Oh please get out, Max!" she pleaded. "Stop watching. It's so cruel . ... "
In the shadows he saw Smokey crawl up closer against her, saw her arm reach out for the floppy-eared spaniel, cradling, clinging.
Max stood there quite still for a moment, listening as the dog began to whimper with its mistress. Then he went to his room.
SIXTEEN
Convinced that her two worlds were still securely divided, Paula clung tenaciously to old and proven patterns that summer, growing even more adamant upon detecting her family's new campaign to coax her into the charmed circle of the average. Phone calls from Marta, Irena and Eadie suggesting bridge-clubs and matinees and Sunday brunches, mass biddie-brigade hoping to snare a new recruit. And Max, being so determined and conspiring to 'bring the little woman out of her lonely shell,' simply because he'd caught her in a soft moment and now assumed she was ready to be molded into mediocrity's image.
Rather than let herself be pulled into the swarm, Paula held fast to the elegance of her solitude. For her, the idea of dissolving into the attitudes of the ordinary just to gain their acceptance was a little like telling an armed bandit he could steal everything she owned as long as he let her live. Not even a sellout, but giving to buy, relinquishing to be spared. And a robbery, nevertheless. How anxious they were to see you stumble, the joiners of the world, that horde of earth-strapped vassals, how snarling eager to trample the powers they could not emulate. 'You be just like us,' they ordered, 'or you can't play!' Yet, how could she know what threats or ambiguities might prevail if she stepped down out of her uniqueness and became a club-member? What guarantee did she have that they would not want her reduced and minimized as soon as they were close enough to see how unlike them she was?
People.
Let one of them in and they're all tearing to get at you!
However, it was not always possible for Paula to remain on so exclusive a treadmill in the city of New York. The danger of crowds was everywhere, and it required meticulous timing to escape Manhattan's mob-scenes. She had her lunch sent in, arranged her hours to avoid the packed elevator, and tried not to be abroad during peak hours. She also drove to work daily, wanting to avoid that most lethal of all mass-levelers, the public conveyance.
One morning in late July Paula's car broke down and was in for repairs for a week. Seldom able to rely on taxis during the morning rush hour, her only alternative was the subway. From Uptown to midtown. A few zooming moments. But for Paula, something more annoying than the plebian pressures of the mob. For Paula a taunting inferno of pulsating male bodies pressed insinuatingly against hers.
How revolting, she thought as she clung from her strap, the way teen-aged boys were allowed to dress these days. Those tight, contoured dungarees leaving practically nothing to the imagination. It was an increasing disgrace and she searched the faces of other women around her, surprised that they did not notice the outrageous spectacle as she did.
During one rush-hour a particularly husky lad stood hunched directly behind her, clutching the strap above her, and actually straddling her hip, his tight warm mound throbbing against her each time the train jerked, seeming to expand of its own accord while he went on reading his tabloid. Only a fingertip away, a hair's breadth. One slight rub of her thigh and it might produce a noticeable arousal, right there in public, under the greedy eyes of the throng.
Oh, how obnoxious before such an audience, she thought; and upon reaching the office that morning she drafted a letter of protest to the Times-even kept a client waiting while writing scathingly about this social blight, this current lapse of decency and good taste in the wearing apparel of young men, especially their trousers, so vulgarly revealing they might as well be naked. What a danger for young, impressionable girls who might be thrown against such semi-nude men, pressed so intimately against their all but exposed privates, a contact which, in many cases, they might not be ready for and one which they could not cope with or comprehend. What sort of city government was it that allowed such shocking exposure on our subways, lascivious young boys nudging and prodding their genitals against wholesome, unsuspecting girls, girls who might not otherwise be troubled with the despicable sort of notions this put in their minds? And, she wrote on, if the Times wanted to know exactly what notions she referred to, she might even go so far as to draw them diagrams of anatomy and biology ... if they were that obtuse and insulated about existing conditions ... if they were ... if they...
Paula suddenly stopped writing, her hand shaking so that she dropped the pen. She re-read the words she had written, checked the time to note how long she'd been absorbed in the project. Re-read the words about the boys' genitals, the nude boys, the exposed boys; it was like nothing she'd ever written, like a tirade from some religious fanatic, like someone judging and condemning instead of remaining sublimely detached and observing as she had always been. A typical letter from a crank, someone twisted and repressed, someone without control. And authored by her, Paula Sinclair, one of New York's most renowned social psychologists. Authored by the lofty objective one, lady-clinician so infinitely removed and uninvolved . ...
And the truth of what she had written? Semi-nude boys nudging against her. Yes, that was the complaint, the torn lust that was so afraid to breathe in public. All those full-blown young loin-cherubs within arm's reach, her arms, her hands tense with holding back from the touch and the kneading fondle. Her ideas which could not be managed because dear God, it was the wrong setting and the wrong hour and she wasn't in charge, wasn't equipped to choose from this stockpiled world in this moment, reduced to nothing but wanting, the sick temptation of wanting and hoping to deride what you wanted because the situation wasn't ripe for procuring it.
Young boys had never plagued her before, except perhaps to watch their lithe movements from afar, but never letting herself be drawn in. Yet, here for the first time was the pull and desire for them, the searing thought of all that bulging heat in the subway. Why now?
Paula was struck by a blinding headache, a vertigo. She reached for a tiny white sedative pill in her desk drawer, poured water from the pitcher.
Young boys. Gangling awkward accidents of physiognomy. And never before ... I must be more careful. I must more rigidly guard what I allow myself to see. I cannot afford to want something, some body, which I cannot have; for then I will have become the victim instead of the chooser, and that would be the end for me. I must guard. I must screen and sift every possibility of a situation wherein I might see what I am not ready for. If I don't see what I can't have it won't be there, and I will not want it. Still free that way. Still holding the reins. Yes, if I want to go on being fulfilled there must be more removal for me, even more. And I shall remain monitor of all I hunger for, all I care to touch. I desire to desire and will not have it any other way.
When the sob came to her throat she stifled it with her hand. No. That, too, postponed, at my leisure. Remedial crying late at night, in the dark, locked in my room ... where they cannot see me ... young boys, how they laugh, how they snicker...
Will someone tell them, please, that they don't know me?
For the next few weeks whenever Paula reviewed her panic on the subway she told herself it was 'someone else, not me.' And towards mid-August she felt the need for some heightening of activity, new gaps to be sealed in. She cancelled the remainder of her summer term at Columbia and decided to concentrate more of her spare time at the Guidance Center. Good therapists were at too great a premium for her to spend all her time piling up doctorates and degrees. Thought-in-action was required, not simply sitting in the classroom sponging up knowledge. To be out and helping would be medicine for her as well as others. And thus, when she needed it most, Paula would surround herself with devotion.
She volunteered her services for Monday and Friday evenings as well as the customary Saturdays and Thursday afternoons. On that first evening she immediately discovered that Monday was the busiest night of the week at the Center. And too, the hot weather brought the lower classes of the city out onto the streets, where they seemed eager to air nothing but their hatreds and rivalries. There were the chronic marital misfits for whom she had neither patience nor interest; and, luckily, due to her reputation in other fields, she rarely found it necessary to counsel warring couples. It appeared to her that they fought for the most inane reasons during the summer months, tearing at each other's throats out of sheer boredom and humidity.
"Never having worked Mondays before, my dear, you're not used to the aftermath of Weekend Neurosis," said Dr. Zimmerman, the Center's head psychiatrist
"Leisure," commented Paula, "the great American ailment. Europeans seem to make such an art out of doing nothing. But if we're not busy every moment, we're hostile, or guilty, or both." like that woman on the subway, she thought; staring and molesting with her eyes, instead of re-routing the hungers.
"Oh come now, Mrs. Sinclair," said the venerably paunchy doctor, "You are the hardest working woman I know, and it's obvious that neither guilt nor hostility has anything to do with it"
"Oh?" she smiled at the slightly de-neutered looking old scientist.
"You are dedicated," he told her. "This is rare and selfless, and we are grateful for it."
This man was a titan in his field, and knowing that any diagnosis of his had to be gospel, Paula faced the rest of that evening with new authority.
At nine o'clock a pale but lovely young girl of twenty-three appeared in her booth for counseling. She had been coming to the Center for several months, on Mondays, but her regular therapist was too occupied to see her.
Asking the girl to be seated, Paula glanced through her case-file. Name, Viola Jarnac. Married twice, currently estranged from husband number two, a savage brute type with a criminal record; ditto for first husband and several lovers. She had a brilliant education, came from a well-to-do family who had disowned her, wrote poetry that was occasionally printed. Yet, according to Dr. Zimmerman's initial report, there were compulsions towards self-debasement in her need to involve herself with brutal lovers and husbands.
Paula eyed the wan, sad face across the desk; such delicacy of features, blonde, patrician, neatly groomed ... Poor thing doesn't want to be loved, just wants to be executed. And, from past grim experience, Paula was almost certain she would get her wish.
From the file Paula noted that the girl's present husband had repeatedly deserted her during their three years of marriage, usually after a severe beating.
"Well, Viola, how's the writing going?" Paula's professional smiles-an ingratiating glow seen only by clients-was so overpowering, the girl could not help but return it "How did you know that?"
"You've been getting publicity," Paula indicated the file. "I mean, how did you know about right now."
"Pardon?"
Viola gave her a secretive little smile and leaned closer. "I wrote a new poem over the weekend."
"Oh, that's wonderful!"
"And he sat right there in the room, watching me every minute. And didn't lift a finger. He's been home three days now and it's been good for us. He hasn't been mean or hit me, or even yelled. You see, Roy is really very gentle except after a few drinks. Then ... he has this personality-alteration and he hates everything he loves. He used to drink so often, most people thought he was always like that, except that I always knew. Because he always cried afterwards. Roy needs me."
Roy Jarnac, Paula read on the file, served a term in the State Institution for the criminally insane, released as cured, but at present still wanted by the police on several counts of assault and drug-addiction.
"You're still living at the same address, Viola?"
"No, we moved. So you can't find him. Can't hurt him."
Paula smiled. "What we want is to keep him from hurting you. If you remember, the last time you were in the hospital for over a month."
"Oh, but he's changed! Believe me, he's not like that any more. You see, he's gentle now because he's been lonely, and ... well, that's how he found out how much I mean to him."
Retaining the smile, Paula said, "Excuse me a minute, dear."
She rose and went to Dr. Zimmerman's desk. After briefly explaining the details to him, he telephoned for a precinct detective to follow the girl when she went home. "Detain her, Mrs. Sinclair, until I give you a signal."
Returning to her booth, Paula's smile was especially warm. "Now tell me about that poem you wrote, Viola. Didn't happen to bring it with you, did you?"
"No ... but I suppose I can tell you about it. I mean, if you're really interested. My family only pretended to be ... especially Father ... Vhat pretty verse did my little bunny-Princess write today?' he would say, and neither of them cared, you know. To them I wasn't even alive, just a doll, a decoration ... all pink and white and protected, a gossamer-girl, never flesh and blood..."
Paula let her talk. About her home life, her writing, her escape from her parents' wealth and position. But mostly about Roy. Gentle Roy.
Then after awhile Dr. Zimmerman looked towards the entrance and saw a husky plainclothesman waiting outside the door. Catching Paula's eye, he nodded. Cordially ending the interview, Paula rose, deciding to escort the girl to the door. They chatted casually as they made their way through the teeming rotunda of the Center. Paula caught a fleeting glimpse of the dark-suited detective ducking out of sight as they approached.
"I've enjoyed our little talk, Viola," said Paula, taking the girl's hand. "Perhaps I'll be lucky enough to catch you again next week."
They stood on the threshold now, the humidity of the night seeming to reach in for them. Then Paula saw the stunned look on the girl's face. "Roy!" she gasped.
Turning, Paula saw that the man she and Dr. Zimmerman had presumed to be the detective could not have been thus mistaken at close range. Although wearing a conventional dark suit, his face was bloated and unshaven, and' he'd obviously been drinking for hours.
"Honey, you didn't have to follow me," said Viola, "and Roy, you've been drinking, and oh honey, you promised..."
"Ya goddamn HI. bitch, wat'cha been tellin' 'em about me?" He shoved Paula aside and went for the girl. And what she saw happen in those brief moments was something Paula would never fully believe, as she stood there, not two feet away. The man slammed a huge sweaty fist against the girl's face and she dropped to the sidewalk. Not a whimper or a sound. No one behind in the Center had heard ... Why do I stand here so paralyzed, Paula wondered. Why can't I scream? Not the cool detachment now, for God's sake, not now! The girl lay there, the pale dresden face trickling blood, fully conscious ... and the eyes so serene, almost adoring...
Now Paula found her voice as the man crawled over his wife, fists pounding, braking flesh, snapping bones like twigs as the blood rushed forth..."How many guys you shack with while I was gone? Aw ... ya muthafuckin' saint, ya goddamn phony, I'm gonna bust your fuckin' head this time!"
Paula's screams brought the others running up behind her, and she turned to witness their paralysis, their tableau of horror and inaction as they gaped.
"Oh my God, I thought he was the police!" cried Dr. Zimmerman. "Their man should be here by now. I'll put in another call..." He ran back to the phone.
"So I was right!" Roy Jarnac roared. "You had 'em get the cops after me. Told'em I was a fuckin' psycho. Want me back in that cage, do ya?"
He lifted up for a second, reached in his pocket and Paula saw the flashing glint of a switchblade.
Oh dear God no, she thought ... oh please ... don't let it happen! Then, to her right, she saw a man running towards them, yelling something, and knew at once it must be the detective the doctor had sent for.
"Police officer!" the man shouted, grabbing Roy by the shoulder and reaching into his pocket for a gun. "Take your hands off that woman!"
Roy butted violently backwards with a thudding crush to the detective's groin, and before the man could aim his gun, Roy turned and plunged the knife into his heart, the crowd gasping as the detective stood there swaying in an instant death-grip, Roy pulled the knife out of his body as the man fell to the sidewalk, then flinging himself on his wife again ... nobody moving or believing, staring as if to erase with their eyes.
A police car pulled up across the street, but the heavy midtown traffic delayed them a few seconds. Paula screamed once more, as the others, mostly women, shuffled back and away from the scene, their faces masked with shock.
Roy was straddled over his wife, knife poised..."I love you, Roy," Paula heard the girl's whisper, the incredible idolatry of the sound, "don't let them hurt you, honey..."
Paula saw the mute horror on the face of the dead detective, then her eyes went to the knife as she stood there on the threshold, the closest. She glanced at Dr. Zimmerman who now seemed as frozen as everyone else. And, not aware of making the decision, Paula hurled her body forward, and with all her strength jabbed a spike heel against Roy's head. With an enraged cry, he lurched up and threw Paula against the door; then went for her with the knife.
"You'll be happier in that institution, Roy!" Viola half-lifted herself from the sidewalk. "It's where you belong, you psycho! Maniac!"
"Oh goddammit, I was right! I knew it!" Turning, he hurled himself on his wife again. Stunned, Paula let her eyes dwell on the two of them, hearing her own groans of revulsion and denial. And even as the police approached with threats and shouts, firing a warning shot in the air, it could happen like that. Faster than a bullet landing it could happen, as others viewed the butchering of one of their own. Gleaming knife slashing and digging against that eager upturned ivory throat, tearing back and forth until the blood spurted upwards in his jungle mass of face, plunging the weapon so savagely that the head of Viola lolled in near-decapitation. Then trying to run as the police swept upon him, enraged at seeing one of their dead, kicking and gouging, Paula watching others in the Center now rushing up to join the authorities in their chastisement, Roy crawling and making a brief crazed escape, then shot down on the pavement, falling face down in the blood of the man he'd killed, shot in the stomach, the temple ... screams of agony as he writhed in spittle and blood, hand pressed into the deep gash of head wound, scraping out the swarm of smashed and foaming tissue, lying there in the torture of a death that did not come fast enough, as they all stood stock-still, attending choral-group of voyeurs, as now even the police seemed more interested in the spasms of Roy Jarnac than repulsed ... not even bored.
Paula remained slumped against the door, knowing she would not faint because she had never fainted and she would not now. Mumbled aloud the one word 'control,' over and over again. Others who had seen this would need her help. Others were weaker. She could already hear the hysteria building around her. Several women sinking to the floor, sobbing, vomiting...
On the face of the girl who lay murdered could be seen the thrill of joy and new discovery which Paula would never forget. Blood-spattered eyes still open and rapt with gratitude ... She didn't fight, thought Paula. Didn't scream or strike back. It was the crucifixion she'd been lusting for and had made her whole. She had loved like that and loved an enemy. Even with his knife against her throat she had loved. And he the enemy, the danger, the infinitely unworthy of loving, the antithesis of all giving ... and she had given, had embraced the mutilator. And was absolved. But absolved from what, Paula wondered. Good God, what could that pathetic little innocent have done to feel she deserved such torture? 'My little bunny-princess' her father had called her...
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Paula ran through the huge room, hurrying to rid herself of the delirium alone, rushing towards the ladies' lounge. Then safe in the booth for the quick and solitary recovery. Fists clinched, waiting for the trembling to start, but knowing in a few moments she would be like steel again, remembering the words, the catechism: if no one saw her weak, she wasn't weak! Hearing her own rasping sobs as the horrendous pictures still clung. To have loved and given ... and loved that vile, unspeakable ... that loveless fiend...
Later, her face washed and newly made up, Paula helped alleviate the disorder at the Center. The police and ambulance had gone. Someone was already mopping up the bloodstains on the sidewalk. Not a half hour had passed and everything was returning to normal. Had it happened, really? Two lives cut down ... a pretty young girl called Viola who thought she'd been naughty and required penance...
"Someone told the reporters what you tried to do, Mrs. Sinclair," said Dr. Zimmerman, "but I wouldn't let them give your name."
"Thank you," she said. "I'd like to forget what happened tonight, if that's possible."
Several of the patients wanted to go on talking about it, but it was the therapist's job to keep averting attention, to be mild and soothing. Working steadied her in that remaining hour, and soon Paula was able to think. She thought of Max. She had to see Max as soon as possible. Urgent. Something she must tell him, something he had to know. Not about the horror she'd seen, no whining claims for sympathy. She wanted nothing from him, wanted a giving, not a taking...
As she drove home Paula could find no name for the gift she wanted to bring him; knew only that it was important to hurry, to have her eyes on him and swiftly, to be reminded that he was still alive in the world and available for this giving.
Upon, reaching the apartment, however, she saw that it was empty except for the dog; and Paula ran frantically from room to room, calling Max's name, until she remembered that he was working late at Art's house tonight.
Slowly, she went into the living room, sat on the divan, the dog jumping in her lap, as she stroked him and thought about Max's hands, rough burly forceful hands capable of atrocity. But tonight those hands were writing. And at other times, caressing ... not crushing. Tonight she had seen what he could have been, had every right to be, and wasn't.
Tomorrow, she thought, rising with the dog in her arms and going to her bedroom. Tomorrow the presentation, the reward.
SEVENTEEN
The murders at the Center blazed in all the headlines the next morning, and within a very few hours Paula's identity leaked out and the phone calls started pouring in. A multitude of the vicarious wanted to congratulate her for having the courage to involve herself in such a morbid episode, wanting to know how she felt in her moment of truth. At home that day working in his den, Max was completely bowled over by the news, as Paula hadn't even mentioned it at breakfast. He was even more proud of her when scores of his friends, who had still not met Paula, called to let him know how marvelous they thought she was; a real heroine.
After reading the details in the paper, Max went through Paula's closet and hunted up the avenging shoe she'd used in her attack, and saw the damaged heel right away ... That gorgeous warrior-bitch, he thought; I'm gonna have this pointed little weapon all bronzed and mounted for her, put it in her study ... or maybe even have it sprayed with gold ...
But that night Max forgot all about the shoe. Something else happened that completely overshadowed anything so trivial as a lone woman trying to prevent a murder.
It was a Tuesday, and Paula hadn't yet told him that she'd cancelled her classes for the summer, so Max's first surprise of the evening was her showing up at the dinner hour instead of grabbing a sandwich and going on to school.
Max was seated at the dining table, evening paper propped up before him, tossing scraps to the dog under the table, Millie standing near, pouring more coffee in his cup, all motion ceasing at Paula's unscheduled entrance.
"Hey, look who's playing hookey," Max greeted her with a big smile, "the bravest Amazon of them all!"
Paula assured him he was wrong on both counts, adding that she'd heard quite enough about the murders at the office all day long and didn't want to discuss it further; also telling him that she'd given up school for the summer. "I'm going to do a little teaching instead."
"I'll be darned," Max was eyeing the large flat gift-box Paula held under her arm. "Millie, set another place, we've got company."
"I'll heat up some more of this lamb," Millie beamed, "won't be but a minute, Mrs. Sinclair." She hurried into the kitchen
"Who and where are you going to teach, honey, and what's in that box?"
Smiling, Paula answered all three questions in rote. "You, here, and Chess." She set the box down on the table and started unwrapping.
"Chess?" he said.
"I've been wanting to teach you the game for years, Max, but you know how busy we've been . ... "
"Yeah..." he said, staring at the box, "sure been busy..." And then, "Oh wow! this is the greatest, you know? I mean ... well, it's too much!"
"I used to play a lot of it in college, and suddenly I got to thinking, there are actually very few activities that we share, and perhaps it's not too balanced a way for us to live..."
"No, huh?" he muttered, listening
" ... not that this is meant as any sort of therapy for you, Max ... I mean..." she stopped, feeling his intense gaze, "Of course, if you'd rather not. If what you really prefer is great big poker parties or ... or bingo . ... "
"Wait a minute, Nutsy, I hate bingo! And ... well, chess ... hell, that's something I've always wanted to learn, all my life, no kidding..." He rose and went to her just as she got the box open. They both stood in silence for a second, gazing down at the shiny new figures.
She glanced sharply at him. "I know, it looks deadly to you, doesn't it, Max?"
"Oh, now what're you gonna do, honey, try to talk me out of it or give me my first lesson?" Max fingered the chess-pieces and knew that he must somehow keep from throwing his arms around her and lifting her in the air, afraid to break the spell.
"Then you do want to learn?" her smile guarded.
"Yep," not trusting himself to say more. "Now first we eat, then we play. I'm ... going in the kitchen and dig up the right wine for lamb..." He had to get out of there a minute because he felt his face giving out too many hints, and he knew he'd have to make himself look as casual as hell.
In the kitchen Max opened the door of the refrigerator and, with his back to Millie, finally got the chance to blow his nose and get rid of his sniffles.
"What are you looking for, Mr. Sinclair?" asked Millie, at the stove.
"Wine."
"But all the wine's stocked behind the bar; you know that, sir."
Max at last managed a cool, bland smile, "Millie, she and I are having dinner together, and then we're gonna sit home and play chess."
In amazement, Millie pointed at the door. "Her?"
"Herself."
Millie stared thoughtfully at her pots and pans. "You think maybe something snapped when she saw those murders?"
Laughing, Max said, "I don't want to know how it happened; just want to get in on it."
"Oh I'm so glad, sir. Lord knows you've been courting that woman long enough for her to give you a tumble ... Then a hand over her mouth..."Oh heavens, what have I said?"
Max eyed her shrewdly. "Pretty hip old broad, aren't you?"
"She's a good woman, sir."
"Shhh ... Don't let her hear you say that."
"Well, that's just what I mean. No matter how she bosses me around, I'm never afraid of her any more. I just let her think I'm afraid because it's kinder that way."
They had dinner together and Max wanted candlelight and violins and night-blooming jasmine, wanted to waltz around the table and kiss her hand and make love with all their clothes on-and for fear of bursting the bubble, did none of this. He played it calm, debonaire, sotto voce; except for one reckless moment when he asked..."How was your day, honey?" And man, she told him. Just as if they'd been yakking about her case-histories every night of their life. Talked to him about her work, not as if he were a geek with two heads, but an equal.
When they began the first lesson, she said, "Now you must remember, Max, that patience sand alertness are the primary qualifications for the really good chess-player."
"I'm only doing this for you, Max, to prove that you don't really have to let your mind go stale."
"I know, I know."
Their first date.
Later they sat on the couch with a relaxing drink and watched a late-night TV show, one of the talk-fests with chatter and comics. Laughing together watching TV, Max thought, another first. And no mention of bed. Just being here, present and accounted for, but company for each other. Secretly, he watched her face, the clean sure majesty of her profile, watched as she laughed at one of Jack Parr's ad libs and, although he'd not heard the quip, Max laughed with her ... wanted to reach over and take the pins from her sleek chignon, seeing her dark chestnut hair fall about her shoulders, in their living room on their divan without time-limits or schedules ... but kept his hands in his lap, thinking oh damn! how he loved his sweet woman, laughing aloud with the joy.
"I didn't think that was so funny," she said.
"Oh ... you know me, one drink and I laugh at anything..."
Cool it, he told himself, don't jar the picture and maybe if I don't push it, this'll lead to a real date on the outside ... whee! take her to dinner, take her to a movie, maybe even one of those arty Swedish films. Holy Christ, Santa Claus, all I want is a date with my own wife! Eyeing her again as she laughed, as she sipped her drink, lightly licked her full lips, that mouth that looked soft and warm no matter how steely the eyes got ... and ooh hell, you sweet pretty girl, you know what you've got sitting next to you? Vesuvius, that's what you've got, but if I let myself erupt I'll scare the livin' bajesus out of the lovely doe, so cool it, man...'cause we're just married folk, a 'sittin' and a 'visitin' like we do several times a week ... but oh Jesus, honey, you are meant for so much more than screwin' ... and if only you'd started out on kissing games instead of the other, then maybe you'd be more afraid of the other than you are of kisses...'cause ... unnn! you were made to kiss, sweet round mouth on my wife ... sitting on our sweet divan watching sweet TV in our own sweet living room ... oh Christ, everything's so fuckin' sweet tonight ... and does she know it, does she sense it ... and can I maybe, if I don't move in too fast, can I maybe slip an arm around her shoulder and kiss her ... just sitting here and nonchalantly kiss her? 'Cause hell, yer honor ... I wasn't doin' nuttin' ... just sittin' around the house makin' a pass at my wife ...
His arm felt tense and heavy as he slowly lifted it and let it rest on the back of the couch ... Jesus, you'd think she was a pickup, and I'm so afraid to touch her the wrong way, so afraid! What I really want is all of her sitting on my lap, but I mustn't try for that, just the arm about her shoulder ... what can she do, for Christ's sake, call the cops?
His arm on her shoulder now, saying nothing. She didn't pull away. Very slowly, Max snuggled closer in the seat, his face leaning nearer hers ... watching her mouth as she drank, licked at the ice-cubes with that virgin-pink lady's tongue. Dammit, he was going to kiss her! She could kill him, but he was gonna kiss her! And then, remembering how she was, instinct told him that first another move would be necessary. Mandatory for Paula. With his free hand he reached over and lightly cupped her breasts, fingertips gently swirling at the nipples until they went rigid under the filmy blouse ... until she squirmed and pressed her thigh against his, her hand going to his fly, deftly urgent as it unzipped and felt the quick rising...
So what the hell, he thought, if that's how she does it, maybe this is how I can do it . ... Hand still at her breasts, letting her tug at his crotch until he was fully exposed now, rudely upright in the flicker of TV shadows ... his hand traveled upward, tilted her chin ... his face nearing, mouth lowering slowly, so afraid to try the kiss he wanted from his sleeping beauty ... his lips almost trembling now as they pressed, dabbed lightly at hers ... then pulled away, gazing down at her mouth ... remembering, tasting the soft petal-feel of it on his own ... her head not turning, but waiting ... calm, eyes closed ... Jesus, look at that her eyes are closed! Oh dammit, woman, do you want what I want ... how can I know? He grabbed at her hand between his legs, stopped the expert stroking ... his mouth descending again, hand raising her chin, playing at her hair, moving lightly about the warmth of cheek ... then tender fast gentle kisses, lips half-hovering ... then touching with light smooth tickling caresses ... then raising again, not touching ... waiting for her to want it and show him that she wanted ... and then ohmyGod, it's happening ... her lips, parting, reached up for his ... the hand that had been so devoutly greedy between his legs left its lair and moved upwards ... as he felt her arms go about him, traveling over the muscular hulk of shoulder, to the back of his head ... and fiercely pressing the mouth down on hers, her other hand sliding up covetously ... holding, cradling his head, pressing ... and Christalmighty! embracing ... the lips under his parting, then wildly locked, underlip all moving crazy fever-thrusts ... her hands on his cheeks now, tugging at the beard ... cupping about his chin, letting his mouth devour and seek now, accepting a new passion in wonder and sweet frenzied alarm ... arras going tighter about him, the gentle fingers circling through his shaggy black mass of hair ... caressing his face and ears and then hugging him harder ... his big cock sticking up down there for her to hold, but this time, oh look everybody, she was choosing him! For the first time it was Mm she wanted, not sex or jazz or strangers-in-the-dark, but him! Oh Paula, if this never happens again, I won't give a good sweet shit, honey ... and maybe you'll switch back like a Goddamned Jekyll and Hyde, but baby I got you now, got kisses from my wife with the beautiful pure sweet cocksuckin' mouth that would much rather kiss me now ... yeah, this is Paula here, kissing me ... kissing me
... and damn, how we've both been dying for this ... And now a newer shock that nearly sent him lurching off the couch, his arms gripping tighter about her ... her tongue smoothly sliding and entering between his lips, his mouth reaching hungrily to suck ... as his tongue met and clung to hers, the moist humid clutching of their mouths growing deeper while tongues exploded, revolved ... lips finding endless new ways to excite and share ... Then her tongue plunged and pointed deeper against his ... and Max felt a sudden something quivering ... a madness of the body that seemed utterly dislodged from him, having nothing to do with who or what he was ... only her tongue and hot full mouth driving him to a point where ... oh Christ, he wanted to yell ... something so damned new and gorgeous was here for them . ... Hell, what was it ... couldn't take much more of it 'cause a kiss like that could kill a guy ... could ... no wait, oh please honey, wait with that prowling pretty mouth to surround . ... Hell, it's ... no, never stop ... but ... hey ... oh ... and then ... ooh goddamn ... "Wait!" he tried to speak but her lips were crushed and claimed against his, and then it was too late ... and he came like that, all by itself, shot right straight up to heaven with nothin' touchin' it but air. A goddamn miracle.
And that night when they got into bed, they made love. Man and wife style, he thought ... old fashioned-type marriage bed getting what it deserved at last. No depravities. No gimmicks or bonus-licks. Him above and inside her, but gently, not strung up together like a couple of whipping-posts, or as if a house detective would bust down the door any minute. Nothing imagine or gymnastic. Just plain. Except for the wild new wonder of her mouth accepting his, and remaining the same warm woman-greeting when they reached their highest crying points and rolled and rocked and captured the fullest of what soared between them. Before, during, and afterward, the kiss was still there, new companion for their nights.
When he was alone later Max decided that even though she still wasn't sleeping with him' or talking about having babies, this was his wedding night. The night when he'd found the best of her in his bed; not the bad bad girl, 'cause underneath those naughty panties breathed a healthy loving woman. To have Paula seek him out as a companion tonight made Max feel more like a man than anything they'd ever done in bed. But he knew better than to try and flush all his dreams out into the open at once, certain there could be no fast adjustments for this beautiful, damned-up woman he'd married. So maybe next on the curriculum he'd try simple handholding, when two hands stayed locked and linked and sufficient unto themselves. Oh man, what a connection it would be when he taught her what it meant to lightly touch if you loved. like teaching a baby to walk, first one step, then another. And after that ... a child for them, just one; and she'd still go on with her career. Easy, natural sequence of events ... She doesn't know it yet, he thought, but all that's ahead for her. And she wants it. She kissed me and told me so.
With an exuberant leap Max suddenly dashed out of bed, kneeling and crossing himself..."Jesusgod, dear Lord, I haven't been to Mass in twenty years, but is it all right if I thank you for what you gave me tonight?"
In her room Paula lay awake and thought of the new sharing she'd meant to bring to Max tonight, new efforts to become the comrade he'd always wanted. But could not reconcile that plan with the intensity of his kisses. The hot vital mouth of her husband had been disturbing rather than friendly, and she tried to determine if she had lost anything by letting this happen. And then decided that she hadn't, for kisses were sexual after all. Not the romantic rot and surrender she had feared. So full and sensual were his members everywhere, his mouth, too, would serve as an organ of pleasure. The deeper they had kissed the greater the moist sensations she'd felt between her legs, so it wasn't half as demoralizing as she'd expected. Wasn't even sentiment. Any flesh-intrusion involving this terribly physical being she lived with had to be more than mere sentiment. Mouth of a stud, lips and penis, to be thought of together like that from now on. Big generous mouth of a virile man was still another wondrous toy for her to hoard and revel in at home. Max-toy. Max! such a male-machine sound to the name ... and ummm ... would he ever cease to excite her! She was glad that tonight had happened after all. It had been years since she'd felt so sensuously complete and satisfied.
As she dropped off to sleep, Paula hoped that Max, too, was satisfied.
EIGHTEEN
That fall a minor family controversy erupted when Paula's Aunt Irena suddenly eloped with a German postal inspector. She and the boys moved to Westchester where her new husband owned a big, roomy house, which Marta was invited to share. However, Marta felt her sister was all too eager to end her mourning period and took this turn of events as a catastrophic personal affront, threatening to spend the rest of her days sitting alone with her crocheting, waiting for Alex. But soon she grew genuinely fond of her brother-in-law Rudi, telling Irena that he certainly had a lovely smile for a Nazi, and at last Marta consented to make the move. Mostly to keep them all from starving, Marta insisted, since she was the only one in the family who knew what a kitchen was for. Thus, a new suburban family was born, and Paula and Max were both relieved to know that Marta would be living more comfortably. At seventeen Gregor was entering Princeton that spring, hopeful for a career in Law, and unabashedly rejoicing when his cousin Paula insisted on financing his schooling as well as that of his younger brother Vito, who was now a husky high-school sophomore, avidly interested in both football and chemistry.
Max's new Broadway show opened in early November and closed before Christmas. Max blamed it on lousy notices, but Art said at least half the material was over their heads due to his partner's arty attempts to create humor-in-depth, no less. Both men lost a huge chunk of money on the fiasco, but Max felt greatly consoled to remember that Paula had shown up for his opening night, remaining in the theater during the whole performance.
Although she only put in a brief appearance at the party later, she further bolstered him by saying that his second act was fairly literate.
To recoup some of his losses, Art was finally forced to sign a Hollywood contract, Eadie telling him he'd have to commute, because until the children were grown she wasn't budging out of Great Neck. The financial setback the men had suffered was greater than anyone knew, Paula being the very last to learn of it. The boys' first big hit had given them an inordinate supply of fools' courage, so they had gone all out in the budget-department Then one day Eadie told Paula the whole story on the phone, and that evening Paula offered to let Max have as much money as he needed. Max of course refused and blasted Eadie for being such a little town crier.
Early in 1960 Max signed another long-term contract as staff-writer for his old network, contributing material to various specials as well as monologues for the late-night talkathon performers. To continue living as well as they did under the power of his own checkbook, Max knew that a weekly salary was still his best insurance.
In the evenings he started working on the first draft of his comic-novel-working title: A Ticket To Mayhem-finding it an even more painful and stumbling prospect than he'd expected. Still, he managed to join Paula two or three times a week for dinner, even though she had resumed classes again that year. There was also their weekly chess-game, Max wisely deciding to let Paula go on winning despite the fact that he'd become quite an adept player.
He watched her closely that winter and spring, alert for the flowering awarenesses he was certain would follow, for she had frozen so many warm spots that were only now beginning to thaw. It seemed to him they shared a great deal more conversation these nights, at dinner, in the living room, with all the lights of civility turned on and fully clothed; communication without touching. And once or twice a month they saw a play together, or a film, Paula also attending frequent family gatherings at the new Westchester house, which pleased Marta as much as it did Max.
"Remember, Maxie, I told you this would happen if you were patient," she whispered to him one night, "At last my
Paulie is opening up and letting in the whole world ... Didn't I tell you?"
For a reply Max simply nodded and hugged the woman to him.
Nevertheless, he began to doubt that Paula would ever be able to accept lightly the casual warm gesture of a husband kissing his wife. In fact, it remained quite a chore for him to guide the persistently erotic direction of all her kisses. At first he had been staggered by what seemed to him her overwhelming hunger for affection, like some bombed-out refugee he'd found in the rubble, the way her mouth clung so greedily to his. Then, gradually, he sensed a deliberate, self-conscious effort to transform each kiss into a sex act, thus reverting to her old rule that there was no reason for two people to touch unless the objective were that ultimate blast of thrill. When he kissed her now there were the moments when her mouth gave and relaxed in full serenity, letting the kiss become an isolated intimacy in itself. And then-abruptly, clumsily-her hand would dart grossly between his legs, and Max felt sure that she did so only because she was afraid not to, saw Paula learning all the facts of life backwards and silently pleading with him to let her take her time ... My sophisticated infant, he thought, all pliable lady-and-child ...
But eventually he knew he'd have to find some way to let her know he wouldn't wait forever, because he wanted a son while he was still young enough to take him fishing, teach him baseball. If only there were some way he could get Paula on the right path and still have her believe it was her idea all the time, get her to switch doctors for once, from Freud to Spock in one lovable leap ... and let's help stamp out birth-control, Goddammit, and concentrate!
One blustery April afternoon Eadie Goldstein showed up at Max's studio for a surprise visit. His first thought was that there'd been a death in the family, she looked so sallow and woe-be-gone. When he asked what was on her mind, Eadie simply took a letter out of her purse and handed it to him.
"Read it, Maxie, and tell me I'm not going crazy."
The letter was from Art out in Hollywood. He was asking Eadie for a divorce. Said he'd fallen hopelessly in love with a young girl whom he wanted to marry as soon as possible.
"My God, I don't believe it," Max said, looking up at Eadie. "You and Art ... after twenty years...."
She nodded grimly. "I should have gone with him, Max. But who the hell expected this? I know it's always crazy-time out there, but a twenty-two year old sex-symbol, Maxie ... And Artie, that tired old alta-cocker, he's pushing fifty!"
"What did you tell him?"
"I wrote him to take his love-nest and shove it, because he's getting no divorce with three children ... and such a scandal I'd have to drop off the face of the earth altogether ... "
Max looked at her, knew that she was close to tears. "Oh Eadie, I'm sorry, honey, I ... don't know what to say, it sounds like he went off his rocker. But I guess you did the right thing; let him sweat . ... "
"No, Maxie, I wrote to him in anger and haste, and I'm sorry now ... I'm..." Suddenly she was sobbing bitterly. "Oh I want him back, Max ... I never wanted anyone but Artie, and God help me, I still don't! You'll tell him that when you see him, won't you, Maxie, that I love him and I ... we ... the kids, we need him..."
"What do you mean, when I see him?"
"Darling, you'll fly out and you'll talk to him ... and you'll bring him back to me, Maxie ... Oh please, won't you do this for me ... Tell him what a crazy old man he is and to come home..."
"Oh but Eadie, wait a minute; Art and I haven't exactly been blood-brothers the past year or two..."
"Don't be silly, Maxie, Artie loves you; he just thought you were trying to ... to put him down after you married Paula with all her college degrees and you took that fabulous apartment, and he felt snubbed and hurt and I told him he was crazy, and oh my God, he is crazy, Maxie ... Please go get him ... he'll listen to you ... You don't know how that man would listen to you..."
"Eadie please, stop crying," he said, then grew thoughtful for a minute. "I'd have to let him think I was out there on some sort of business deal, ease into it gradually so he won't think I'm just doing an errand for you..."
"Oh God, then you'll do it, Maxie? You'll fly?"
"Yes ... I'll fly, I'll fly, stop crying!"
That night Paula had a class, and when she got home and went directly to her study to do some work, Max hurried in to give her the news about his trip.
Paula had begun to take notes while listening to her tape-recorder rattle off the complaints of a stridently distraught widow. "Wait a minute, Max," she said, "There's just one point I want to clear up while it's fresh in my mind; this woman's a real emergency." Then, after a few seconds, she clicked the machine off and pulled his face down for the sort of kiss that wiped his mind clean of everything. When he freed his mouth from hers and recovered, he finally told her about Art and his mission.
"You don't really think he'd listen to you, do you?"
"Maybe not," Max remembered Paula's antipathy for the man, "But I promised Eadie, so at least I'll make an effort."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Oh, a week or so, I guess. Will you miss me?"
She grinned slyly. "Well, you know how I get after two or three nights without it Think you can trust me out of your sight that long?"
Max returned her smile, thinking that just a year ago they could never have joked about this sort of thing. "I trust you, Paula, and do you know why?"
"Tell me."
"Because you love me, and I trust love."
Smiling, her arms went about his neck and she drew his head down, her mouth all ready to clutch again, lips murmuring against his..."That's a horny cue if I ever heard one . ... "
And later that night when she had him naked and darkly near, Paula told him much more. Without words. I'll miss you, her body said ... convoluting, rotating charade, a child's pageant of a trick, acting out what it needed. I love you and want you here! her flesh ventriloquized.
Max knew the language. And as he dressed to leave for the airport the next morning, he had no doubts that something Paula had told him a long time ago was even truer now; he was enough for her. So he trusted her; trusted what he was to her, and what he was still to become.
Then Max remembered the night of her masquerade, recalled the tortured look of her; and wondered what really happened that night. Who and how many ... flunking how much more crucial it could have been for her, a woman alone in the night. Hell yes, he trusted her, but ... would she be safe?
With Max out of town, Paula wondered if she could view her nights through old perspectives. With this sudden freedom had come the chance to experiment with others. Secretly, without carelessness. A chance to find the rough hot hands and thighs and shafts of yesteryear?
No. With Max gone there wasn't enough incentive, because one day she would really like to have him see her with another man, have him sit and watch in a brightly lit room while another man sprawled his naked body over hers and did to her what Max thought no one else had the right to. But not worth the bother to have someone here while he was away. In truth, her schedule was altogether too demanding for her to require or miss any man.
But the idea lingered and disturbed her nights while she lay awake and thought of Max watching closely while another man had her.
One night, wanting the fervid images even more evocative, Paula went to Max's room and slept in his bed, on his sheets, one of his big smelly pipes on the nightstand next to her. And summoned up the trio-fantasy again, the stranger on her and pumping while Max stood near, chained so he couldn't separate them, but eyeing every movement with longing and fury ... then to probe Max's eyes while the other man brought her to climax.
And when she awoke in his bed the next morning, she thought what a nightmare if he had come home and found her there, in his bed, without him. How could she explain it? How could she face him, when he'd said how much he trusted her? It was a betrayal and she must never let it happen again.
The next day when Paula left her office and walked towards the garage for her car, she got the idea that someone was following her. A man she'd never seen who had been waiting in the entrance to her office building; and then, later, also seemed to be waiting outside the garage. But no, she decided it must be her imagination; until the following day when she went out on her lunch-hour to do some shopping and saw him again, the same man. Good-looking and thirtyish, but in no way soliciting her, she thought, for he remained at too great a distance. When she drove home later that day she saw him strolling casually across the street, along the park. And now suddenly she had no doubts, and the quick fury rose and gagged in her throat. It was a detective. Max was having her watched ...
Oh that monstrous two-faced bastard, that treacherous hulk of a clown with all his mawkish kissing-games and his dear and tender trust! His opinion of her had always been, the same, after that first night in his car. His darling romantic lady-wife was an alley cat, and all he could think of when he was out of her sight was to keep all the other studs in New York off her, because she was his flaming hunk of nooky and nobody else's. Paula thought of that last night before his plane left and how close she was to saying T love you, Max' for the first time, thought of how she'd missed him these past two days, how he'd been in her mind every waking minute. Well, she'd pay him back for that humiliation, give him a reason for having her watched; something that would drive him home to her where he belonged, at her leisure, for her gratification. Maybe he'd be ready to split her open, but he'd come home all right.
That evening after dinner Paula went down to the lobby wearing a full-length mink over a transparent robe de chambre, under which she was nude. She saw the stranger seated near the door and deftly slipped a note to him. Then went on to Hammond, the doorman, on the pretext of wanting a cab. The stranger, whose name was Cosgrove, shot to his feet as he read the note. It said: 'I do everything in bed, why not come up? Suite 22. If you're interested, nod as I pass you; I've been wanting you all week.'
When the cab arrived Paula had Hammond cancel it, professing a sudden attack of migraine. Then, as she turned, she let her mink fall open for an instant. She wore no bra, and knew precisely how visible were her breasts. Mr. Cosgrove nodded and gaped, libidinous rapt eyes on her nipples.
She chose Max's bedroom, thinking that this was one autoerotic sex-fantasy she'd make come true. When she asked Mr. Cosgrove if he had sent any reports to the Coast yet, he explained to her that he was not a detective but had been hired as a bodyguard, to protect her, not spy on her. Paula said that was very touching and asked if he wanted to guard her body now, with his. He nodded again.
Max's employee remained until after three the next morning, a rangy man but astonishingly muscular; not too blessed by nature, but desperately artful with what he had.
Never had Paula been so talkative during a romp. She kept moaning all the cheap and tawdry phrases which rarely passed her lips during intercourse. "Oh do it, Daddy," she said loudly, and, "oh Crirnminies, darling, oh sweetheart lover, I can't stand it, Mr. Cosgrove-you're built like an orangutang ... a pack-elephant, oh drive that tusk, sweet jazzin' Daddy, drive it! What's your first name, Mr. Cosgrove?"
"Tom," he damply panted, 'Tom Cosgrove."
"What? I didn't hear..."
"Tom Cosgrove!" he shouted.
"Oh Tom, oh Tom Cosgrove darling," she moaned, "You are frantic! If I could have this every night I could forget that bumbling amateur I married."
"Oooo ... my God, Mrs. Sinclair . ... Oh you doll!"
"Call me Paula, Tom Cosgrove darling," she yelled.
"Oh Paula, honey. Oh man, you make my wife look like John Wayne!"
When he left, Paula reached down under Max's bed and pulled out the tape-recorder. Did a playback, and knew that she'd never heard anything so sublime. An act of vengeance, perhaps, but it would also bring him running and snorting back to her where he could police her body himself if he wanted the others off her, that hot steaming mongrel with the big soft brutal face ... sweet rapacious lunger trying to put her in reserve....
She sent him the tape. Special delivery airmail. And waited for the chastisement, the dear old thumping reprimands.
NINETEEN
Max had been having a bad time in Hollywood. Art was under the impression that he'd flown to the Coast to discuss a W-film contract, and their first few tentative evenings were relaxed and social. Max was introduced to the brassy young dancer Art lived with, as well as all the oddball pill-addicts she kept in tow who were as eager as she to use Art as an open-sesame for instant stardom. Max couldn't figure out why the man felt compelled to marry such a moronic little bimbo. Why couldn't he simply get his jollies and forget it ... let it burn itself out; then go home where he belonged?
And then one night at dinner Max let it become clear to Art exactly why he'd made the trip, and the two men quarreled bitterly. Art said he was a fine one to play marriage counselor with that freaky frigid wife he had back home, and asked Max what it felt like to be married to a computer. They would have come to blows, but were in the Brown Derby and several waiters intervened.
To take the edge off their hostilities, Max contacted a few old buddies who had recently migrated from New York, and was their guest for a day of sun and poolside nostalgia. Then the next evening found him in his room, drafting out a letter to Eadie, a kind of advance notice of what had happened which he hoped would soften the task of having to face her with the news. It was then that Paula's package arrived. Max felt considerably heartened that she had gone to so much trouble to send him a personal message, even though it was late at night and he'd have to wait until morning to go downtown and rent a machine so he could hear that throaty, sexy voice of hers. Back in his room the next day he played the tape. And was on a jet headed East two hours later.
In the plane Max was tense and fuming, thinking how worried he'd been about Paula's safety without him to protect her, not jealous, goddamn her, but afraid for her! ... And now trying to visualize her and Cosgrove together, the stupid clod of a weightlifter must have been roped in and branded like a steer ... And Max wondered how many new rites she'd taught him with her tongue and lips and tail ... And oh that filthy turd of a bitch, he'd beat the livin' piss out of her ... And from now on she'd have to do it on crutches ... because he'd show her just how much of a gorilla he could be and maim the cruddy whore, cripple her, and then throw her out on her ass ... lousy no-good beat-up cunt, maybe he'd kill her instead ... And hell, why not himself along with her ... just grab her and make a flyin' leap for the window and jump...'cause what would be left for either of them after this?
And then as the minutes ticked by Max calmed down and had a drink. And thought of another way to get back at her. For him, a saner, more rewarding method, extracting the full forfeit for what she'd done. And for Paula? ... Oh Jesus, it'd be the most shattering punishment of all. How he itched to get at her...'cause she owed him, the stinky-fingered little fucker, she owed him but good ...
He had several more bourbons at the airport before getting his cab, because if he was gonna play hangman he wanted to ooze into it.
It was after midnight when he reached the apartment. Switching on all the lights, he stormed into Paula's bedroom where she had just gotten to sleep.
"Max, what on earth?" She sat up in bed, startled, blinded by the lights. And then remembering ... "Oh Max, wait ... hear me out ... Please don't hurt me ... It was all a joke ... We made that tape fully clothed in his office ... believe me, nothing happened!"
Please don't hurt her, he thought. Christ, look how ready she is for a hot and heavy whipping-blast ... and maybe that's why she did it ... Well, I got news for her. "Up up up, everybody," he roared. "It's time for natural insemination!" starting to take off his pants. "Hey, Gutter-Ass, you wearin' your chastity belt tonight?"
"What the hell are you doing?" Paula sat up in bed and gaped as he stripped off all his clothes, distracted from the trumped-up story she'd planned to give him that was designed to render him reasonably non-violent.
"Just tell me if you go to bed with your diaphragm on, Paula. I mean ... is it twenty-four hour safety, or do you just slip it in when you're brushing your teeth in the morning?"
She saw now that his rage was taking other directions, areas unchartered and, suddenly, full of new fears..."Put your clothes back on, Max, you've been drinking ... and I'll explain about Cosgrove in the morning ... It was nothing but a harmless trick ... I was lonely and I ... missed you, wanted you back..."
"Sure you did." Stark naked now Max careened towards her dressing-room. "Where's your shield, Amazon ... your plumbing equipment, that's what I'm after..." He flung open the door and began rifling her vanity drawers, her medicine cabinets. Found several tidy kits of hygiene and pleasure gadgets and baby-killers; and, his arms loaded with this loot, he dashed through her bedroom.
"Max, are you raving?" she glared at him. "Put those cosmetics back where you found them, and get out!"
"Cosmetics!" he howled, staggering through the apartment towards the kitchen, "OhmyGod, she's too much! All this time it was just a little dash of lipstick down there that kept us from being a family."
Paula quickly slipped into a robe and followed him as he reached the service entrance and tossed all her shiny kits down the garbage chute. Then he turned and pinned her with a proud and glowering gaze, Smokey barking and leaping at his feet. "Now baby, you are fresh out of foundation cream. By God, it's the end of an era! Oh ... drive that sweet jazzin' tusk, Daddy. Bet your sweet balls Daddy's gonna drive!"
Then he and the dog galloped past her and ran into his bedroom, where he dug up several more packets of prevention which he also threw down the garbage chute. "Goddamn things always gave me a rash anyway..." Then, slowly, he eyed her from head to toe. "Now there's nothing but us, Paula. You and me and skin."
She backed away from him, realizing that he was infuriated enough to try what was now becoming horribly clear in her mind. "Oh, you sonofabitch, you want me pregnant!" She bolted towards her bedroom, but Max grabbed her in his arms and tore her robe off with a single rip, then the flimsy nightgown, holding her bare and struggling against his naked flesh in their immaculate salon, Smokey yapping his approval.
"Look, if you want to fight first it's okay with me, but I'd sure hate to plant my seed while you're unconscious..." He tried to throw her off-balance and force her down on the floor.
"You damned idiot, don't you know that nothing ever happens to me that isn't my idea ... especially not rape, for God's sake."
"Sure, I know ... Sounds like science fiction that anyone'd have to rape you ... and I'll bet poor ol Cosgrove never had a chance..." He strained to lift her bodily now so he could somehow tilt her and slam her flat on the floor, but she clawed at his face and gave him a hard judo-whack to the belly that left him reeling for a second; and as he loosened his hold Paula ran into her bedroom and shut the door, locking it. But Max vaulted dizzily through the other entrance and sprang the full weight of his body against the door as she tried to lock him out, forcing her backwards and pitching her onto the floor, as he leaped on her, the whole of his flesh enveloping hers, pushing and prodding her against the carpet. With an artful upwards thrust to his groin Paula slipped free of him again as Max reared back with a howl of pain, watching as she searched frantically about the room for something to heave at him. Then, despite the throbbing between his legs, he quickly crawled over and tackled her, slung his arms about her hips and sent her flailing onto the bed, lunging himself hard and pressing on top of her, thinking: holy Christ this'd be the first time he'd ever screwed the little goddess in her own bed, pinning her arms, spreading and locking her thighs apart as he angled and slid into a partial entry, slipping now in, now out as she cringed and tensed every muscle away from the awful, indefinable danger of this act, writhing her body downward and rejecting in a fierce agony of determination.
"You maniac, you want me to spawn until I stink ... and I won't ... Oh goddamn you, I won't!"
"Shut up and spread your legs, Mother Earth ... I got some happiness for ya!"
"Don't you know if it happens, I'll get rid of it, Max? Don't you know that?"
"Paula, so help me, you do anything like that and I'll tell the whole fuckin' world what you are!"
"Oh ... you liar, you wouldn't have the guts..."
"Starting with your clients, from A to Z, right down the line ... Then your mother and all your professors ... And take your name off that Fifth Avenue office and write 'sex-offender
"You're not frightening me, sweet lovable Max, because I know you-and I also know which pill to take in the morning to get you out of my system ... that's if a strong laxative doesn't do it tonight..."
"Okay, you take those pills, and wash your career right down your throat with 'em!"
"Oh damn you, they'd never believe you, not for a minute."
"You wanna try them, honey?" Nudging and edging her legs apart.
Suddenly she let out a rasping guttural cry of panic that scared the hell out of him, and even though Max was shaken and bewildered by the quick terror he saw in her eyes, he clamped a hand over her mouth and stayed on her. Rising up a little, he dug his knees into her parted thighs, locking her in position, then crazily aiming and centering himself, he let his knees slip from under him and plunged. With a fast smooth stroke he was fully inside, and with a ripping gash of her nails at his throat he yelled and lurched up and out again, as Paula hurled her knee into his stomach and sent him sprawling to the floor on the opposite side of the bed, flinging herself to her feet and toward the living room, muttering, "I'd rather be dead ... I'd rather you killed me..." And he was on her again as she reached the bottom of the staircase, tugging and yanking at the legs she held so fearfully together, the fighting now growing wordless and deadly, the thudding sounds of blows and grunts their only accompaniment as they slid and tore at each other, scratching their bodies on the carpeting, rolling and wrestling and knocking over tables and lamps, Paula rising again at one point and starting back towards the bedroom, but tackled once more by Max, as they heaved and gasped, as he saw signs of her exhaustion and took courage and flung her legs apart beneath him, on top once more as she whimpered and spat and cursed. And now she felt the hot rising of him jutting against her abdomen, insistent velvety strength claiming lower, owning and inescapable, and something happened which, from the beginning, Max hoped would be inevitable, that Paula would eventually grow too excited to win this kind of a battle. He felt that excitement churn against him now as they lay there on the floor in the center of their tower, as he heard her sigh and then sighed too, and moved his body gently, evenly, steadily, as she gripped and received ... And Max felt what it was like to have her like this, so full and free and perfect, and oh goddamn her, how beautiful, how close, how much them it was like this, knowing this was something Cosgrove didn't get, or any of the others either ... And even though she still clawed at him with the nameless terror that equalled the intensity of her desire, this was the way to have her, the spreading stunted bitch! ... This was man's castle, rising sweetly, then the falling deep saluting gestures, unhampered and clean ... as Smokey stood near, his head cocked, wagging his tail, overjoyed for them....
Then, at last, the contact for them there, a fulfillment so attuned that neither could face the other, but only cling for a moment, their bodies transferring the secret for which there was, now, no recrimination.
Paula rose and went to her room, softly closing the door. Max listened for the familiar bathroom noises, the draining efforts, but heard nothing. Listened outside her door, and still heard nothing, except a click as she turned her light off.
Jesusgod, he thought ... she went to bed and left it in there. She let it stay...
Paula lay fretful and alert, her body too full of response to let her sleep. The soreness and fatigue produced even more of the clambering desire as she remembered the novelty of what he had served her. From her very beginnings of feeling Paula had taught herself that for a woman of her appetites, vaginal guards were imperative. And, until tonight, no man except her father had ever entered her without contraception. How poetic that Max should be the first ... pioneer opening up the new dimension, like starting all over again, hungry little girl in her bedroom with Max taking Alex's place. Trembling, Paula squirmed and tumbled her legs about on the sheets, lifting her nightgown and caressing the places where he had trampled, savoring that poignant throb of locomotion which was, so irrevocably, his love in action, husband and bull so earnestly merging. And the fight had been good; new flesh-disturbance, and a heady innovation to have him take her by force, or as nearly so as possible. At last the criminal assault from a man so gentle, proving that the furies had always been flowing beneath the lollypop sentiment of him, moonlight and roses veiling the beast ...
Rising, Paula removed the nightgown, her breasts full and stinging as she walked towards his bedroom, knowing that this time it would mean more to her because now it would be her idea. Her mind could always fabricate away what her body craved, and as the possibility occurred that she would undoubtedly become pregnant if they had sex-without-care again, she managed to make even this seem acceptable in the light of the moment's heat. If she wanted him stationary and filling the need, the time had come to pacify him, to appease. But right now, the need itself, divorced and rearing, racing ahead and pulling her, leaving no alternative except to find that new immediacy again and make it hers.
Softly, she opened his door and slipped in beside him, her legs circling.
"Oh, you're here!" he said, pulling her to him. "Hot-ass lovely bitch ... you're here."
"Quiet," her hands rousing. "I want it the same again Max. Free. But no more words."
"Kids..." he murmured.
"One child."
"Our son."
"Mine," she corrected. "A family."
"A unit..." She poised her body above his, topping him, and thus impaled on hunger's calculation, Paula assented slowly downward.
I don't care what I think about her any more, Max told himself ... because I love her..."I love you," he said, letting her twist.
"Love nest," she explained.
"You'll ... love ... the baby..."
"Never so much as ... oh NOW, Max!"
"Unnn ... Mommy!"
TWENTY
Paula let one fatal week after another slip by and felt the panic grow. When she realized it was too late for pills to take effect, the prospect of letting nature take its course gripped her with a curious foreboding. Max seemed reluctant to approach the subject, afraid to hope out loud and, perhaps, mar her momentous decision. Paula continued with her classes three evenings a week, her work at the Center, and Max put in his usual full day at the studio, working nightly on his novel. Everything the same except their destination.
She had little fear that Max would carry out any plans to expose her if she attempted an abortion. The resulting scandal would shatter her mother, and Paula knew Max could never willingly do anything to hurt Marta. However, something much worse might happen. Max could leave her. She knew that he'd grown desperate to have a family of his own, and felt that it was an instinct which might one day take him elsewhere. Paula did not want this. Did not want him to go. Whatever else had to change and give way, she wanted Max there at all costs, peopling her days and nights, standing between her and the others, the one person who knew her and continued to care in spite of it.
... I might not be able to find another, she thought-and there should be one.
And then the day came and went. Menstruation negative. But she refused to react. She let another day go by. And another. And a fourth. Then to the doctor for tests. Waiting, knowing, then confirmed.
Upon leaving the obstetrician's office, Paula went into the ladies' lounge and succumbed to a quick flare of rage as she gasped and pounded her fists on the tile and saw that incapacitating nine month stretch looming ahead of her. She was powerless to explain such a portent of doom when she had so thoroughly resigned herself to this one, simple birth in order to please Max and content him and keep him near.
Nor did Max spare her any of the worn old cliches of impending fatherhood when she told him the news that night.
"Oh my God, I don't believe it!" cavorting giddily about the living room. "Holy Christ, I'm fertile!" He swept Paula up in his arms and carried her to the couch.
"Max, for God's sake, put me down!" She twisted in his arms.
"Hey Millie, you're gonna be a governess!" he yelled towards the kitchen.
Millie dashed into the room, Smokey clambering noisily at her heels. "Oh ma'am, then it's true ... it's really true?"
Paula nodded solemnly as she squirmed away from Max and sat on the divan. But he and Millie proceeded to fawn over her delightedly, Paula growing more nauseous by the second, as Millie offered to get her a cup of hot buttermilk, but Max said no, from now on she had to drink a lot of hot water and pickles.
"And honey, maybe you should take a year's leave of absence," he added, "and we'll do nothing but take a world cruise until it happens..."
"Look Max, I don't care if I have this thing in an elevator between floors, I've no intention of quitting work, not for a single day."
"Oh ho ... temperament and moods already!" Max gave Millie a knowing smile, then tried to cradle Paula in his arms once more.
"Max, will you stop patting my face and give me some room to relax?"
"Aw ... what is it, sweetie? You in pain? Mommy wanna upchuck?"
Paula let out a piercing scream and he backed away from her, as she sprang off the divan and ran unsteadily towards her room, locking the door. They heard one more shriek of exasperation and then the forlorn weeping began.
"Don't worry, sir," Millie eyed the anxious look on Max's face. "With that one it'll be like shoeing a horse, but she'll get used to the idea."
After driving Millie home, Max sat and watched TV. Not seeing, but marveling, basking. It had been so long in coming, and the wanting of it had hurt him so; and now here it was, a fact, a big friendly truth in his home, a big pounding burst of happiness that kept expanding and leaping inside of him. And as he lay in bed later and heard the desolate sobs from her room, Max suddenly saw her grief as a hopeful new symptom, instead of the old inexplicable brooding. Now at last there was something to plan for. Not only their child, but the long awaited change in Paula, the great willingness to make him happy.
Max was about to choose this pacifying doctrine to fall asleep on when he was startled by an abrupt silence from Paula's room. And then heard other sounds. The doors opening between them. A moment later he looked up and saw her there, at bedside and naked.
Without a word she bent and slipped her hand under the sheets, manipulating. Max slid out of reach, reflex-protest.
"Do you find having sex with a pregnant woman undesirable?"
Oh God, he thought ... is this part of it too? "Paula, you know better than that. I'll always want you, but ... "
"Show me, Max. Don't talk. Show me your fatherly desire."
She slipped in beside him, gripping.
"Oh honey, wait ... of course I love you, but we have to think of the baby now ... Things're gonna be different..."
"No, Max, nothing must be different. God, don't let it be ... oh please, Max, let it always be you ... and me ... and fucking, the identity-badge, the answer for us. ... " legs wildly kicking him down and crudely cock-jammed into her..."ooh ... split the pregnant man eater, big-hung lord and slave ... make mama-sperm ... cradle the heart of you in and in and in ... and keep me what I am ... not all madonna-swollen and infant-slopped ... but in the bushes and spread and young and faceless ... that's us, Max..."
Max felt pinioned and clamped inside of her, dizzy with the horror and voracity her body could retch out at his; but that night Paula's frenzies were not the usual contagion for Max, and for the first time since they'd met he brought her to a climax he could not share. He was so full and soaring with the news of the evening, there was no room for the fluids of desire-and the thrill of sensation seemed a mere pittance in view of his eagerness for the fresh life that was in her and reaching...
Grow, you hot-ass bitch, he thought as she lay back in the gasping sighs ... don't build backwards with that timeless hole of yours ... stick a fuckin' clock up there and set it ahead for once, Paula, because it's tomorrow we need, not a whole bunch of tonights with all your foaming geysers and screams of delight ... aw ... blow a Utile future up there, honey, and let's watch it pop!
But for Paula alone, in her out-of-bed solitude, there had never been such lasting depression. How to justify sudden fits of crying, having to excuse herself before a client and leave the room? It was more than the sheer physical fact of pregnancy, and she almost welcomed the distractions of nausea and morning sickness; for with illness she could escape the driving enigma, much as she now did with Max, by straining to use the hard swirling body of him like a purging hypo or prescription, as she'd done in the beginning. Without sedation there would be loss. She saw it looming.
Mothers. With their smug and sprouting blandness.
... They are not like me. Do not move or speak or look or get swallowed by men like me. They give birth by being worshipped and hem-kissed, for genital-insertion is never the holy-housewife family-way. Mothers look like Marta, whose deserting long-cocked husband was my first adult-ramming. The world is full of Marta-Mothers, tolerant-faced and giving ... all with that self-deprecating pierced-virgin look. Actually, I'm unfit ... no!-strike that word, that ridiculous mid-Victorian babble of a word. I am, rather, miscast. Wrong role. Not destined in my galaxy....
It was at this juncture that Paula lay aside her scalpel. In her present state she lacked the perspective for self-probing, and there was the danger that she might magnify perfectly erroneous causative factors if she went on with the torment. Perhaps she should relax and let time and the days be her tonic.
But no, as her days wore on. No. For it was melancholia. And she could not live with the daily inanity of baseless tears. Had not ever. An action had to be taken. Corrective. But first she must find the figure of blame. A scapegoat.
She found Max. He watched her.
Chronicled her withdrawals, her hours of locked weeping, and grew afraid to show his happiness whenever she was near. It wasn't an easy thing for Max to suppress this joy, but Paula refused to plan and look ahead with him.
There was so much he wanted to tell her, so many choked-back words to illustrate what was ahead for them. For some crazy reason Max's nightly output on his novel increased enormously after learning the big news. The book was fast and funny and not half as vulgar or gagged-up as he'd feared it might be. And maybe the royalties would pay for that house in the country near Marta's which he was also afraid to mention to Paula. In the meantime, he was thinking about converting his den into a nursery, hoping to squeeze his desk and Hi-Fi equipment into his bedroom.
So Max unloaded his excitement about the baby everywhere except at home. At the studio he cornered charwomen and vice-presidents, spilling out his accumulation of plans. And on the telephone at night, in his den with the door closed, he called all the friends he could think of who had given birth at least once, pumping them for first-hand information. Elsie offered to send him exhaustive literature on the subject, but he warned Marta not to bubble over too much with the Grandmother-bit when she saw Paula.
"My darling daughter surely picks the strangest times to make herself so anti-social again," Marta complained, "Now, when I want to give her parties and layettes and showers . ... "
"Oh Mom, you know the minute I'm waiting for? When she gets her first peek at that kid and holds it in her arms. It'll strictly be Lullaby and Good Night, folks, 'cause Momma's movin' in!"
Standing outside the door, Paula turned and walked softly back to her study.
As the weeks wore on, Max grew afraid that their nightly constancy would endanger the baby. He had no idea how long such energetic intercourse would be safe, and felt especially tense upon hearing those insistent one-word commands of hers...(deeper, Max, deeper!) And if he asked friends or family for the right information, they'd immediately assume he was the kind of brute who couldn't lay off his wife even when she was pregnant, because who the hell would ever believe it was Paula's desire that was involved and not his?
His one precaution was to guide her back to some of those nerve-wracking variations they'd tried in the past. Perversion nightly for the good of the child ... and step right into the playpen, ladies and genitals...'cause this is how we do it at our house! Jesus, the two things he wanted most right now was for his wife to be a perfect mother and his baby to be well-formed ... and to do this he'd have to let the little madonna french him every night.
Which, of course, could not content her; for the area of attack grew more clear to her every day.
Now she watched him, instead of digging at herself. How insufferable of him to play the comic-strip expectant father right up to the hilt. A veritable Dagwood, swaggering his kingly prowess, spewing out all those toasty, bucolic dreams ... Good God, how mighty the cock crows in his own barnyard! And how quickly a single pregnancy could revert him to the stupefying sameness of his brother Joe, soon to pass out the Daddy-phallic cigars, swap toddler-stories with the gang at coffee-break. How they all yearned to see little tributaries of themselves messing about the floor, so growling-hungry for another part of themselves to worship, one more reflected chance for greatness.
No, there was no place for either of them in the picture he formed here. And now, of course, emerged that psychic trigger she'd been seeking, the crux of all her depressions...
... I can bear the child much easier than the father.
Max as Papa-buffoon. Not possible. And it was his role she could not accept, not her own. If the debilitating changes in him were going to be so marked, she could not reconcile herself to Max as the father of anyone's child. How without dignity was the gross anticipation, the laborious naivete. As he spoke of formulae and tonics gleaned from old wives' tales and pamphlets he sent away for which she overheard him reading aloud to Millie in the kitchen. How could she live with the sort of man that reproduction would make of him? It was certainly a far cry from the Max she had originally selected. If he could have a child and remain the same-as she had been so equipped to do-it would be another matter. But no, the growth he wanted was tumescent.
It was the start of her second month. There was no more time for blame. Time only for the remedy. If she wanted to save him, she must crush the malignant blossom. A mercy to inflict ...
One Monday morning in mid-July while going through her mail at the office, Paula noticed the formal announcement of a social welfare conference to be held in Buffalo that coming weekend. Exactly the ruse she'd been waiting for.
She and Max dined quietly that night, after which they played a relaxed game of chess. Then she casually mentioned her brief business trip to him, quickly silencing his objections by saying it was still too early in her pregnancy to be worried about the danger of traveling; adding that the conference was just the vital stimulus she needed to get her out of the doldrums. "It'll be good for the baby's mind too," she said. "It's a seminar on neuropsychiatry."
After her weeks of despondency, Max was so grateful for this welcome animation in Paula that he had no thought of disputing her decision. It wasn't the first such conference she'd attended, and while he knew she was much too zealous about her work to dissipate any of the time allotted to it, Max usually found a way to verify the existence of the event; knowing too that Paula would never chance an indiscretion while surrounded by colleagues and scientists. Other than that, Max felt that the very nature of her condition would keep her even more guarded on such a short trip. However, he insisted upon driving her to the airport that Friday afternoon, although Paula said it was silly, since it was the middle of the day and he should be at the studio.
"You go pick up your ticket, hon," he said, letting her out at the terminal. "I'll go see if I can find a parking space in this bee-hive . ... Be with you in a minute . ... " A loudspeaker announced that her plane was to leave in four minutes.
"Max, there won't be time," she said. "Don't bother, you go back to work, I'll be fine."
"Nothing doing, I'm gonna park. Maybe at least I'll see your takeoff. But come here first, honey." He reached over to kiss her goodbye, then gently palmed her stomach. "Take care of that little guy for me, okay?"
She nodded. "Okay." A few moments later she hid herself in the crowds and watched Max out on the runway, waving goodbye to a plane full of strangers. Then waited until she saw him leave the terminal and drive off. And in another moment Paula was in a cab, headed for a small but charming house in Beekman Place.
Dr. Evan Baxter was not new to Paula. She had sent several girls to him whom she'd felt were far too young to be burdened with an illegitimate child, and too sensitive for the stigma of one of the welfare homes. She had paid highly for such services, since Dr. Baxter was no charlatan and, indeed, was considered one of the most renowned gynecologists in New York. When the time came, Paula planned to tell Max that she'd had some sort of accident, leading to a miscarriage. It was arranged that Dr. Baxter would corroborate this when she gave him the right cue.
"And make it soon, my dear," he'd advised her. "These are matters in which it is best not to procrastinate."
After a little briefing from her that day, the doctor understood that she wanted no pain, no scars, and no tell-tale stitches. Some artful inducement would be the best, she thought; since she already had a perfectly good cavity from which to wrest the knotty embryo, there was no need to carve out another. She got everything she ordered. And as an added bonus, a prescription for the new birth-control pills, refillable. Thus, post-operative euphoria guaranteed.
Paula congratulated him for a precise and workman-like job, and he told her that the after effects of sodium pentothal, as well as the sedative pills he'd given her, would last until she reached Buffalo.
"But then, Mrs. Sinclair, I suggest you check into your hotel and sleep a good ten hours," Paula feeling lulled by his tones of secrecy and discretion. He then gave her another supply of pain pills and drove her to the airport later that evening.
Paula awoke in her Buffalo hotel room the next morning, feeling a good deal of pain and weakness. She took the pills, after which she slowly forced down a nutritious breakfast for the strength she would need. Then she waited for the call from Max which had been planned for this hour.
"Oh honey, it's so good to hear your voice," he said. "I've been worried about you ... How do you feel?"
"Well, Max," she sighed, "I'm afraid this has been a bit too much for me after all, because I ... seem to have caught some sort of bug..."
"You what? Oh God, Paula ... It's not the baby, is it?"
"No, I've just seen the house doctor and he diagnosed intestinal flu. I feel rather limp and feverish, and he says in order to guard against complication, I should fly back home and spend two or three days in bed."
"Oh dammit, Paula, I had a feeling I shouldn't let you go, but ... well, you seemed so happy about it."
"Now don't dramatize, Max, a little stomach flu won't kill me."
"What'd the Doc say about the baby?"
"He said the baby's not big enough yet to catch a cold."
"Honest?" warm chuckles from him.
"Honest"
Upon her return, Max drove her to Westchester to spend a few restful days under Marta's care. Ideal recuperation, thought Paula, for influenza and/or minor surgery. The next day it even seemed feasible to visit Dr. Baxter and have him check her wounds, after telling Marta she was seeing her regular physician for penicillin shots.
"But Mom, don't tell Max I drove into town so soon," she said, "It would worry him."
"Say listen, darling, isn't that what a mother is for, to keep her daughter's secrets?" Marta glowingly contributed, happy to have the girl under the same roof with her once more.
And now, thought Paula, with the obstruction of justice thus removed, she was free to take up the threads of her life again. She had her work, and she had Max. She didn't leave him alone. Wanted the tonic-image of him now and damn his paternal bleatings. As for rushing to tell him about the fictitious miscarriage, that could wait. He'd been so obsessed about fatherhood, there was no telling how shattering the news might be for him. He might even withdraw from her for awhile. Sexually, that is. And Paula wanted to ward that off at all costs. So painful was the prospect of any rejection from Max, she no longer hesitated in giving him all the affection he craved, the long and clinging kisses, the light caresses. How excited the rest of him became with his mouth on hers, and how happy she made him these nights, the little vial of insurance-pills tucked safely away in her office. After all, didn't she love him? Think what she had given up in order to enjoy her husband more fully. There was plenty of time to disrupt their idyll with unpleasant news. And to make him even more pleased with her, Paula started wearing the pretty maternity garments Marta crocheted for her.
Meanwhile, there was her work. People desperate for her help. God, how she was needed! Hear them crying out there in the dark for her, the victims, the lost and young and helpless. Girls, guileless and vulnerable. And, quite suddenly, one girl in particular; a girl whose need of her was more urgent than any in her career.
It was in early August that Paula first heard of the name Dolores Rodriguez, read it in a sensational front page story. The young Cuban refugee and her boy friend were attacked in Central Park. The girl was raped by four drunken teen-agers, while the boy was bound and gagged and forced to watch. After plotting for months to escape the Castro regime, the couple had been in the country only two days and knew little about New York streets at night. When the gang finished with Dolores they started to run off. But at that moment the boy worked the gag out of his mouth and began screaming for the police. And very quickly he was kicked and beaten to death as the girl lay there watching, half-naked and in shock.
Paula was appalled by the vicious story, and not in years had she felt so intensely challenged as a therapist. To rehabilitate that girl after such an experience would truly be a most humane donation to society. Another chance to right the wrongs. But that night Paula didn't want to stand alone on her mountain of healing. She rushed home, oddly compelled to tell Max what she meant to do for the girl, how she would save the soul of Dolores Rodriguez and make him proud of her.
Upon arriving home, however, Paula was distracted by loud hammering noises coming from Max's den. Not used to such unaccustomed racket in her usually hushed apartment, Paula stood in the doorway of his den and saw that the entire room had been stripped bare, with Max apparently in the throes of re-paneling the walls. On the floor were several partially unwrapped boxes, and half-emerging from the corner of one crate she saw a shiny red rocking-horse.
... oh God, what is he doing....Stop him please!. . .
Hold everything still for us...
"Max, why must you be in such a hurry to ... tear that lovely room to pieces?"
"Hi, big Mama!" he greeted her from the top of his ladder, looking happily disheveled in faded denims and white T-shirt. "You just missed the carpenters, Paula. And in answer to your question, you're in' your third month, Madam, and I want this room perfect before you're ready to fill it with rattles and pacifiers..." His eyes raced meaningfully to her belly.
Lightly, Paula touched herself there. Felt the billowy texture of maternity blouse, the all-embracing mask. What if she were to lay aside the garments and begin wearing tight, form-fitting dresses? In a month or two he would know the truth, without a word from her. And then would come the thorn, the obstacle. No. Right now it would be easier to keep wearing the disguise, easier to watch him as he was this minute, so appealing and exultant. Max. At the heights, and hers.
"I figure this'll be good enough for his first year," Max said, stepping down off the ladder, "But after that it's the big suburban migration for us, honey. You know, Eadie's been renting her house in Great Neck now that she and the kids moved into town, but she says it's for sale if we want it. Of course, it's too big right now, but who knows how we may fill it up in the future? Only the shadow knows!" Laughing, he leaped towards her for an embrace.
Paula held the newspaper up before her. "Have you read this, Max?"
He peered at the headlines. "Heard something about it on the radio. Hey, come over here and get a load of this rocking horse, Paula! Biggest one I could find at Gimbel's, and I got two alike. And hey, something new in nursery decals, reversible; one side if it's a boy and the flip side if it's a girl. Took a day off from work to get all this jazz, but it's worth it. And then on Saturdays, I'll really get swinging."
He was across the room, unwrapping boxes. "Max, I'm serious about this girl, why do you ignore me?"
"Oh hell now, don't ever say that!" Swiftly he was at her side for a kiss, holding her close to him. "It's just that I'm getting more excited about this every week ... I mean, imagine what this room will look like!" After another kiss, he lowered his head and pressed his ear against her stomach. "Damn! I think I can hear him. He's pacing up and down in there, the little bugger!"
She backed away from him, holding the paper up again. "I'm going to help this girl, Max."
"What girl?"
"That poor baby in the park!"
He glanced at the picture on the front page.
"It'll be an act of love, Max. Remember ... that's what you said I felt for that would-be suicide last year. Remember how I saved her?"
He gave her a quick, curious glance. "Well ... sure I do, Paula," then scanned the news-story, "But this is not time for you to get all shook up about some poor little chippie..."
"Oh, if you knew the details, Max, you wouldn't be so callous!" she cried. "That girl is so alone ... her parents were both shot before they could escape to this country with her. She's an orphan, Max ... doesn't that disturb you?" Flinging the paper at his feet, she raced towards her room
Max stood in the doorway and glared after her. "Well, for Christ's sake, it's not my fault she's an orphan. Why the hell're you trying to blame me for all this, Paula? Dammit, I didn't shoot her mother and father ... I'm innocent!"
Their conversation at dinner was stilted and terse; and even Millie, sensing the aura of battle, remained subdued and quiet. Later, Max continued working on the nursery, seated on the floor of his den unwrapping packages, and thinking that for some foggy reason Paula had wanted him to feel personally responsible for that girl in the headlines. Not just obligated to the kid in some way, but even a little guilty for what had happened to her. Why the hell did she want to drag out his tired old conscience all of a sudden? What had he done?
Swinging atop one of the rocking horses later, Max tried to sort out his recent transgressions to determine what, if anything, she could pin on him. And then he turned and saw her watching him in the doorway. His face went bright red to have his brainy genius catching him doing something so juvenile. "You know something, Paula," he said, wanting to divert her attention while he quickly dismounted, "I think I bought too many music-boxes..." He pointed to them lined up on the desk, "they all play Christmas songs and the kid won't be here 'till St. Patrick's Day . ... "
Paula looked away from this scene. "Come to my room tonight, Max ... will you?"
He stood there, watching her move away from the den as she spoke. Then he had a daring idea, but had to swallow a few times before letting it out "You want me to sleep with you all night, Paula?"
"Don't be greedy, I want you awake with me. And in my bed ... isn't that enough?"
He laughed, then feigned a devious, half-hearted leer. "Coax me!"
"Please, kind sir . ... Oh please, darling," strolling towards her room.
The usage of the term 'darling' was such a rarity from Paula that Max, losing all thought of playful indecision, could only move.
When she felt him close to her on those clean and solitary sheets, Paula held his face in her hands and softly kissed him, her mouth staying on the warm pulse of his, her tongue lazily tracing the outline of his lips, her hands high and content there.
TWENTY-ONE
Dolores Rodriguez lay in a state of shock for ten days after her attack. Paula visited her at the hospital daily, devoting herself to the girl's welfare with the zeal of an evangelist. The only other visitors for the first few days were detectives and a few reporters. After that, Paula alone at the bedside. When Dolores became coherent, it was Paula she saw and heard, Paula who comforted and spoke of a healing future for the girl.
Dolores was a striking, diminutive girl, with shiny long black hair and brown almond eyes which seemed forever roundly full of awe and questioning. She spoke and understood English perfectly, but appeared too caught up in bleak despair to absorb what Paula was trying to do for her. To save her from the ghettos of Upper Harlem', Paula found her a room nearby. In one of the brownstones of the West Seventies where she could keep a close watch on her. With the aid of some of the girl's countrymen, Paula devised a schedule whereby Dolores was rarely alone for very long. When she was strong enough to realize her benefactress's intentions, she refused to leave her room for the therapy sessions Paula offered. Consequently, Paula went to her for two hours each afternoon, hoping Dolores would eventually open up to her and thereby loosen some of the agony. It was two weeks before the girl seemed ready for the breakthrough Paula had been working for, the first confidence..."I weep in the night, Senora ... you know?" And thus on a rainy summer afternoon did the torn one reach out a hand. "I cry for shame. Because it will not leave me. Shame."
Paula gazed at the lovely dark-eyed face in surprise.
"But all shame lies with your attackers, Dolores. You were a victim. It could have happened to anyone."
Smiling grimly, the girl slowly shook her head. "No, Senora, I was not like anyone. Have you not thought why those men did not hurt me, why I had no bruises?"
Paula stared at her. "Please, you don't want to talk about that now..."
"Because I did not fight them."
"Very sensible. Most women would panic."
"If they were afraid," said Dolores. "I was not afraid, Senora. I wanted what was done to me."
"Oh no, what are you saying?" Paula found herself shouting at the girl. "This is nothing but hysteria."
"My dear one Raoul, whose parents died from the same bullets as mine, he saw how I opened my legs for those boys, how I did not struggle. He saw, and that is why he screamed, because he wanted them to come back and kill him. Wanted to die with what he saw..." She burst into tears and flung herself to her knees..."Oh may God forgive me, for I found pleasure in what those boys did to me, Senora ... I think of them in the night and I cry because I have desire to go out and to find them, and it was much excitement to see how they tied my Raoul so he could watch while they took their turns on me, all of them waiting for me with their trousers down and all white naked with the bits of hair I have never seen on a man because my Raoul, my God, he thought I was so holy ... he vowed not to have me until our marriage night. I have killed him with what I am, Senora ... with the dirt that is in me. I must die for what I feel, is it not so, Senora? In my country such women are beneath contempt ... "
Paula wanted to run, wanted to cry out and reject this laceration of chance. For there had been no defilement here, only a new hunger born, the appetite that burns out its own private doom or compromise, different with each receptacle in which it dwells. No challenges here after all, but reflections ... distorted, jeering, inaccurate. Nothing to do with her, empathy misplaced! But she remained.
"You have disgust for what I say, Senora. You too feel I must die..."
"You are quite wrong, Dolores," and Paula knew that she would not run. "I do not believe that anyone should be punished for desires which are natural for them. Adjustment, control-but never punishment You are a well-educated girl and have a good mind, Dolores. This gives you power, makes you special."
"But surely, to dream and to want what I feel ... to touch naked boys in the darkness, to feel hungry for this...? "
"With a strong mind such lust can be monitored," Paula told her. "Then it ceases to be a sickness and becomes an energy, serving you, rather than enslaving."
"An energy, Senora?"
"Yes, Dolores; like all forms of human expression, sex becomes a creative force when intelligently absorbed. And if you feed the mind as well as the body, you achieve something we call balance."
With a faltering smile, Dolores took a seat across the room. "Would you tell me more about this balance, Senora? If you talk, I will promise to listen."
"Certainly, dear." Paula lit a cigarette and found the words flowing from her, theories she'd never before felt so free to espouse, an endless plethora of rationale, a bromide monologue that lasted over an hour. For Paula it became a tonic and a release, as Dolores listened-receptive, alert.
For the next few weeks Paula fairly inundated Dolores Rodriguez with all her careful anti-toxins for self-loathing. As a result, Dolores grew cheerful and confident, joined several Latin-American groups which Paula selected for her, attended dances and, ultimately, dated the wholesome sort of boys with whom she'd been brought up. In the fall she planned to fulfill a lifelong dream and study nursing. An exceptional girl, thought Paula; even more worth saving than the others had been. A woman with the predatory libido of a man could attain anything she wished, for wasn't base power the sturdiest foundation of all?
And then one afternoon the swift advent of failure as Dolores calmly confessed that she had picked up three men the night before and had brought them to her room. Each had cruised her in their cars as she walked along Central Park West. Afterwards they offered her money, which she did not refuse.
"I have decided that this is the kind of balance I want, Senora," she explained. "If I am paid, my energies will not be wasted, and I am tired of being lonely in this bed. I have found the way I want to live."
Noticing the girl's eyes, Paula saw that they were strangely dilated; and, deciding that someone had given her drugs, she demanded to know what pills the girl had taken.
"It is called Benzedrine, Senora. They make everything hotter, and inside the body burns with two or three white pills, and one can make love all night long without the sleep. This is what I want. For a woman to divide herself in half as you suggest ... she would go insane, and I would rather to lose my body than my mind ... "
"Oh Dolores no ... please listen to me!"
"Ah ... but what do you know of such temptations with your high ideals?" the girl laughed. "And the purity of new motherhood mocking at me from these clothes you wear..."
"That's the drug talking now, Dolores, and I warn you, what you've taken can be very dangerous..."
"If I do not have control, is that not so, my holy one, my priestess? As you have said it, I may do anything I want and not suffer for it as long as it is my own idea and nobody has forced me to behave with the careless impulse. So, I deliberately choose to have men in my bed. As many and as often as I can. That is the strength I want, and everything else is a lie for me. You have taught me not to judge myself and now I can do what I do without guilt. Thank you, Senora, and now will you please to leave me and take all your noble excuses for sinning with you?"
"I see now it's been a mistake to let you live alone," Paula said. "I'll see if I can find a job for you as a nurses' aide, and also place you in a guest-house with girls your own age. Will you at least think it over?"
"No, my God ... no! I will not think of anything but this room and this bed because everything in life I want to feel is here, not where you want to lead me. So please to get out of here, Senora, or you will come to harm, I swear it! Yes, I will tear the laughing and the goodness from your face, holy mother, do you hear me? Now get out!"
Late that night Paula was awakened by the telephone on her nightstand. Dolores. The pills had worn off and she was in a frightening state, delirious and contrite, pleading for some penance so that she could once more face herself without hate, begging for the chance to recapture the healthy planned life Paula had shown her.
"I will take this job you offer, Senora," she sobbed, "I promise I would do anything to take me from the streets, where their cars can follow me, where doors can open and invite, where I can look and see the men I want. If I work and do good they will not be in my thoughts every waking hour, and then will come the balance. Oh please tell me it is not too late for this to happen."
After reassuring her, Paula put down the phone. And saw Max enter her room, looking rumpled and sleepily inquisitive in his pajamas. He'd heard every word on the extension next to his bed.
"Was that the girl you were telling me about?" he asked. "The innocent victim?"
"Yes, and I know what you're going to say, Max, but after the shock she's had it's only natural that her values would change."
He eyed her curiously for a moment in the shadowed light of her bed-lamp. "Well honey, I'm not gonna argue with an expert, because you're probably right about her. God knows you were right about my mother ... I should have listened to you."
"Emma? What's happened to her, Max?"
"Liver ailment and nerves, growing worse every year with every bottle we let her have. Papa called me at the studio today, said she was delirious and vomiting. We got her to a rest-home uptown, and it's our fault, you know ... because nobody in the family wanted to face what she was turning into. Papa looks like he's been hit by a truck. He's so lonely, Paula ... and you knew all the time . ... "
"Oh Max, I'm so sorry ... I should have helped her, the way I'm helping this girl. But things are different for me now ... I want to do more than ever, want to help them all . ... "
With a smile, Max moved towards her, no longer doubting what sort of kindred spirit had drawn her to the Cuban girl, wishing that the new softness in her had come in time to rescue his mother as well; but thinking that in some way she wanted to share the depths of her own first maturity by saving Dolores from a future she herself had so narrowly escaped. Which, of course, was sweet of her, he thought, but God, what lousy timing!
"Look, honey, your intentions are terrific, but you can't go around rescuing every horny little trick in town just because you've found out there's another way to live."
Paula glared up at him in mock-astonishment, inwardly too happy over her victory with Dolores to take him seriously. "Is that what I've found out, Max? Really? Get in and tell me closer..." She reached over and pulled the string on his pajamas, and soon had him above and familiar. "This is what that poor girl's fighting," stroking, angling.
"But if it's what she wants, why should she fight."
"Because it's unworthy of her. She's capable of finer things."
He kept raising his body from hers as she tugged and held the long fat truth of him in her hand. "You don't fight it, Paula."
"Ahh ... but that's different, I'm a married lady!" then ensnared what she held and eased it softly into her.
"No, honey, not like this," he slid it out, thinking of the baby. "Jesus, you're over four months gone now, I don't think it's too safe any more."
"Oh well, if you insist," she said lightly, "but there are other routes to India, you know." She crawled slowly over on her belly, then up on her knees, impudent creamy cheeks jutting up towards his lurking face. "Come on, husband, let's pretend we're a couple of boys . ... "
With a gasp, he licked his lips ... but backed away. "Oh hell no, honey ... Christ, this thing'd really hurt you if I did that..."
"Ummm ... not if you use that raging beast-tongue of yours, lover, and lubricate!"
Max glared and gulped at what was offered up to him ... feeling suddenly lightheaded, his throat going dry ... And then..."Aw baby ... God, honey..." his hands gripped and cupping as he lowered his face, his mouth half-parted for the deep long rectal kiss ... fresh forbidden vista ... secret new heartbeat to taste as big hands swarmed and spread ... his lips becoming balm there, tongue invading the private-pulsed softness, sliding and circular and making ready ... and then back up on his knees, transferring some of his lips' moisture to the swollen aimed head until it gleamed and poised for the charge ... then lunging forward. Paula screamed once, and thrashed and squirmed contentedly upwards ... urgent and ravenous for the plowing indignity ... as Max thought: this has been done to her before ... but not caring, because Christ! how he loved the tight freaky feel of it, the crazy magnetism and death-grip that swamped and clutched at him in there ... new Paula-valley ... new orbit to the soul and the key of her, and maybe still another form of pre-natal care for them to refine ... sweet familial ass-jamming and prick-drinking all for the good of the baby ... Ummm ... Max thrust and wedged it from side to side once, and then slotted deeper ... as Paula cried out her terrible gratitude for the thumping fever-sting and rending, and thought of rescued-Dolores and how happy she was to have saved her from this debased endearment ... Oh aim high, Dolores, she wept for the girl ... now going all Max-humped and delirious with it ... aim high, my dear-we've set you free!
Early the following week Dolores moved into a guesthouse where she shared a room with another young Cuban girl. And now she allowed little time for the lonely desires, shielded daily by people and laughter and activity; equally as protected by her new job as nurses' aide at a big city hospital. As the weeks wore on and Paula watched the girl's enthusiasm become a sustaining thing, she was no longer afraid to rejoice in her success. It was a little like reliving her own formative years, once again watching passion's forces redistributed, making the days as meaningful as the nights.
When Dolores told her she was dating a young Spanish intern who treated her like a queen and insisted he was in love with her, Paula felt that the one remaining integration had at last been added for the girl-the mask.
"Marry him, Dolores. Being called 'Mrs.' is shelter too."
"Ah no, not for shelter would I do this, Senora ... I am truly in love with Ramon! It is like what I felt with Raoul, the sweet gentleness of not caring how long we must wait before we touch. To sit and be near him with his hand in mine, and ... to see myself as he does, and even to believe this lovely vision in his eyes, this is what fills me now as I wait for him each night in the hospital corridor, and we have dinner and talk about his home and family in Madrid, Spain. He will take me to Spain, you know, after his schooling, after we marry..."
She and Paula were lunching in the hospital commissary, and Dolores suddenly leaned forward, whispering, "I do not think of the other thing any more, Senora. The face of my Ramon takes it away. I look at him and I am clean again. But why have you told me such a he?"
"What do you mean, dear?"
"You have said that for me this 'balance' would be my only answer. But it was love, Senora. Love."
With the case of Dolores Rodriguez closed and neatly tucked away in her files, Paula suddenly decided to make poor old Emma her next project; but found that there was little to be done for the woman, aside' from the Sunday visit with Max.
Now and then a spark of recognition would sweep across the woman's face as Paula bent over her.
"Ah ... Glory be to God, it's me high-and-mighty one ... me lovely princess of a daughter-in-law. Am I in heaven, then?"
"You're on Earth, dear," said Paula, "and for a long, long time. Now hush ... try to sleep," neat expert hands dabbing kleenex at Emma's perspiring face.
Max watched the trerr lous affection in Paula's eyes as she ministered to his mother ... Aw that's beautiful, honey, he thought; but dammit, you've gotta love us when we're well too ... love us when we don't need anything from you but yourself . ...
"So long, Granny," he said to his mother, "Be back next Sunday...."
And now, for Paula, the calendar. Suddenly it was early October, and despite the intensity of her involvement with Dolores, the ominous passing of time had been Paula's constant companion. It was nearly three months since the abortion, and each day Max waited more happily for his child. And still the mute inaction, simply because she hadn't wanted to dwell on her brief gesture of removal long enough to give him the necessary lies. She had carefully voided an experience and thereby cancelled it from her mind, wanting the suspension of time and matter ... Inertia, please, to smother the censure of him, and the face of him when he knows the truth ...
Nevertheless, the longer she waited the less credible her story would be. Did she want him to destroy her, then? Was she letting time and treachery create an executioner in her house ... his nursery her scaffold?
On the following week Max gave an impromptu champagne supper to celebrate the final completion of the nursery. Paula received ... in her formal, flowing tunic, viewing the procession of waddling in-laws bearing their bassinets and tasteless effusions.
"Isn't it marvelous how Paula's not showing yet?" raved Eadie. "I always looked like a cross between a frog and a watermelon."
"With Paulie I did not show until my seventh month," Marta told them.
"Those high protein diets of Paula's will no doubt keep her pencil-slim until she is screaming in labor," Irena sadly noted. "A pity, all these diets. Not natural at such a blessed time."
"You know, Paula," Eadie said, "I'll bet some of those unwed mothers you treat would like a few tips on how not to show until the last minute."
Paula glanced sharply at the woman who had tried even harder to be her friend since Art had left her and she'd moved into New York. "And exactly what is your definition of an unfit mother, Eadie?"
Max, helping Millie serve the dessert at that moment, gazed at Paula in surprise. "Honey, Eadie said 'unwed,' not unfit'...."
"Oh ... yes..." sipping more champagne, fingering the billowing folds of her garment, under their eyes, under their righteous family surveillance, wondering what they would say if she told them Virgin Mary was the unwed mother of us all ... But I am wed and can stand among them and have a Mrs. before my name ... as will Dolores, and take her rightful place in die world, her fires stroked and dormant as she climbs the glorious mountain of wifehood and motherhood in her castle in Spain, and saved. She chose love instead of armor, foolish girl, and vulnerable now ... but oh God, saved! ... out of it.
"Well, I don't know about you, Maxie," said Joe, "but for me half the fun is watchin' Elsie swell up like a balloon once a year."
Blushing, Elsie lowered her eyes. "Joe and me always feel so close to the Pope every time I skip a period."
"What the little lady's tryin' to say is she's gonna pop her seventh come next Summer," Joe explained.
"Oh my God, is that beautiful!" cried Marta, bustling over to Elsie for a hug.
And now with the avalanche of new natal rites and congratulations, Paula rose from the table and excused herself.
"What happened, Doll ... did he kick you?" Joe called out as she headed towards her study.
"I still think it's marvelous how that girl's not showing!" Eadie said again.
In her study Paula gripped the telephone a moment before dialing Dr. Baxter's number. No more thought of waiting now. The call and the signal, the late and clutching alibi.
"I've been wondering what happened to you, my dear," the doctor said. "Don't tell me you've waited this long to give him the story?"
"He'll be phoning you later tonight," she said lowly. "You'll be home?"
"Yes."
"You know what I want you to say?"
"It's all quite clearly written in my records, Mrs. Sinclair. On July thirteenth of this year I treated you for a miscarriage, brought on by an accident you sustained while on a trip to Buffalo."
"No, that's got to be changed now. You've got to say it happened more recently, two or three weeks ago."
There was a tentative silence at the other end of the wire.
"Mrs. Sinclair, I'm afraid if I say anything at all it will have to be as we planned it. For your protection as well as mine. How could you explain such an accident happening only two weeks ago? Were you away from the city then?"
"No."
"Was he?"
"No, he's been ... with me every day."
"Since Buffalo."
"Yes," she said.
"So be it. July thirteenth is the only feasible date. Of course, you're perfectly free to tell him anything you choose. But if Mr. Sinclair calls me, you know exactly what I'll say."
"That it was an accident, a miscarriage?"
"Of course."
She sighed. "And he'll believe you, I know it. Your reputation is faultless, Doctor; he'd never question your word, I'm sure of it ... "
"I'm not worried, Mrs. Sinclair. I won't have to look at him."
TWENTY-TWO
Paula remained in her study that night until she heard everyone leaving. Waited and listened to the loving raucous goodbyes, familial entrapments. Or should she have arranged for a witness to her confession? Someone to stand between when Max's hands reached for her, as she had tried to do when-when Viola's murderer had slashed his knife?
... He will be a stranger here tonight when he knows the truth. Stranger and enemy at last. I am excited. And I am afraid ...
Max was lining up gifts on the dining table when she ventured near him.
"Max, I'm sorry to be so antisocial, but I had this awful headache ... "
"Oh honey, you don't have to apologize," he said, gently slipping his arms about her, "the family knows what you're going through ... we all know..." Feeling the soft crowding heat of his mouth on hers, she prolonged the kiss, clung ... "God, I love you, Paula, and I ... want you to be well, and ... Oh I love you so much! You are feeling okay now, aren't you?"
"My health is perfect."
"Great. You worry me sometimes, you know, with these moods, but ... well, that's just great. If you're not hurtin' I'm not hurtin'..." He kissed her again and turned back towards the gifts. Dangling a pair of booties at her, his face beamed. "How about these, Mommy, are they the end?" Pulling her close again, he dabbed the booties tenderly against her cheek, cupping her face, reaching down to kiss her like that. But she drew back, twisting her face away.
"Please put those things away, Max, and let's have a drink together. I've ... something to tell you."
She went to the bar and he followed, pouring her some brandy and a bourbon highball for himself. "All right, Big Mama, what did li'l Dolores do today to save herself from screwin'? "
"It's not Dolores any more, Max, she's fine now and she's going to lead a decent life and I'm proud of her and ... and I mean, it's not Dolores, it's us..."
Drink in hand, she moved away from him towards the divan.
Max dropped ice-cubes into his glass, then stood there for a second, watching her; after which he glanced at the table of gifts. "Paula, do you know you haven't looked at one of those presents we got tonight? Why don't we spread 'em out on the floor and gloat like a couple'a misers?"
"Why don't we give them back?"
"Hmm?" He took a sip of his drink and strode across the room to her, sitting next to her. "That sounds like you're getting depressed again, hon, isn't that brandy helping?" His mouth warm, intimate against her cheek.
No easy way, she thought. Any words would be harsh now, so let them cut fast and sure. "We can't accept those gifts, Max, because there'll be no baby in this house. I had an accident." Moving so abruptly away from him that her elbow tilted the drink in his hand, and it slowly spilled and stained the rug, as he let it, as she watched the spilling and watched the tension of his body with her words.
"No..." Softly he spoke, placing the glass carefully on the floor, rubbing the palms of his hands against his knees, leaning forward, looking down, repeating ... "No. I felt it was something, but never that. No, please!" raising an arm as if to ward off an attack of eagles.
He doesn't want me to hit him again, she thought, and I must. "An accident, Max. I put off telling you. You seemed so happy, I didn't want to spoil it."
She saw the birth of the stranger in the face he turned to her, saw the pallor and the rising judgment. "God, don't say any more, Paula. If you lost our baby don't talk about it yet, because it won't make any sense to me ... so wait, dammit, wait..."
"An accident. Miscarriage," her voice metallic, spiritless.
She felt him coming to life, his eyes taking aim. "When did this happen?"
"You ... remember a while back when I took that trip to Buffalo?"
He stared, slowly shaking his head. "No, no ... not a while back. That was way last summer, Paula. Buffalo ... my God, that was in July. This is October. Have you gone crazy or something . ... What the hell are you saying?"
"I'm saying I lost the baby in July and I didn't know how to fell you ... Because you'd be hurt and you had your heart set ... "
"My heart set ... " he nodded, "Yeah ... go on..."
". . .And I couldn't do that to you, Max, couldn't find the words..."
He leaned towards her and held his face close to hers. "What did you do to me, Paula?" his voice almost a whisper. "What did you do to me all these months, watching me plan when you knew there was nothing there, nothing coming up for us, and you watched me, goddammit ... stood there and watched!"
"Because I didn't want to hurt you, Max ... I ... couldn't speak ... "
"Oh, you wanted to spare me, was that it?"
She nodded, wishing he were not quite so close. It would be easier to watch his face with some distance between them.
"Well goddamn you, come here and let me show you how you spared me ... " He gripped her by the shoulders and dragged her across the apartment as her eyes closed in readiness for the blows, and then finding herself being shoved into his nursery, decals and rocking horses dancing gaily in their eyes, Mother Goose and her offspring and her Jacks and Jills tumbling at them from the ceiling ... "What the hell did you think I was building in here, a fuckin' monument ... a tomb? It was supposed to be for something alive, something for us ... and if you have known for three months that it wasn't gonna happen ... Oh Christ, Paula, why did you let me do it ... why?"
"Max, I'm sorry ... It was weak of me to wait, I know that," backing out of the room, "And ... and I can't explain why I did it. I let myself become concerned for Dolores, and then ... time passed, and..." Retreating footsteps, getting him in the right perspective to see his tears, though none had yet appeared.
"Oh damn you, come here!" Lurching forward he seized her by the arm and held her. "I want a full report on that accident, Paula, want to hear every detail!"
"In my hotel room in Buffalo," she said, wresting her arm free again and moving towards the living room. "I couldn't find the light-switch and I ... slipped and fell."
"Bullshit, you don't slip and fall, Paula, and you are not accident-prone. So if you tripped you must have been drinking, and probably had a man there with you."
"No, Max, what I said is the truth, I swear it. I know it sounds silly, but I fumbled for the light switch in the dark and tripped over a stool. I must have fainted for a moment or two, but when I recovered, I felt no serious damage had been done, and didn't sense what had happened until the next morning."
Following her across the room, eyes and words probing..."When I phoned you and you said you had the flu?"
"Yes, I had to make up some sort of story on the phone. It wouldn't have been kind to ... "
"Don't tell me what would have been kind," he broke in, retrieving his glass from the floor and going to the bar to refill it, his voice as firm as a house-detective's as he continued questioning her. "Okay, then what did you do, Paula? What doctor did you see in Buffalo?"
"In Buffalo?" she repeated dimly.
"On the phone you mentioned something about seeing the hotel doctor."
"No," she shook her head, "That was . ... "
" ... another he..."
"Yes. I saw no doctor in Buffalo. I waited."
"You suspected you'd had a miscarriage that morning, but you waited? Until when, Paula? When did you see a doctor, if ever? Or did you handle this yourself maybe, with one of your little hygiene-kits, or a big fat pill, or a huge dose of Epsom salts so you could crap our whole future down the toilet?"
"No, Max, I did nothing so monstrous, believe me! I saw a doctor here in New York the next day, a specialist."
"The next day I drove you right out to your mother's house."
"Yes, but I drove back to Manhattan later that afternoon. I told Mom I needed some antibiotics for my stomach virus, and you can ask her if you don't believe that."
His drink in hand, Max circled about her now, stalking, dissecting, more unemotional than she'd ever seen him.
"Max, if you like you may call the doctor and verify my story." Oh God no, she thought ... He should have been the one to suggest that-it had sounded as if she were cueing him.
"So you went to a doctor in New York for a miscarriage you had in Buffalo?"
"I wasn't sure in Buffalo."
"You said you knew the next morning."
"No, I said I ... sensed what it might have been, but you see, I planned to see this specialist in New York."
"You planned, Paula?"
"After the accident," she reminded him. "God, what are you trying to make me say, Max? Can't you realize how difficult this is for me?"
"Sure, I'll bet it's tough. And you know, I'm afraid to find out what I'm trying to make you say, but I think maybe I'd better. What's this doctor's name?"
"Baxter. Dr. Evan Baxter. He'll be at home now. Beekman Place. Specialist. Gynecologist. World-famed ... the best in his field. Here's his number." She had it ready in the pocket of her maternity-blouse, and as she handed it to him, Max moved nearer and stroked the flowing folds of the garment.
"A maternity blouse three months after a miscarriage. Makes it a shroud, doesn't it?"
She said nothing, watching as he examined the slip of paper in his hand. "Doctor Evan Baxter treated you for a miscarriage ... "
"On July thirteenth," she said hurriedly.
"And that's what he'll confirm when I get him on the phone?"
"Well naturally, because it's the truth."
Relieved to hear him dialing the number, Paula took her glass to the bar and poured more brandy.
"Dr. Evan Baxter, please," Max said on the phone. "Yes, thank you, I'll wait." And to Paula, "Sounds like our specialist has a house full of guests tonight."
"Yes, he's well known, Max ... well thought of...."
And a few seconds later, "Hello, is this Dr. Evan Baxter?"
"Speaking."
"Doctor, this is Maxwell Sinclair. My wife says she's a patient of yours. Do you recall a Mrs. Paula Sinclair?"
A slight hesitation from the doctor, and then ... "I'm never very good with names. Perhaps if you'll state the nature of the ailment I can form an association."
Max clamped a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Paula who stood nearby with her drink, "Honey, why is he so cautious?"
"What do you mean? What has he said?"
"Dr. Baxter, my wife Mrs. Sinclair claims that you performed an illegal abortion on her . ... "
"Max, give me that phone!" Paula made a grab for the instrument, but he held her off.
"Performed an abortion on her July thirteenth, this year of our Lord ... "
"What the devil is this, some sort of prank?" the doctor shouted. "If it is not, Sir, you certainly must have the wrong number, because I don't know any Sinclairs!" And the click.
Max banged the phone on the table and glared at her. Paula edged away from him. "That wasn't very funny, Max."
"No, Paula, it was sad."
"You ... you frightened him. You should have let me speak to him."
"He said he never heard of you."
"That's only because he panicked ... or rather, he..."
"Why would he panic, Paula? Because I didn't ask the one question you two rehearsed together?"
"No ... no, it was your tone, your manner ... "
"If he'd treated you for a miscarriage he would have admitted it in a minute. But I mention the word abortion and right away he never heard of you. And he sure's hell did something to you on July thirteenth, or you wouldn't have had me call him to verify it."
"I won't listen to any more of these vile accusations," she muttered, "I'm going to my study, to work...."
'No, goddammit!" his voice tore loose, whelping, scratching...."You're not moving from this room until I hear you say the words, Paula ... " And as she saw the tears pour from his eyes she knew she didn't really want to go, didn't want to be anywhere but here, recording ... "Until you tell me what ... you ... did ... with my baby!" His hands on her again, gripping and shaking for the facts of death, compelled to route out all the words of her act ... "Tell me, did he let you see it afterwards? In a bottle of alcohol maybe? Did it have arms yet, or eyes, Paula? Or legs? Could you tell if it was a boy, or was there too much blood?"
"Oh all right ... Oh God, have it your way ... because it's true, it's true!" she tore free of him, eyes uncaring, defiant. "I never wanted children, not anybody's; and I was always honest about that. I wanted you, my darling, nothing in my arms but you!"
"Oh Christ ... you had it scraped, didn't you, Paula? Oh you ass, you pig ... How many others have you killed in that hole of yours, how many other murders?"
"One every year, Max," she eyed him levelly, "To even out the crimes of your sister-in-law, Elsie."
"Aw ... no, you dirty whore, I'll kill you ... I don't care any more, I'll kill you!" He sprang at her and tore at the maternity-blouse, pulling and tugging until it was ripped from her back, ripped to shreds as she stood there, full and outraged in the heaving bra, and Max slammed his fist against the side of her head and knocked her to the floor, as she screamed, then sighed in resignation and lay still and waiting for the rest of it, waiting for him to reveal the warrior-identity of him, to show the contempt for her she had always sensed and wooed.
But no, Max moved away and turned around so as not to see her, clenched his fists together to keep his hands from her. She was living tissue and had loved him. He knew it. So he had to find the core and the reason for what she'd done, had to understand before acting. And then Paula, half-rising from the floor, clutching to her the tatters of maternity-mask and bra, confirmed his fears and offered up the motive ... "Max, how could you want to trade what we had for something so benign as that crib in there? We both know that having sex only to make babies is ... the ... deadliest ... crime of all, the ultimate perversion. To reproduce ourselves, Max ... think of it! Us, for God's sake!"
And there it was, on the floor for him to observe and prod and mourn-the humility of her at last, the self-sentencing..."oh ... you bitch, you disqualified yourself, didn't you?" not turning, not wanting to see the cringing face of her guilt that had done this to them, left them swamped and groveling. "The way you've lived, Paula ... you want to hang yourself with the past, don't you? Didn't think you were clean enough to be a mother, didn't think you deserved it? But oh God, you pig ... what about me? I deserved it, damn you ... I deserved every minute of it!"
He ran into the nursery and she listened to the sounds of him, the savage abrasive retch of cries she'd so dreaded in her anticipation of this moment ... The tearing wrecking noises as he began to dismantle the spanking new decor with his bare hands. Still dazed, she somehow managed to get to her feet and move towards the room, to see him ... Oh to see him, this moving prowling gypsy rage of her Max ... he who was closest and most prized ... To watch the warmth of him in action. Vandal erupting. Oh hurry ...
She stood in the doorway, saw his hands beginning to bleed as he slashed and tore at the walls, parts of baby-crib scattered on the floor ... his massive body trembling and deprived, face full of the pain that stayed and gnawed and was faithful...."I was so ready for this, so ready! Oh ... why'd you have to Paula ... tell me ... Why'd you really have to ... when it could've been so great ... so damned ... beautiful..."
"There is still beauty left for us, Max."
He turned, and as she felt his eyes on her, Paula dropped the pieces of fabric she'd held against her breasts and stood half-naked for him. "Come touch me, Max, in my bed," her hands caressing herself as he watched. "The way you are now, incensed. Remember how it used to be? We'll go back to the beginning..."
"You get out of my sight, Paula!" his voice, hacking, hoarse.
"You wouldn't want a baby's pout bruising these jewels, would you?" her fingertips gliding over rigid thrust of nipples, "They're for your mouth only, Max."
"Oh Jesus ... get out of here ... before I forget what a poor sick whore of a psycho you are and kick your head in!"
"But first you've got to know it wasn't guilt that did it, Max," she murmured softly. "I don't want to share you, while you finally found a part of me that would sleep the night with you. A baby to cuddle with 'till dawn-and me left out. Not guilt, darling stud-procreator-man ... jealousy. Aren't you flattered? Now drop those Daddy's diapers and come to bed, Max; I have pills for us, a lifetime supply ... "
Rushing forward he hurled her back from the door and she fell to her knees, flesh voluptuous and dangling; and as a whimpering laughter rose up in her throat, Max swiftly moved into the den and slammed the door. And locked himself in, guarding, policing, chaining.
But he heard her.
"Will you tell the world about me now, Max? Destroy me as you threatened? It will kill my mother to learn how many men I've been to bed with. Her illusions about me and her roving dead husband are all she ever had to live for. You love Marta so much, don't you, Max?"
"Yes, but I'll tell her!" he cried out. "When I divorce you in this state the whole town's gonna know what you are and ... and where your body's been for the past twenty years ... and Marta included!"
"No, I don't think so," she shouted back. "Not Maxie the Pacifist." Then he heard her go to her room.
And knew she was right. He didn't know how the end would come, or how he could make her pay for what she'd done to them when they'd at last had love between them and something to save ... but he couldn't do it to Marta.
In that instant he was struck by a wave of fatigue and loss, and sank to the floor and sat there for long unthinking moments. Sat on the floor of the torn playpen, afraid to leave the room and maybe empty every bottle at the bar, get so slopped up he'd pass out and not bleed any more. Or go out and get swacked and come home and break her in two and the hell with treating her like a patient, like Papa's little girl whom he was teaching to walk and talk and act all real and human. But finding a slower torture for her than a beating, and maybe he'd hire a bunch of guys to attack her in her bed. Sure, a dozen or so dockworkers would do the trick. Let her be divided right up the middle in her own room, reclining in her solitary crypt and stabbed to death by her own weapons, having all the breath fucked out of her while he stood there and watched and was done with her and free to find a woman who wanted him happy, not gutted and stripped under a spotlight and lowered and reduced ... and Jesus, when had he ever been what he was this minute, sitting on this floor in a putrid stench of hate and bile and such bitterness that he hoped he could die from it? Get in the car and drive over a cliff now that there'd be nobody for him ... because she's gone now, taken away and caged and not mine and whipped and teased by others ... and I was never anything to her she couldn't find with strangers ... and will again, and me whining and ruined on this floor and not being able to give her the same kind of destruction without dragging the family down with us. Goddamn, how do I get to that bitch ... how do I see that she shares some of this rot, and find the key to her pain and twist it ... and rob her too? How do I find the suffering and the softness in her and crush it and stand back and watch the wincing of her as she watched me tonight? Please God, let me share this death with her. Show me a way!
And when the prayer's answer came, it was so righteous and sublime, Max gloried in it. Rolled on the floor and wept hallelujah! and gloried.
He waited until he was sure she would be asleep behind her private doors. Then he went into her study and searched through her files. Under 'R.' Rabinowitz, Richards ... ah, here it was, Rodriguez, Dolores. The Cuban lovebug.
Paula's baby. Abort it.
TWENTY-THREE
Paula opened her eyes the next morning and at once sensed a stinging new presence in her world. Change. Max would surely leave her now, and with him would go the insulation of time's arresting. No more of the lovely neutrality of non-growth without her sentry to stave off the alien hordes who waited in the wings.
... I will be alone now, a solitary adult, and this is how it happens. Alone in my ascetic tower and no more love in these rooms. I have finally found the way to make him stop loving. I knew it was in him not to love, and I was right. Do I care? No, for I have my work. No, for I have money. No, for I have balance. And the security of my body's hunger. Desire is constant; only the vessels alternate....
In the bathroom now, eager for the cleansing of daylight movements. She examined the bruise on her cheek where he had struck her. Fingertips lightly tapping, pensive, cherishing. And then she expertly hid it with makeup, and after her shower took one Dexedrine for impetus and donned a sleek dark suit by Chanel. Then noticed that Max's bedroom door was ajar, autumn sunshine flooding the room. Venturing slowly inside, she saw that his bed had not been slept in. Went to his closet, thinking to find it stripped and bare, but saw that only a couple of his suits were missing, and also one of his suitcases.
A bender, she thought. Traditional Sandaretti solution to all emergencies.
Or will he send for the rest of his things later?
Paula stood quietly still and breathing in his room for longer than she knew. Incapacitated. Frozen to this scene of his lonely slumbers...
At the office, her morning trailed out with its usual bon bons of clients, pastiches of females all slack-mouthed and mewling. What shielding power to be on her side of the desk where she could not be touched while they bled.
After a few hours there came the throb of restlessness and she told Eudora to cancel all appointments for the rest of the day, adding that she, too, could have the afternoon off.
"I'm seeing a matinee with a group of close friends," she told the girl.
"Oh how nice, Mrs. Sinclair; you deserve a day off. Is it in honor of the baby?"
"No. My honor," then hurriedly explaining. "You see, we've all known each other for years. Went to school together, made paper-dolls, played jump-rope, fought over boy-friends, you know ... that sort of thing."
Eudora smiled uneasily at her. "Yes ... well how very nice," she said kindly.
She didn't believe me. Too ludicrous a lie to say I have friends. Where people are involved I have either clients or lovers. One lover. Had.
Alone at her station, her solid flanked oak. Going nowhere. Not expected. She eyed the clock. A little after one. Why was she cutting herself off in the middle of the day? Cutting the lifeline, umbilicus?
She stared down at her desk. Touched it. Fingers gliding over her rock of ages. Silence in her lush stern quilt of a room. Books lining the walls, tomes rare and thick ... her backbone lining the walls, books her true locomotion because they were first, before the greasy man-hands, books the virginal experience, anon. She forced herself to rise, her body feeling leaden and heavy. She moved towards the closet and her furs, deciding on a stroll in the brisk October promise of the city. She would smile and saunter through that parade of juice-structured aliens, wanting to unzip them all in the bright taunt of day.
Out on the street she ogled men brazenly, and now inhaled her afternoon's destiny. How she had missed the shadowed browsing, how brooding-full of longing for the hot spurt of an enemy, the swallow of danger. As she walked, her winning mocking eyes stabbed downwards where their continental-style trousers often bulged in bas-relief ... rising nestled circumcisions so protruding and lounged there. And saw the gaping surprise on their faces as her eyes saluted what they thought to be so tucked in reserve. But never turned back to them, for there were always more ahead. Advancing militance of legs so sturdy and striding in the shameless masquerade of what they hid. How dared they walk so free and stalwart when she knew what long moist secrets they carried! God, how dared their clean-shaven faces look so Jesuit-stoic and uncontaminated, as if they'd no idea what graceless spraying weapons swung along below as they scaled the heights. Outrageous clown-dangles of obscenity in drip-dries and orlon-executives, lawyers, engineers ... all aspiring to knighthood and constructed like that ... obstacled afterthoughts so ungainly and loose. She could almost weep with the stark injustice of it, for none of them were built for the God-proud pinnacles they hoped to climb . ...
Conquer and erase, Paula. Remember the cures of childhood? Level them all. With your hands or mouth or yawning hooking flesh. Pull them in and applaud at their beheading.
In fond memory she strolled towards Forty-Second Street and a faceless mauling dark movie. Her heart beat faster as she walked, her lips going parched and burning, throat tight ... constricted. The old and guiding trance ... to touch someone without thought, when only skin and fever make the decisions. To be unresponsible, and touch...
A cartoon blared out as she entered the crumbling theater. The balcony, of course, high and away into that cloistered hive of masturbating old men and dragqueens, but others too ... jocked-in and waiting ... her palms sweating.
There weren't more than a half-dozen shadowed figures seated up that high, but only three of the quick wordless thrusts would do, she thought ... and oh to be spliced and thumped in the dark again without kisses or questions ... going breathless for it now, body panting and deprived. She sat in the top row near the side-wall, purse jabbed hard between her legs, skirts lifted for the readying friction, furs hiding as she pressed and squirmed down in the seat, enthroned vagina stirring up the cauldron as her eyes searched the array of dark ripening hulks, she the lone girl there, lips and thighs parted for it ... and make your deposits, squat-boys, any age, any weight ... She saw two rugged looking transients seated two rows directly beneath her, plank-shouldered and pugnacious in denims and leather ... muscled debris all ramming and sweaty ... and how she ached to spread out on this dank cement and embrace the sweet acrid stench of their pubis-rot and urine, while they plunged. The gamy mongoloids, and sent the hog-sludging rumble of them up inside of her ... oh to be thug-lowered for the jungle feast, both of them at once ... front and rear and ... now!
But as she rose to approach them, Paula saw a rustle of movement between the two men and remained seated. Sat quite still, her eyes growing more accustomed to the dark. And stared in awe as one of the men played tenderly with the huge exposed penis of the other ... giant callused hand so full of stroking and buddy-worship. A tremor of shock went through her and she tried to hold back a hacking cry of hysteria ... as she watched and shuddered, torn by the cruel fascination of men sufficient unto themselves ... and God! so much more urgently desirable because of it ... her eyes on them, begrudging and tense with rage to see how the thick burly hunk-jawed chest-beaters disported themselves with their masks off ... oh damn you, fellow-impersonators down there ... you parody-men, so bloated with your own dripping maleness you've got to spill it out onto each other....
And could not take her eyes away. Silent thirsting voyeur, lusting for these two full-sculptured men who found such joy and surcease in their own ape-sprung flesh. The huskier of the two now slid boldly out of his seat and crawled before the one whose trousers he had fully lowered, taking the man's penis in his mouth and languorously imbibing ... supplicant reverence of craggy head going so kingly up and down ... soft valor-filled mouth, grateful. Paula felt a swarming clench of excitement, her eyes peering and rapt, slumped so far down in her seat they had no idea of her existence ... as she crouched there, gripped and obsessed with the fresh-fluxed novelty of what she saw ... rough sensuous man-mouth so pacified and content with the entering big member of his image. It's like Max, she thought ... Oh God, the pure and nursing one, Max at his warmest, ennobled at her breasts ... like this mouth beneath her so flaring and blossomed with what was caught and bulged within it ... all hot and damply jutting ... like Max, and a dual desire for her down there ... ripe and vicious mouth and pulsing fat throb it tongued and took such life from ... unnnn ... yes, Max all pout-licking at her nipples ... but yet, such a fuller drink lay here before her, a rounder longer load more explosive to the taste ... Oh God ... to see Max do that, brought to his knees and defiled before that wet-cocked vagrant ... Max with manmeat as thick as his own rammed right down his throat ... lapping in his own lank heaviness and issue, and at last the defrocking of him, the leveling and the end. Except that she wanted that vision...(hands now jabbing faster between her thighs) ... wanted Max's supple plea of a mouth all wrapped and crowded down there ... yes, his head like that ... in bestowal and bondage...(feeling the fretful moisture growing, gushing . ... O Max glutted and gagged with it! ... clutching the hanky from her purse to blot with quiet sighs, sopping, waiting, and then again) ... oh the sweet hot-terrored fantasy of Max and cock all joined together ... forbidden heady plaque to hold in dear memoriam ... rare bootlegged picture of twin-idols ... first pose together, first beauty ... then sank lower in her seat and gave way to remaining flows just as the seated man below her shoved the other's head down hard and still and firm, his eyes closed ... now drained and gasping with it ... head back ... and at last, fulfillment for the trio, ecstasy trapped and nailed. Gourmand-sharers in the cave had touched and greeted.
But a half-hour later she was caged again. In her office where the silence jeered and called her insect. Paula found herself at the windows, touching fondly the rich texture of drapery. Clean. Lifting coldly in her hand a cold rare vase, feeling with smoothing fingers; and ash-trays, all sterile and uncluttered. Stood in the center of the room and gazed up at the expanse of beige ceiling; infinity above and reaching chandelier ... I am in shimmering crystals, packed in jewels and auto-erotics ... may never have to prod their hairy undergrowths again. Black-alleyed glory holes ahead for me, and watching. Burial.
At the windows again she gazed down at the streets for some sign of human traffic, watched the stream of commuter faces, those conformist non-enities forever eyeing each other so they might know which attitude to wear over their armor next, too cowardly to concoct fresh sanities of their own ... but dear God, a living army nevertheless, something to reach for . ...
... as the beautiful bright sperm-fingered therapist did fling open the window and cry out to the heads below..."Help me, someone," voice gone small and newborn, "up here ... look!"
Max was already half-drunk when he met Dolores Rodriguez in her hotel-lobby the night before. Brain gushing with bourbon and vendetta, mouth watering for this Paula-seed to crush and mangle. He'd sat in a Lexington Avenue bar swilling straight shots and getting a big bunched-in hard-on thinking about what he meant to do to the girl. Hot little Cuban asslicker's gonna hang up her shingle again, gonna open up that flaming pussy just like she used to before Madam Cockqueen stuck a zipper on it...'cause once a chippie's been ganglaid she stays droolin' for it, man ... damn little ass all slob-raped and paved for it ... thinkin' through that beartrap clitoris of hers just like Paula does ... yeah ... and oozin' down her garter-belt whenever a guy says hello to her. Paula the childless, gettin' hers now, aw ... gettin' it! Sterilization, Doctor ... ooh ... let me make that incision ... stiffest Goddamn scalpel you ever saw waitin' to get her on that table . ...
Dolores was still in her nurses' uniform when she found Max waiting for her. "You are Doctor Sandaretti?" she eyed him questioningly, puzzled by his careless, manner and stance.
"Yes, Miss Rodriguez," he said. "An emergency's come up and we're short of nurses, so I thought you might be willing to help..." Imagine someone with knockers like that takin' the veil, he thought, his eyes scanning her body.
Instinctively, she backed away from him. "I am only a nurses' aide, Sir, and ... if you are from the hospital ... well, I do not remember seeing you there before."
Max leaned closer, whispering. "I'm from the Park, Dolores."
"What do you mean?" The girl went pale and gazed fearfully about the lobby.
"Central Park, where you got your diploma, Baby..." whispering low through the drunken smile, "I was hidin' in the bushes that night and saw the whole thing, just beatin' and splashin' my meat like crazy . ... "
"Oh God ... no please!" she turned her face away from him.
" ... Then I saw your picture on the front-page a few weeks ago, and read that jazzy story about you. How'd it feel, havin' four guys jam it up in there one right after the other? Bet you're still poppin' in your sleep, just thinkin' about it ... "
"Oh please ... lower your voice! My God what do you want from me? Nobody here knows I am that girl, nor at the hospital either. So tell me, what is it you want?"
"I got us a lil trick-or-treat room downtown," he muttered with a slicing downward glance between her legs, "think you can take another hot one up there?"
Max heard the deep quavering sigh and for a second he thought she was going to faint ... Whew ... damn! ... has this lil bugger been missin' all her molten lava ... and if I ever saw withdrawal pains on a face before, I'm seein' 'em now ... "Get your coat," he said, "I'll wait outside."
She stared levelly at him now, some of the fear leaving her eyes. "And if I refuse?"
"Publicity, honey. So much of it that they'd be waitin' in line for you every night when you leave the hospital."
She tried bravado now, desperate. "You do not know which hospital, I think ... but have simply seen me around in this uniform and are trying to trick me."
He whispered the name of the hospital in her ear, and saw what he thought to be mingled hysteria and desire in her eyes as his big and male-hot body lumbered close to hers. And could not know that Dolores was thinking of her fiancd in this instant, her beloved one, who trusted and was innocent.
"Wait," she said, "I will only be a minute."
"Groovy, honey," half-staggering, Max pushed his face down close to hers, "just wait'll you see what I got for ya . .-
In the scoffing naked room they gulped liquor from his bottle, and the girl stood mute and frozen while he stripped her down. "Unnn ... dig that crazy canyon, baby ... lil irrigation startin' in there already..." his fingers crude, exploring, "aw ... you and me're gonna fuck and drink 'till our asses fall off..." slipping out of his pants, "how 'bout that, huh? ... you ready for glory?"
"Yes ... yes," her eyes distant, unattending, "if that is what you wish..." tilting the bottle again, face livid with the hateful greed as she swallowed and licked; then going to her purse and finding two small white pills.
"Hophead too, eh?" he chuckled, watching.
"Benzedrine," she told him, "they make everything hotter inside ... mouth and body like steam..."
"Like stickin' it in a goddamn oven, huh?" he laughed, flinging her on the bed.
Then she stared at the indolence between his legs. "But you are not excited for me. Why have you lied?"
"Ooh hell, baby, don't you worry about that," he started manipulating himself. "Lil too much booze maybe, but I'm hot for it all right ... Big-Prong Daddybear's gonna blast you to the moon . ... " Aw ... Paula you Goddamned prickeatin' bitch'ya ... here's one of your lil fledgling's gonna get split in two ... unnn ... jaggin' and thinkin' of the roaring fury he was building back in that whorehouse where he lived ... lightin' the fuse now, Goddammit ... and showin' her how I can shove my dick up her precious lil offspring ... and bust out the guts of her ... and slam and rip ... and jeez! look at that thing grow ... aw ... big hot pile driver dig that hole!
Max flung his body forward and gave it all to her at once. Dolores screamed, hands tearing at his hair ... then quickly sighed to receive, to smile and find old escape again, in her doom.
And through the night Max plunged his retribution, sending out for another bottle, even taking some of those blisterin' pills she gave him, and burnin' up and suckin' and chewin' and fuckin' this putrid hunk of Paula-garbage. Then later, his legs raised and a hand grabbin' down at her hair as her lips sought the tremor of his anus, Max squirmed and told her the story-spewed out the riot ...
"There's a lady I know takes it up the rear," he began, "wanna hear about her?"
"Ummmm..." lips crowding and mindless.
"Mutual friend, honey," he said, "Listen to this, it'll kill ya . ... "
After he was finished talking and her tearing laughter was done, Dolores wriggled over on her belly for him, giggles horrendous as she spread....
Three days passed and Paula heard nothing from Max. Excellent, she thought. Clean slate at last. Without him she would be freed of the ballast-diet of emotion and once again men could become the dislodged activity as required. To prove it, she'd had two cabdrivers in a row last night, giving her all she wanted parked on dark neighborhood streets. Satiety without involvement, offering the hedonism and purity of her teens. Sparta revisited. Health.
But she could not sleep, lay there tense and awake despite the nembutol, awaiting some final signal from him. Paula had no pressing work to bring home those few nights, and did not feel up to some of the social machinations demanded of her at the Center. Due to her work with Dolores, she had not enrolled at Columbia that term. To fill the gap, she brought home past case-histories, old triumphs to warm her. She sat in her study with the beam of the desk-lamp shining on her prizes, her mended saved ones, reminding her of the one living force which had not failed her. The gift. It was locked inside and had to be given, could not be taken.
On the third such night, Paula was about to rise from her desk and go to her bedroom when the telephone rang. Jarred by the immediacy of the sound, she let it ring twice more, wondering if it were long-distance, for it was quite possible that Max had gone to Hollywood and she was prepared to have him that far away. Either that or his dying might be easiest.
However, it was not Max, but the voice of a stranger, a man speaking with a heavy foreign accent. He said his name was Ramon Barbarados, and instantly she remembered. Dolores's fianc�, the sweetheart from Madrid. Had he called to thank her? Gratitude now, she thought, so sweetly timed.
"Mrs. Sinclair, my Dolores is missing for two, three days now. We thought if she is in trouble maybe she has come to you, for you have been kind to her and she speaks well of you."
"Missing?" Paula couldn't think for a moment. "Oh no, Ramon, how can that be? You two have been inseparable, and your wedding is very soon, isn't it?"
"This is true," and she detected a tone of grief in his voice, "but nobody has seen her. We ... cannot find her. She does not report for her duty at the hospital...."
"And you've checked the guest-house where she lives?"
"No, she does not live there for two weeks now. I did not like the lack of privacy. With so many other girls there was no dignity for our courting, and together we have find a room for her in a nice hotel. The Taft, they call it ... "
"Is that also your hotel?"
"No, Signora, I am in residence at the hospital."
"You ... got Dolores a room by herself, Ramon?" Oh no, she thought, realizing that she couldn't even hint to him why this was such a foolish move. The boy knew nothing of Dolores's past, and hadn't even been in the country at the time of her Central Park headlines. Whatever Dolores had done now, she must keep Ramon from finding out the truth about her.
"This afternoon we ... have ... call the Police," and now he'd begun to sob openly, "but as yet ... they do not have a clue. We think maybe somebody finds out my family have money and ... and properties, and ... maybe Dolores is . . is kidnapped..."
Paula thought of the humiliation for Dolores if she were to be found holed up with some man, perhaps even more than one. Paula was totally unprepared for such a setback, for it had been one of her most successful rehabilitations. It seemed unlikely that such a change would occur so swiftly. Unless someone in particular had tempted her. Someone unusual. A fast and urgent influence. Someone who ...
Paula's mind stopped for an instant and her hand went to her throat, stifling a cry. "Ramon, how long did you say she's been missing?"
"It is three days now."
"And..." oh God, her head was swimming and she had to stand and move about the room with the phone, throwing open a window for a needed rush of oxygen..."and if ... someone went to the guest-house looking for her, would they have been given her forwarding address at the Taft?"
"Yes, I think so," he replied. "Why? Do you have some idea?"
"No, no, I ... thought perhaps a relative from Cuba might have arrived and was trying to reach her..."
A moment later, after managing to end the conversation on a consoling note, Paula dialed the guest-house. No one had come looking for Dolores, but there had been a phone call late Sunday night. A man identifying himself as her doctor had asked to speak to her. And because he'd said he wanted to tell her the results of some X-rays, he was at once given her new address and phone number.
Paula then phoned the Taft, but received very little information except that Dolores had left without notice. No, they were not in a position to give a description of any of her visitors, but were holding her unclaimed luggage until she returned.
She replaced the phone and glared dazedly at the mountain of case-histories on her desk, her cured ones ... cured and safe because she'd never tried to share them with Max . ...
And now? This godforsaken writhing moment? They are together, Max and Dolores! ... and her body went faint and chill with the revelation ... I let htm know all her weaknesses and he has taken her as the avenging weapon, has made of my rescued lifted one the whip across my back, my penance, wanting me to suffer and not caring what an obliterated sacrifice it makes of that poor child. And there is nothing I can do to stop him. Nothing.
The impotence was a maddening raging thing, and she paced restlessly about the room with it, pressing her hands to her mouth to hold back the screams; for there was no way to track him down like the hulking aborigine she knew him to be in the dark, in bed and so deity-proud of his jamming strengths and his appeal And no way to find that guilty room and hear the guilty giving wheeze of the mattress and pull him bodily off muscle-taut back and haunches as they lunged up and down, tearing and despoiling with the scouring magnetism he knew could not be resisted ... as she had not been able to resist the lording physicalness, as she had become easy stalked prey and made powerless by the hard packed fury of grinding, impaling, owning ... so, now, was Dolores; underneath and mashed ... and oh how she longed to be in that room with them to witness his crime ... for even as that ruined and scrounged lost girl cried out with the agony of joy he would somehow manage to bestow, she could inflict the final wounds as they lay there sprawled and hooked and find the knives to tear gashing deep in his back at the very instant his retaliating flesh heaved in climax, and find blood and severed arteries for that holy orgasm of Max ... oh Max, devout and fireside plundering one, home's brute defiling and at large, oh catch him like that without the swagger and the pomp ... quick! ... catch him and expose old good-hearted slob ... oh God, if she could only be there to surprise them with her judgments, to rescue and condemn ... for Dolores hasn't yet learned to transcend passion as I have, and now it's too late to give her my power, too late to teach her the warlessons so that she might use men instead of letting them usurp, to show her all the sweet maiming victories a woman can find on her back in the night, topped in name only ... to show her the arsenal.
And in bed later, the wakeful tossed heaving as the black silent hours jeered by and she gripped the sheets and saw the burning tangled visions of them above her in the solitary bedroom shadows, heard the sex sounds of them, like gentle waves caress-slapping a luxury yacht on a summer night. Oh that poor damned girl, to be so crushed and wielded as she lay there under the artless grabbing of him.
Paula switched on the light. Four a.m. Silent night all hushed with muted torment ... and afraid to take more pills and how long did he mean to keep it in her ... oh lecherous lout of a milky-white breastsucker, get off of her or die!
Then up and moving and action ... and something tangible in her hands to rend and identify and make him pay in absentia. In his bedroom now. Lights illuminating all the crowded new additions of stereo equipment and books and drafts of manuscripts. Drawers to his desk locked and she swore and used the shit-and-fuck gutter words of him, the roars of him because she could not reach the copies of his blessed novel and feel the pages rip in her hands. "Cunt-crazy ass-suckin' Max thinks he's a writer!" her voice lifted and parched, "Daddy Longprick, come home and bleed, why don't you ... come home and bleed!" Now slashing in his closet and tearing his shirts and pajamas with dedicated precision, ripping, shredding, then dumping everything from his dresser drawers, reducing jockey briefs to tatters and rolling them into balls which she stuffed under the pillows of his bed and she kicked and tumbled his sheets and blankets to the floor, inhaling that aroma of him ... all testicles and swamp ... and hating and oh God he would come home and find himself packed and ready to go as she dragged the suitcases out and stuffed them full and bulging, kicking and shoving them through the apartment to the entrance hall so they would greet him the next time he came through that door.
Her work done, Paula filled a tumbler with brandy and sat upon the divan, slowly sipping and priding herself on the corrective movements, the needful decisions. There was nothing left for them to do to one another, so it would end-and she would tell him when, she would point to the door and the hour. Her choice.
She sighed and sipped and let a few restful moments pass, and then heard his key in the lock. Sat upright and heard him curse and saw him push the door against the luggage blocking his way.
"What the hell ... " and with a final kick he shoved the suitcases aside and nearly fell through the door.
She stood up and he saw her raging there, flaring and awry in the disheveled negligee, his brimstone at dawn.
"You sonofabitch," she formed the words clearly, slowly. "You ... fucking ... sonofabitch!"
TWENTY-FOUR
"Hi, killer, you waiting' up for me?" Full of beard-growth and liquor, Max gazed Wearily at her across the salon expanse of their living room.
Paula clutched the brandy glass and fought back the senseless shrieks welling up in her throat. "The Police are looking for that girl, Max ... where is she? What have you done to her?"
Now the dissolute grin, his face swarthy with recent repasts. "You name it, killer; I did everything to that little tamale she wanted me to ... " He half-staggered through the room, dropping his topcoat and jacket to the floor as he moved, loosening his tie, then reaching the bar and pouring, and tossing down a shot, after which he swirled about to face the frozen taut stare of her. "We took a room downtown in the Village, and she had me stripped and rammed in right up to her eyeballs within thirty seconds. And man ... you're really too much, tryin' to take that piece of coosie out of circulation, tryin' to get some broad to swear off sex just so's you can have it all to yourself ... you horny sow, you want 'em all, don't you ... regular cock-to-cock network ... "
She couldn't speak for a moment as she glared at the slumped, mocking body on the bar-stool, body still reeking of what he'd done, dipped in it. Their eyes met.
"Her fianc� is the one you've hurt, Max, not me."
"Oh balls! what fianc�?" mouth grinning, carnivorous. "It's probably some John she stood up, 'cause sweet lil Dolores ain't nothing but a curbstone free-for-all, just like you, except that you're the champ, honey ... the Queen Bee of all leg-spreaders..."
"They were to be married!" she hurled at him. "He's a decent, respectable boy, and ... they were to be married. Oh, but God ... she'll never be able to face him after this, I know it ... "
"Great," he said, "then that's one poor bastard I saved from an early grave. He oughta pin a medal on me."
"But she wasn't like that, Max, you didn't know her." Tears of failure sprang to her eyes and she turned her face away from him.
He glanced towards the luggage piled up in the entrance hall. "If all that's some kind of hint for me to bail out, I got news for you. I've been paying the rent on this tomb for the past three and a half years, so if anyone's gettin' their ass kicked out, it won't be me."
"Where is she, Max? Did you drive her back to her hotel?"
"Nope, she said she wanted to stay right where she was and cruise Washington Square later ... and watch the sun come up with some new guy who's all stiff and ripe for it...'cause man, I put that lil Senorita in heat for good."
"Washington Square," Paula glanced at her watch, "then maybe it's not too late." She hurried towards her bedroom, but Max leapt from the bar-stool and blocked her way.
"What're you up to, killer?"
"I'm going to find her if I have to drive all through the Village, screaming her name."
He grabbed her wrists. "You're goin' nowhere, .Goddamn it, and you're gonna leave her alone. I didn't waste all that good juice to have you start corruptin' her again...."
"Max, listen to me ... "
" ... that little cock-happy ass-twirler's got the same cruddy destiny you have, Paula, and you can't stop yours, can you? So you let her do it 'till she's pumped dry, if that's what she wants ... "
She tried to free herself, but he held on, his eyes gloating, mouth slovenly and flesh-tasted with lipstick, Paula's eyes brooding on that moist reminder as she spoke ... "Oh Max, some day I hope to God you'll know how monstrous you're being tonight, when you watch what becomes of that child and ... and realize that you alone are responsible."
But he held her wrists and said nothing, his eyes sliding downwards at her body in the rumpled negligee, then up at the dark full ripples of hair all tumbled and free about her face, his eyes now resting on the angry flaring lips and then down again at the circular protrusions of breasts which were clearly visible and roused under the thin chiffon ... tight firm tits after a whole generation of nuzzlin' ... must be the wonder-pig of 'em all ... Paula watched that detested foul mouth as it sneered closer, whispering ... "She was even hotter for it when she found out my name was Sinclair and I was your Daddy!"
She started at him, not grasping what he'd said, unbelieving. "You told her ... about me?"
He nodded. "Every last juicy detail, baby, the whole schmear ... "
"Oh goddamn you for that, Max ... goddamn you!" and you did that to her ... "
His eyes went glazed and beaming as he watched her mouth tighten. "All about us, Egghead, and our pretty storybook courtship, right from that first night in the car when you said you didn't date and then nearly had a hemorrhage tryin' to get my pants off."
"Oh goddamn you for that, Max ... goddamn you!" She twisted and pulled violently, tearing free of him, then pushed him out of the way and moved across the room, feeling him following, looming..."She believed in me, don't you see that?"
"Yeah ... well now she shows the score, knows you've gotta be humped at least five or six times a week or you can't walk down the street without twitchin' and foamin' in your panties, dirty girl Paula ... dirty little alleymouth psychotherapist ... you've got a douche-bag where your heart oughta be, you know that, don't you?"
She was at the bar now, her back to him, hand locked around the brandy decanter but not able to lift it and pour, not able to get her breath or find new weapon-words, as he hulked close behind her. Massive marauding shoulders and chest trapping her as he spoke. "Then I told her what you did to our baby and she said you were a black witch, then she got hysterical and cried and laughed at herself for ever listening to you, her sainted Mother Superior and all her two-faced preaching ... then she begged me to do it to her in all your favorite positions ... askin' how many times you could pop in one night and by God, toppin' your record, honey, every time!" Max swung around and examined her face and saw the unheeded tears. "Christ, what an actress! How the hell can you pretend to care about that kid when she was nothing more to you than a ... a microbe in a test tube? Because listen to me, Paula, I was as close as anyone ever got to you and all I ever saw was ice. Even with that flappin' hole of yours wide open and winkin' at me, I saw ice!"
He grabbed the bourbon bottle and poured himself another shot, watching her silent and waxen alongside of him. "What's the matter, baby, you paralyzed with guilt ... can't you pour?" Roughly he clamped a hand over hers on the decanter, lifting and locking her hand as he poured brandy until it spilled over on the shiny chrome.
She stared grimly at the trickling substance. "Now I've failed her," she said, "and there was such a future in store for that girl."
"Well, I sure's hell didn't fail her," he said. "And I'll let you in on a little secret," he added with a proud chuckle. "Ever since we got married I haven't been able to get too jazzy with anyone else, incurable romanticist that I am. But then I found a little firecracker called Dolores, and man ... I was hard as a rock every time she touched me."
Paula smiled then, slowly, lips firm with new incentive. "But that was me, Max, getting you all hot and stiff for it-not Dolores."
He gulped down another drink and she saw the muscles in his face tighten, felt his waiting silence, as if daring her to give him more of a diagnosis he'd already feared, expected.
"Every time you touched that girl you were hating me hotter, Max, and it was my body setting you on fire in that bed, not hers. So you were having me, lovey-dovey Max, having your dream-girl over and over again ... and Dolores was only there in spirit, for I was the flesh and goal you were after, so naturally you'd be aroused and virile ... "
"That's a goddamn lie, Paula, and I want to hear you say it ... "
"It's the truth, Max! If you'd just picked that girl up in a bar and she had no remote connection to me, you'd be as impotent as ever. Couldn't cut the mustard, Maxie, because you're such a faithful husband and father to the wife and mother of your ... "
His hand shot out and went around her throat, and he caught her like that in a grip of steel, his face white, eyes fierce with ultimatum. "Jesus ... if I thought that was the only kind of future I'd have without you, Paula...'cause everything inside of us is gone, so this is what's left, this is what we break next."
She ripped and clawed at the hand, but it stayed, and she was now assailed by the quick cold urgency of control, felt the reflexes and crusts of self-preservation come alive and charging. In a crisis, survival for Paula-anything but extinction, because there was something still ahead for her, there had to be.
Unable to tear his hand away, Paula's arm reached about his shoulder, her hand pulling and tugging him off the stool, on his feet, pressing the sultry hard body against hers, wriggling and kneading with thighs and breasts and pelvis, feeling his quick involuntary response and stirring as his eyes went slowly to her bodice, absently lingering, reminiscent, thoughtless with old remembered habit..."You don't like me, Max, but you still want the body that cages me, don't you ... want this soft hot clinging framework of your detested one, don't you Max ... don't you?" rubbing, steaming against him.
His big face going rapt now, eyes still drunken and full of appetite ... he let his hand slide slowly down her throat and inside the front of the negligee, inside the nightgown and nestling between the swelling pushing bursts of her. Then both hands at her shoulders and stripping off the negligee ... somnambulist now in a fit of total recall, fumbling at the nightgown ...
"Rip it off," she whispered, and felt his savage tearing thrust down the center of the garment ... then kicking all cumbersome fabric aside on the floor, she stood naked there, her body all sprung and baubled against his, and sensed that the soothed beast no longer wanted to kill but yearned to devour and chew and regurgitate to devour again. Her body, the hook, the lifesaver ...
In one hand Max held a tremulous globe of breast, quizzical and in awe ... as the other hand cupped the pubic-down, that pivot-nest between her legs, fingers lazily entering to furnish and refamiliarize...(in there where she lives ... hidden, snailed!) ... now gazing at the full white roundness he held, at the tipped and rising glow, and slid his head down to lightly flick the nipple with his tongue ... mouth going greedy with the touch and pulling in more of it, surrounding and judging this taste of evidence ... lips now careless in sucking automation ... fist still furrowing down there in the velvet hot fleece ... mouth now releasing what it held, head raising to survey and examine these reminders and trinkets ... staring at the satiny bulge so alive in his hand, testifying..."Sex is what we have..." mouth lowering again, licking at the nipple, then rising once more to ogle, "can you hold it in your hand and touch it and feel it..." addressing only the anatomy of her, the members..."can we taste it and crunch and squeeze it? Oh yes, Lord, yes! So ... it's our worldly goods, so it's our life. Sex."
Nodding, her fingers glided home to unbuckle him. "For us there's never been anything else, Max. Biology One. Our Link. Few married couples experience this force of attraction. Most of them end up with nothing but respect for each other. God ... how bloodless!"
"Yes..." slowly nodding his head, lowering and pressing his face against the swellings of her, mouth busy, abstracted, and then rising again and crushing his lips against her ear to whisper something to her, like a child imparting a secret..."But I don't wish you well any more, Paula. I'm honor-bound to put a curse on you, because you tore out the heart of me, you and your witchdoctor, the heart of me. And even when I fuck you it'll be a curse I'm planting, and ... and the bad, bad wishes..."
"I know," she said, letting the trousers fall about his ankles, fingers circling the rounding head that reared, "if I'm to suffer it's got to be underneath you, Max, or not at all. Noose and husband tied around my body. Come." She took his hand and led him to the divan, kicking the negligee along the floor ahead of them as they moved, as he suddenly grabbed her in the naked stroll and buried his face between her breasts, fiendishly biting-and even as she cried out in pain, her nails went to his throat in the homegrown lashing lyric of her reply ... "Who has anything this exciting to live with, Max?" she asked, as he clumsily spread her out on the divan. "Our only lasting hope is to keep each other disturbed. Contentment crucifies desire. And without desire, how would we ever have communicated? What would we have found to talk about?"
"Right, killer," crawling over her, licking his full and waiting lips for the fluid-feast of her, firmly pulsed and ready, "and who knows, maybe even when I'm married to some nice kitchen-tested average housewife who'll have to kiss it for months before I can get it hard enough to stick it where she wants it ... and maybe build myself a son, I'll still want you like this, killer, without any of the old schmaltz and hearts and flowers-'cause ... unnn ... you're good gash, baby..."
Seeing him thus converted-from murderous threat to transitory promise-Paula tried another swift strategy. "Oh Max, wait ... I forgot my brandy, would you get it for me please? I want to sip it first, and then you."
"And then me," he repeated, his speech still slurred with liquor as he rose and went across to the bar.
Paula quickly slid off the divan and clutched her robe from the floor, slipping into it and running to the nearest telephone, which, from this vantage point, had to be the den of Max, that torn-up bastard nursery. Yet, if she could somehow put through an anonymous call to the Police and have them search the Villages streets for Dolores, perhaps it mightn't be too late for the girl after all.
But before she could lock the door of the den and switch on a light, Max pounded his way through into the darkened room, standing before her in shadow, lurking and nude except for the gleaming white T-shirt, dark hairy outline of biceps and pubis not a promise now but a momentary nuisance, a distraction. "Don't tell me all that hot, jazzy talk was just a put-on," he said. "Or was that just some of your brilliant headshrinker-tactics ... tryin' to brainwash me so's I won't choke the piss out of you? Well you listen to me good, sewer-lady, I can find other ways to stick the knife in you ... like lettin' that girl rot in hell, Paula, in hell!"
"Max, please listen to me ... you don't know Dolores or you wouldn't be talking like this, and ... if the Police only know what neighborhood she's in . ... "
"Let that whore go down the drain, goddammit, 'cause that's where I put her. And listen, cunt-face ... Dolores is not your baby, you know ... aw hell no, 'cause your baby was mashed outa your stinkin' ovaries and ground into puss and fertilizer by some smart Beekman Place butcher ... right down his gilt-edged incinerator, that's where your baby went, the tiny lungs and heart and soul of him ... aw you fuckin' slut, get back on that sofa and spread your pussy, 'cause that's the only part of you that breathes..." Contact, until the bottles rolled under the bed and they lost consciousness. Linked in each other's arms. Old married couple sleeping together at last, their faces frowning and ashen, bodies hooked in mortal combat.
And awoke like that.
Awoke to the nightmare at noon.
"Phones ringing," Paula muttered, "phones ringing for hours ... "
She opened her eyes to the sarcastic brightness of daylight. Felt the tropic warmth and weight of his body crushed against hers, turned and saw the unshaven body-licking face, antic Van Dyck only more discernible than the rest of his beard, and a quick nausea swept through her at the sight of his body here and now ... all that unveiled pomposity in her bedroom in the morning. She pushed at him, tried to loosen his arms from around her..."Max, wake up and get out of here, for God's sake, you look ridiculous!"
With a fast lurch he lifted the questing leonine head and glared at her. For a brief instant there was the flash of a grin at seeing her upon awakening, for it had never happened before and he had given up expecting it. But then, quickly, the darkness of memory assailed him and he turned away and their eyes could not meet. Heads averted, pivoted away almost in unison, wanting to face anything but each other.
"Must have passed out," he grumbled, "Or I sure's hell wouldn't have spent the night in your ass-hole of a bed, Madam ... and you can make book on it." He climbed out of bed, immense and maundering in his daytime nudity. "Didn't mean to drink that much. In fact, I never meant to touch you again, goddammit, not even if you begged for it."
"Well, I didn't beg and don't apologize. Lower those blinds, please, and cover yourself, you look absolutely debauched."
"And what the hell do you think you look like, with footprints all over your tits?" He went to the windows to adjust the blinds. "I guess you know we're finished, Paula. And I guess you know we've got a few decisions to work out..."
"Yes, Max, but later, when we're dressed and sane..." But faintly surprised that he still had the courage to cling to this act of change and finality. Even though there could be no thought of their ever being friends again, the idea of physical separation seemed such a violent, needless injury to her in this moment. Then she watched the lithe jungle movements of him as he walked to the door and vividly remembered his thoughtless, raging sin against Dolores. Not a compulsion, but a premeditated cruelty, forcing him to distort all his native moral values simply to hurt her. No, she would not forgive, for he had been the aggressor, and she and Dolores, the attacked and innocent wronged ones.
She lay there for a moment and watched Max's typically tasteless habit of preparing for his shower with all doors open, watched him shaving, standing naked in the mirror, not caring how he dangled against the tile in the fluorescent lighting, newly despising him for retaining such nobility of carriage, hating that conquering Mongol walk of him. And still numbly entranced later when he stepped out of the shower and began drying himself, watching the pawing movements of his hands and towel dabbing so cleanly at the body she could not lower, the striding ranging dignity of him she could not drink up ... He will still look like that away from me, she thought ... an inconvenience, not seeing him any more ...
But then the events the night before came crawling back to her and she eyed the disgusting shambles of her bed, realizing that they owed it to their self-respect to get out of each other's sight for good. Rift and cure. Irrevocable.
She heard phones ringing again and wondered why they seemed so distant when there was an extension on her nightstand. With a quick sidelong glance she saw that both the table and phone had been knocked to the floor during one of their jousts of ardour, phone off the hook while the lovers soared heavenwards. Body aching, head throbbing with hangover and a raiding sense of self-disgust for the morbid bacchanal he'd wrested from her, Paula stepped out of bed and retrieved the phone.
She stood there nude, disowning the deriding coitus-pains about her loins and thighs, gently rubbing her breasts and lips where his mouth had swooped and robbed. And listened to Eudora's anxious voice on the phone. What on earth had happened to her, the girl wanted to know, her voice full of adenoidal alarm-why hadn't she shown up at the office, why hadn't she answered her phone, so many appointments to cancel, and clients to disappoint, and had she heard the grisly news? It was on the radio, and in the afternoon headlines ...
"Eudora, I'm not well today, got a splitting headache-so I'm in no mood for petty gossip."
"But Mrs. Sinclair, they killed themselves!"
A tremor shot through Paula's body and she leaned back against the wall panel. "Who ... who're you talking about?"
"Dolores Rodriguez and that Ramon Watsizname. Shot each others' brains out. Good heavens, I thought you knew!"
"Oh ... God," Paula gasped, lifting a hand to her mouth to stop the quick rising moans. "Oh no ... no please, she didn't!" She sank onto the bed, starting to tremble with dry, wracking sobs, head resting against the bed stand, body bent and crouched in denial.
"Regular suicide pact," Eudora went on, "Right through the head. All planned and set up, just like a TV script. Separate revolvers for each of them, aimed right at the temples; can you beat it, like a double execution ... "
"Oh ... if she'd only come to me first, if she..." But Paula choked back the thought, remembering that Dolores would never have come to her again after what Max had told the girl about her. "Where were they found?"
"In her hotel room. Real bloody mess. Brains splattered all over the place, one of her ears and part of his jaw torn off, and also..."
"Any notes?" Paula broke into this sanguine report.
"Just a line in her handwriting. Something about ... here, wait, I'll read it to you. Oh yes...'Ramon is my beloved, so I told him the truth, and the truth is our eternity...' Pretty vague for a last will and testament, poor baby ... and they both had so much going for them, were so crazy in love, and with that sweet wedding planned for next month ... who can explain it, Mrs. Sinclair, can you?"
Ramon had received Dolores' full confession, thought Paula, had acted as her priest. And for them had found the only answer. And oh ... it needn't have been like that, she thought ... Needn't have been anything but perfect.
"You'll be at the funeral, I suppose?" Eudora droned on. "She would have wanted it that way, Mrs. Sinclair, after all you did for her."
"No funerals," Paula pressed the lever down and slowly rose. Then, upon hearing a click, she whirled about and gazed the length of her bedroom, through the no-man's land of dressing-room and two baths and into Max's room where she saw him standing with the extension phone gripped in his hand.
"Jesus, I..." he tried to speak, then cleared his throat, swallowed, "I ... thought she was a little party-girl, a ... a lovable Utile chippie, out for fun and games ... and ... and jazzin'. And she was something else, wasn't she?"
Then the clenched stillness as they stood transfixed like that for a second. Nude and facing each other across the carnage of the three dead ones who lay in state in their bedrooms ... scoured-out child, and now ... this debris they'd made of two lovers ... Staring and caught in the act of cradling the evil harbinger to their cheeks, sharing the tidings while their flesh still reprised the crimes they had fashioned. Their two bodies in flux and sprawl had, at last, conceived.
Now the guilt shifted even as they stared and addressed each other in the same hacking tone of accusation, spewing out the same word in the same instant, casting a single stone between them as they lifted the finger to point
"You..." she began.
"You..." he began.
And moved slowly towards one another in their bare and fleshly states, their eyes angry with desire at the swaying-member movement of their bodies, which made their destination even more malevolent; as Paula was the first to reach her door with the slam of isolating rejection, Max hastily following up with his own proud gesture of judgment and defense. As thus were they sentenced and acquitted.
Coldly, they both agreed to stay away from their offices for the remainder of that week. Appearances. A few hours later that day Max phoned Eudora and also his studio, saying that Paula had supped and fallen in the bathroom and had lost the baby. No, hospitalization would not be required. The doctor would assign a nurse, and with the exception of Max in close attendance for a few days, no visitors would be permitted. He told both sides of the family the same story, voice tight, monosyllabic, precluding all questioning, even from the heartbroken Marta.
They spoke only when necessary during that week of Paula's fictional recovery, remaining in their rooms, dining separately. Millie was awed and depressed by the ominous silence in the house, but served them both as requested. Max cleaned out the crumbled effects in the nursery and called the Salvation Army to haul them away. And tried to work on his novel, but could not remember the plot, or the characters, or who he was.
When Paula felt that a safe time of recuperation had passed, she returned to her office, and Max told friends and family about the divorce.
Sure a divorce, he thought; when there was nothing left for two people to do to each other except cut their throats, they split. No more hanging around to find out that if they touched again it might still be as hot as ever. No more acts of faith and hope and idiot-campaigns to win his own wife, no more humiliating endurance contests or trials by fire, because nothing in his experience had so crushed Max as did the hideous, useless deaths of Dolores and her Ramon. He was sick with it, filled with shock and incredulity that he could ever have had a part in such ugliness. He tried to review his own behavior those three days, but could not reconcile it with anything he'd ever known of himself, recalling only that he'd been so damned obsessed with wanting to get back at Paula, he had simply grabbed that poor girl in his hands like a tool, like a shotgun.
It was murder, and Max couldn't face the idea that in some warped and feeble way it was his love for Paula that had brought him so low. Ramon's family, who had not approved of his forthcoming marriage, had his body shipped to Madrid; and Max went alone to the meager funeral of Dolores. And later glared into the dark wakefulness of his night, seeing the helpless hungry specter of her face as she had lain beneath him so piteous and willing, as he had used her and made of her the cheap proxy of his own private combat, distorting and molding the flesh of her into the pain and tumult he'd wanted for Paula.
However, by being an absolute tyrant about their divorce arrangements, Paula proved that she held Max entirely responsible for the tragedy, finding it a soothing convenience for the righteous exit she now chose. But Max contested nothing, only wanted an end to it. If she wanted to take up six weeks' residence in Nevada and charge mental cruelty, fine, because he didn't want the stink of a New York divorce any more than she did. She went on a sudden shopping spree that week and charged some disciplinary sables to his account; then said that she'd be demanding an enormous cash-settlement from him. Max knew that by now she was independendy wealthy and didn't need a cent of his money.
"What the hell'd you do, Paula, tally it up all these years, two bits a lay?" But he knew that she was still licking her chops for a big closing revenge on him. Damned dictatorial Amazon of an egghead, she couldn't march triumphantly off the scene until she made him pay for that last rotten act of their marriage, the first time he'd ever struck back at her and it had resulted in disaster. But yet, now she was so quick and greedy to rear up and hate his guts, Max also knew that she still remembered everything that had been right between them.
"After my weeks in Vegas, I'll go right on to San Francisco," she told him crisply. "There's to be an important social welfare conference, there the first week in January, and it's time I saw a bit of the world, you know, time I circulated. Marriage has made me stale, kept me from growing."
"Marriage did that to you?" he asked.
"Yes." Firmly.
Max thought of Paula all alone out there hr those two joy-towns, and remembered her old aversions to long periods of leisure, her obsessive need to work, and he was once again plagued by the haunting fears for her safety. Someday, somewhere ... one of them would hurt her, maybe worse. After she left, how would he ever know when she was safe?
And dammit, he knew what it meant that he could still worry about her after all that had happened, and for Max the real ballbreakin' hell of it was that he couldn't feel any differently about her. It was a lousy manless spineless thing for him to admit, but even though all that royal respect he'd had for her had got ground up with the rest of the manure she'd made of their lives, when it came to how he felt, oh man, no sale Brother Providence, because it was the same, and it had nothing to do with whether or not he approved of her ... and Christ, how the hell do you stop loving someone just because they don't behave right?
So all right, he loved her and that tied him. But she'd never hear it from him again. He would never beg her. Not even if begging in some way helped or rescued her. So ... maybe she was internal with him, inside and carried and there and portable and fastened and part of him ... but Max would never again ask Paula to be near him.
Paula finished the elaborate process of packing her belongings and arranging for the lovely loot-winnings of her furniture to be crated and moved; and then, quite suddenly, found that all plans had been made and it was the last week before her departure. With Eudora she had worked assiduously at the redistribution of her clients for the next two months. And after first making them promise not to intrude with personal questions or counsel, she let Marta and Irena accompany her on determinedly carefree shopping sprees, eager to choose the proper clothes for her sun-filled days and nights ahead.
Two days before Paula's plane was to leave, Max made a surprise appearance in her office. It had been some time since they had seen each other, Paula having moved out to her mother's house three weeks earlier.
Max looked gaunt and irritable as he waited in the outer office for a client to leave. Out of respect, Eudora said very little to him, but could not prevent the tears from falling as she typed.
A few moments later he stood before Paula. "I thought if we ... said goodbye here there'd be less chance of our hacking away at each other," he began.
Paula's smile seemed composed, free. "We don't disturb each other any more, Max, so there'll be no hacking."
He stood above her at the desk, extending his hand. "Friends, then?"
"Oh now Max, were we ever really that?"
His eyes strayed to her face, lingering and deepening there for a brief suspended second ... How elegant and smug she is behind the long shiny desk, he thought, that wanton Magyar face of my lady-slut wife, no longer in my house, cut out of my life ... the immaculate arched bones and the hungry peasant body, and oh damn the dear lady, I'm gonna miss her! Oh God, I'm gonna miss the sweet times, miss what she almost let herself feel for me, gonna miss wondering who the hell she was and why I loved her, and why I can't stop, and why she mustn't know it. Except that inside there's a big rumble, Paula...'cause inside I'm begging you and I'm on my knees to you with my arms around you, holding you by force, anchoring you to me, hammering you to the cross of whatever sick kind of world it was we had together ... because for me, you roaring bitch, you were love, and goddammit I'm chicken, Paula, 'cause I don't want love to end ... and no matter how it hurts, it's better than going without it ... Yeah, it's good with it, and bad without it, so inside I'm planting you here beside me, Paula, no matter how you break my nuts and my pride and my respect ... and even though I look like I'm letting you go, oh I'm crawling for you and begging for you bitch-body sitting on that throne smiling and turning yourself off ... So dammit, you go Paula, you get the hell out of my sight and ... and see if I care ... Yeah, see if I care ... you ... oh ... see ... oh ladybug ladybug fly away home...'cause your house is on fire ... and your children ...
"You look like you've been drinking, Max," she broke into his reverie.
"A little, nothing heavy, though," he said, releasing her hand, clearing his throat, trying to remember what else he could say to her aloud. "Millie sends you her best. She'll be taking care of my apartment half the week, and Eadie says she can use her the other half..."
"Well, I'm glad you were able to hang on to her. Millie's efficient."
"Yes, yes ... she's nice ... "
"Well, Max..." New finality in her voice.
"Uh ... Eadie's working awfully hard in that advertising agency these days, everybody's worried about her."
"Nonsense, it's what she needs."
"And ... Oh yeah, Art broke up with that little chick out on the Coast. Found her with the gardener One day and put them both in the hospital."
"Fancy." Paula reached for a cigarette, too quick with her own lighter to let him offer his.
"Art writes to Eadie every day, and she returns his letters unopened; now that he's ready to come back, she doesn't want him. But everybody says she should give him another chance."
"She shouldn't," Paula now eyed her watch.
"And ... my sister Anna had a baby girl in Newark..."
"Splendid," her tone more impatient.
"And ... oh hell, I almost forgot about the dog."
"Smokey?"
He nodded. "I've moved to this place where they don't allow pets, so what do I do with him?"
She looked coolly surprised. "But I thought you loved that animal, Max. Why would you take an apartment where dogs aren't allowed?"
"Oh ... I do, Paula! I mean ... I ... I love him..." Max moved away then, strolled towards the windows, took out his pipe to fill. "But I'm too busy to take care of him. On the final stages of my book now, been working like a bastard on it. My agent says there's a chance we might get a movie offer, so....I'd be doing the scenario too. And
... we're busy at the studio too, and well ... it's just not fair to have a dog if you can't give it any attention..." He remembered the night she first brought Smokey home, rolling on the floor with the puppy, cuddling, affectionate. How the hell could he go on looking at that spaniel's face every day and not think of her like that? Paula tender, Paula caring?
But a look of certainty and defiance had appeared on her face while he spoke. "Oh admit it, Max, you don't want to keep anything that reminds you of me. That's why you let me have the furniture, moved out of that apartment which you can well afford. Am I such a degrading memory for you, then? Such a depraved skeleton in your closet already?"
He shrugged, gave her a wry smile. "You always were the perceptive one."
"Send the poor dog out to mother's, the boys will love having him, and certainly nobody will be corrupted by any unhealthy associations. Really, Max, I don't know why you came here today, unless it was to add a final unpleasantness. We could have handled this whole thing on the phone, and saved ourselves a lot of annoyance."
"Right," he headed for the door so fast his pipe slipped from his grasp unnoticed.
"So long, Max," her eyes fixed on the pipe.
"See ya," he didn't look back.
Paula rose and went across the room to retrieve the pipe. Back at her desk she removed a key and unlocked the bottom drawer, and gently placed the pipe inside, memento for interning. She closed the drawer and quickly locked it again. Then began studying a travel-brochure that lay open on her desk: 'Spend your Winter Vacation at the Stardust
Hotel in Las Vegas! Gambling, sun-bathing, exciting social events organized by our excellent counselors!'
Socializing made easy, she thought. I will mingle and laugh and dance and be popular. Flirtations and courtships, but not affairs. Respect before desire; learning to flirt with a man I've no intention of taking to bed-isn't that what other women do who love attention but hate sex? Integration dead ahead.
She would be without her work and alone out there for the first time in her life, trying to want nothing from people except their company, using her personality to win approval instead of her body. Or would she still be caged, the ice and uniqueness weighed in with her luggage?
For an answer there rumbled inside of her the abyss and echo of bashful untried growing words-it is too late, and I am afraid...
Late on the night Paula's plane took off the first snow of the season began to fall, and Max sat at his desk, caught up in the merciful labors of his novel. Then the call came from his sister-in-law Elsie. They'd just phoned from the rest-home, she said. Emma had passed away in her sleep about an hour ago. "She didn't suffer, Max," Elsie added, "Remember that"
Saying little, Max put the phone down, thinking that as usual Paula had been right, and as usual she was having the last word, the very final verbatim textbook syllable, because that's what she said, wasn't it ... Yeah, she said someday Emma'd drink herself to death ... "Aw, you're right again, Egghead!" he roared up at the ceiling, "How does it feel to be flying away up there knowing you're right, Paula ... always right!"
Then Max sat silently for a long time.
Stared down at the typewriter, which had no breath but his. Let himself be enveloped by the stillness in the room, clouded by the nothing. Heard the wind, faint street noises. Traffic. Life.
Papa lost his girl...
Emma...
Home.
He started to type.
TWENTY-FIVE
It was late at night when Paula arrived in Las Vegas, and as she taxied out to the Stardust, she saw that none of the advance publicity had quite prepared her for the garish display of neon on the famed Strip. It was like a living caricature and difficult for her to take seriously, except that there it was, wasn't it?
"Makes Broadway seem rather dim by comparison," she remarked to her driver, realizing it was the first bit of idle conversation she'd ever had with a cabdriver. A Max-trick. Max the poseur, speaking to cabdrivers all over Manhattan, going through life as if he were running for office. Must she now embrace such affectation in order to be welcomed?
"First trip to Vegas, lady?" asked the driver.
She gave him a nod and a smile in the rear-view mirror.
... my very first time away from home, so will you be so kind, good Sir, and hold my hand while I work the slot-machines, because my name is Alice and I've never stepped through the looking-glass before, spent my days in a classroom and my nights with a slide-rule. Hysteria? No. New capacity for fun. Swathed in sables, stylishly coiffed, everything new. Even the air is new out here, so dry and full of noises, crickets or bats or maybe buzzards circling for the final rot. Vast black expanse of desert and space, Golden West where men are men ... and cactus and tumbleweed, boots and tight levis ... skies and stars bigger and closer ... skin closer. Out-of-her-depth-Paula can only survive in captivity, so how long will she last unchained? Better watch her. Give her a long rein but don't let her loose ...
Several strapping young bellboys accosted her at the hotel, each of whom were aburst with dewy-faced smiles of charm and commerce. Paula decided that if all the help abounded in such robust protrusion, she would have to adopt a single fixed attitude towards them and never vary. Maternal grace. Lady of the manor. They were to be vassals for her, not toys.
Carrying her luggage, the troupe led her to the diaphanous rotunda which was both lobby and casino. The din was overpowering, as scores of people milled pointlessly about the stupendous shed of a room, looking as if they had all just been spared some common catastrophe and were waiting to be evacuated. Flood victims in newsreels have exactly that look, Paula thought, following her guides to the registration desk.
For the first few days she took refuge in daily sunbathing, hoping for anesthesia, vegetation. In less than a week she was a golden bronze, which, with her lustrous dark hair, presented a striking contrast to the simple white swimsuit she chose rather than the bikinis Marta had so ambitiously packed for her.
As she dozed or read or lazily oiled her body, the growing languor rendered her happily oblivious to the other guests on the patio. And while it was several days before anyone made a friendly overture, Paula was quite definitely noticed. Men. But, for her, safely filtered, not yet absorbed.
On the fifth day an ingratiating but garrulous matron with a Texas accent and, as she put it, a divorce in the oven, stood over Paula's lounge and introduced herself.
"Excuse me, dear, but my name is Cora Overton, and that's my Momma sittin' over there at that table, and the truth of the matter is we'd like it ever so much if you'd come join us for a lemonade..."
Paula removed her dark glasses, and as she looked up at the full-fleshed smile of the woman, her first long-rehearsed reflex was to decline. Even as she forced the words of acceptance from her mouth-"How very kind of you, I'd love it!"-the stance and demeanor remained one of, decline.
Mrs. Overton said she was a sixth grade history teacher from Fort Worth, then introduced her mother, Hettie Overton, who, Cora said, was a world-famous novelist if you were under ten years of age, because Hettie wrote books for children. The elder Mrs. Overton was a myopic, quiet little woman in her seventies. Quiet, perhaps, because her daughter appeared to be a compulsive monologist. But kind, Paula instantly decided. A flurry of solicitous womanly warmth. At least six feet tall and two hundred pounds of caring.
... no doubt adores picking up lonely looking strays. Good-hearted. Rare, of course, but I'm used to them. I require them . ...
As the days wore on, Paula found it a rather new sort of protection to be seen with others. The blending seemed so much simpler when there was someone along who had always blended. And it was a pleasant novelty to be admired by people who hadn't been 'told' anything about her beforehand. The slate was clean and they liked her, as if she'd just been born for their eyes. Paula had never felt it was nearly so unhealthy to be a loner as to be considered one. And now here, at the beautiful-faced fun time Stardust Hotel, she had been able to drop that loner-tag for the first time in her life. How easy her imitation was going to be after all.
At the Overtons' insistence, Paula tried a brief session at the gambling tables. And although she lost heavily, she was more unnerved by the feeling of loss than the amount itself; and found the climate of careless destruction an irritating and retrogressive thing. Mass sufferers so happily courting their disasters...
And then, quite suddenly, three weeks had passed and Cora Overton got her final decree. The three women enjoyed a festive farewell dinner, and Paula was alone again, knowing that the next time all overtures would have to be hers. Waiting was no longer a luxury she could afford...
... you wanted something enriching for Dolores, and you failed. Get it for yourself. Expose yourself to it, tag along after it. The more it hurts to reach out to others, the less-likely you are to suffer the indignity of always being alone. And for you, the necessary perversion-fit in . ...
But reclined alone again on her lounge. Loner lady. The untouchable one. Another week passed as she sat and watched those unconcerned others who looked so painted and propped against desert skies. Gay cameo groupings, easy and basking together, imparting the message to hen 'We are people. We are all there is. And no matter where you search, you may never come up with anything better, may have to settle for what's here.'
One day a little boy and his sister came up and spoke to her. Each curly towheads and appealing. Five or six years old and clean and trusting.
They stared at her. "You're pretty," the boy said.
"What's your name ... are you a fairy godmother?" asked the girl. "My mother's very fat."
"But you're not fat, you're pretty," the boy summed it up.
... at least the children aren't afraid to approach. The fear comes later. You have to be taught to stay away from the cold locked ones, the armored ones, the removed . ...
Smiling at them, she thought of something to say to them, a greeting.
"Glenda! Peter! Come away!" shouted their mother, an immensely large and earnest looking young woman. "Stop bothering the nice lady, can't you see she's busy reading?" And with apologies dragged the crying tots away.
"They're not bothering me," Paula said, swiftly closing her book. But amidst the family wailing, was not heard.
Several men also approached her. Drawn by the mystery of her, and her breasts which rose and firmed at the sight of some of them, even while her eyes refuted. One or two were especially endowed as they lounged tall and near in their brief pubic strips, strolling past her lounge, packed swelling loins jouncing close enough to tap or browse over. But no, boys, she thought, not here under my own name. Find me later and elsewhere; then pretend you never saw me before or it's no contract ...
More days trailed. And nights. She signed up for some nite-life tours. Rambling chatter with tourists, who were together, were couples.
One night she drank alone in her room. Had several strong brandies. Then took a dexedrine for impetus. Changed into one of the filmy short formals with the bold decollete. Then went to the lounge-bar, where there was the inevitable floor-show blasting out on its hurdy-gurdy revolving stage. She ordered a highball, and at once there were men and smiles and advances. Paula looked fresh and vivid, the soft peach hues of her low-cut sheath dramatized her deep tan, and the casual way she'd done her hair was youthful and provocative. If only she had more vanity and less lust, she thought, the silly flirting business could get under way and time could pass in neutered dissipation. Flirting-fertility rites without touching, using your wits instead of your hands to get what you want.
The music blared from the hurdy-gurdy revolving stage above her, and there were men on both sides of her now, men talking, pressing near, offering to buy her drinks. How damned eager and appetizing they looked, these visiting stallions with that barber-shop smell of erection on them, and how she longed to see them unpeeled and safely fastened in her room, including those ass-tight boys up there on the bongos, wanted the whole throbbing balls and bouquet of them in her arms and silenced. She finished one brandy and let the man kneeing next to her buy another. Felt the surging glow of brandy and suntan and dexedrine. Daring girl, naughty and on the loose, Paula the temptress. Play the game, Paula! She turned and winked at her admirer, giving him a slight nudge with her elbow..."Don't you just go Ape over that jazzy music?"
Cheeks flushing, the man leaned closer, saying, "Well incidentally, as a matter-of-fact, it really sends me." Then went into a long discourse-in-depth on Dizzy Gillespie.
Listen to the lies coming out of that mouth, she thought, when he and I both know what he wants to go in it ... watching his lips move as he spoke, his eyes and tongue so obviously breast-aimed. And talking about record-albums, for god's sake-why doesn't he simply take out a breast and suck it, if that's what he wants? And why can't my eyes go where they want to on his body while he speaks, without fear of breaking one of the rules of preliminary?
And now, with his hand squeezing higher on her knee, the man told her in flat Yale tones how tremendously he admired the intrinsic social awarenesses projected in the performances of Lena Home, "and that whole vital talented racial group, as a matter-of-fact, for they have torn down the intrinsic ethnic barriers, ripped out the pages of history and have shown us that co-existence begins right here at home in the slums and the ghettos, and intrinsically speaking, incidentally ... " pinching fingers on her thigh becoming amputees in their divorcement from culture-oriented face, "and as a matter-of-fact," his eyes trying to make out the size of her nipples, "I'll bet you're a great little dancer..."
... replace lie-word 'dancer' with truth-word 'fucker' ... and still lady-coy and winking, Paula smiled and nodded. "Yes, I love it!"
"Do you like to do the Twist?"
"Not without a corkscrew."
"Hmm?" His eyes went suddenly alert and stared into hers.
Then with a girlish giggle, Paula leaned forward and delicately whispered in his ear: "How would you like a ninety-second blowjob?"
The man reared back on his stool and gaped at her. "What the hell....?" startled, stammering.
"Oh now ... it was only a dare!" Paula laughed madly. "Someone dared me to say that, really! One of the girls in my club, aren't we just awful? Bet you're shocked no end, aren't you?"
"Well incidentally, I mean ... uh ... as a matter-of-fact, I belong to this sort of club too, and ... uh ... now and then we all get together and..."
But she was off the stool and hurrying across the casino. God ... no such whimsies here, she thought. Oh but somewhere, and soon. Friends must be cultivated, but flesh need only be touched. She checked into a smaller motel under another name. And brought them there. At last the ease and the opiate.
The first was a parking-lot attendant at the Sahara. Name of Neil. Twenty-six and married. But how trembling and frenzied he became when she slowly began undressing him. Shirt, socks and shoes first. And then he reared back like a bronco when Paula bent and, clutching him about the thighs, unzipped him with her teeth, feeling the captured fat denim fullness burning against her mouth, and the fresh-sprung throb of it as it darted out and rubbed against her tongue..."Oh wow, honey, you're somefhin' else ... ohmyGod, wait ... wait ... no ... ohJesus ... get it, get it ... it's doin' it!"
... ah yes, she thought as the honey trickled down, oh yes, God, the concupiscence of surprise and a return to home country. Ummm ... how quo is my status now, how ageless the core and fruit of my being?...
And now the flaring appetites as she recruited. Often two or three in a single evening, as thus did the bodies multiply. Piled. Heaped and bulged and towering. When she was alone and briefly emptied of all addiction, there was no sleep for her, so she counted the members of her swift and flashing joy-world, saw the tugging mounds of jammed erections reaching to the heavens, boyish innocence of their asses in endless thudding rotation, sweating hairy thighs and hot tumbling globes of stockyard beast-balls and the vari-hued gland-colors of the weapons themselves, those nameless swollen jutting rigidities they wore and hammered and went Scot-free after bathing.
Paula counted her idols until slumber came ... lying in the luscious half-world of penis-dreams and grapple, the array spreading higher for her, the lover-tools, each a fresh new structure all its own ... fat or stubby or long or noble, limb after limb of them, feverish slapping belly after belly, thick spraying muzzles of the under death-ray swirling up closest to her heart. Oh ... feel the friendliness swimming in, her comrades so clustering-sweet, isolated but not forgotten ... no ... crowded with attention ... in her, in her. And as she counted, the flesh went faster before her eyes. Superimposed. Whizzing by. Gently tall curved mementoes like telephone poles along a moonlit railroad path, the rumble of rat-a-tat-tat and all stiffly streaming and hurried. And with the speed went time and self and Paula was a little girl again, wandering lonely as a child...
... oh honey, it's dark here, so dark . ...
Thanksgiving came and went, and Paula spent the day alone in her room so no one would see if she sat at a table for one. Solitude was so much easier to bear if nobody knew. It was Marta she missed at this time of year. Missed home. Sounds and scents and excitements of her only trusting love, her mother. A woman whom she would never have chosen as a friend-but suited perfectly as a mother.
If she knew the truth I couldn't love her any more. Or could I? Yes, I'd have to, if I still lived, I'd have to....
She cancelled the idea of a long-distance phone call, for it would be impossible to explain why she was alone on a holiday when she was so pretty and desirable and intelligent and well-dressed. And too, she had written the family elaborate fictions about the carnival of fun she was having in Vegas. Wholesome group-fun, daylight outings and poolside card-games, mentioning all the big-name stars, claiming to be escorted by witty charming friends wherever she went, mailing souvenirs from each casino she stalked. Back home her two worlds were still intact and separate, so no one must know. And in New York there was still her flawlessly built network of discretion. Image impregnable. And hence, no disaster awaiting her there.
Thanksgiving night she had brandies in her room, then dressed to go out. Seductive, low-cut. Inside the cab she felt cornered and stultified and carted-away. Felt the brandy working, and a feverish stillness climbing, tentacles of defiance ready to taunt and jeer ...
... in thy father's house there are many mansions, with padded cells and bars and keepers for the retching inmates, so if we're to be free, let us roam and clutch, if we're a danger, lock us up and quickly and sing something sad at night...
Actually she did have a date of sorts. A sun-cheeked unplucked busboy whom she'd been watching for several evenings. Removed voyeur, uninvolved but savoring ... boy-nymphet movement of flanks and pectorals, and perhaps consummation at last after so much studied ogling. Her lithe amnesia victim striding in tight white serving pants. Deep narcissus-smile whenever he passed her table, as if he knew she wanted to see him walking exactly like that stark naked and scandalized, then later hers. She slipped him a note and said she'd be waiting when he got off. Grinning, he nodded and cutely pursed his desert-tan lips in a blown kiss.
His name was Dirk and, he said he needed twenty dollars. Seated next to him in his car, Paula eyed the gently swelling dragstrip imbecile and thought there might be a tantalizing sort of power in purchasing a sex-partner. But in bed she found the damnably unschooled fetishist of a baby, a raging self-lover enraptured by the touch and structures of his own body as he watched it being digested by another.
Afterwards, the boy dressed and stood stalwartly at the door, grinning, clutching the money. "Hey lady, you can come over and grab yourself a big fat goodnight kiss, if you want. It's all included."
Paula watched as he stood waiting. She went over and put her arms about his neck. Gazed up at the sensual granite of his face, lush full cast of features, so immobile, so stricken. She pulled his mouth down on hers and kissed him warmly, generously. His lips did not move in reply, but lay still against hers, waiting and dutiful.
... he is suffering me to kiss him and thinks the thrill for me is boundless. He's rather sad, isn't he? Perhaps if I can think of him like that, it won't hurt so much later ... But it did. Wakefully. She thought of the years.
The legal matters concerning her divorce were not nearly the distraction Paula had hoped for. A few consultations and signatures, and then the waiting. And now it was mid-December with only another ten days ahead of her. Days of weathering the yuletide folderol and decorations which seemed so much more ornate in Vegas, seemed an obscenity after Marta's trees and plans and cakes.
When she tried to lessen the promiscuity, depression filled in the waiting hollows and clung for days. Times of sinking, each onslaught more persistent. Grief unwitnessed now, as her mechanisms for self-recording failed her, as she stopped being the dispassionate observer and suffered on stage alone.
After three such isolated days in a row, Paula grew desperate to shake the feeling of emergency, saw herself becoming blinded by her own falling and wanted out of it for a night. And found her stopgap. While strolling along the road between the Thunderbird and the Sahara. A thick-gutted, balding mechanic, fresh from the garage in greasy coveralls and scents so wistful and evocative of her girlhood. He parked behind a rigid clump of cactus and spread her out in the back of his pickup truck, fascinated by the obsessive eyes of her as she unzipped him, her hands reaching, clamoring for it, body full of nerves and panting. Watched her sighs of relief as she found it and held it, staring and becalmed.
He grinned, more curious than excited. "That fat old warhorse has seen a lotta action," he told her, "hell, I'm a grandfather, would you believe it? Pushin' fifty ... and that thing's still stiff as a board when I get up in the morning ... can't even piss with it sometimes 'till almost noon, have to walk down the street with it bobbin' out of my pants and drivin' everybody nuts for it...'cause hell, they all like cock in this town, men, women and children ... somethin' about the desert-air gets their tongue hangin' out for it. Imagine ... pushin' fifty!"
"Ah ... but these never age," she said, lowering him, her back arched for it ... the monument that weathered the elements, unchanged and timeless for her. But he did not ask her name or say she was pretty or the-most or something-else. And this time the camaraderie lasted only eleven minutes. A record?
Yet later Paula could sleep without sorrow, beholden to those flesh-filled moments when she'd been less alone. Sex, always her primary excitement, had now become better than nothing.
... a grandfather and not even grateful . ...
Christmas.
Another day spent alone in her room lest others see the rejected state of her, the begging face. Door bolted, drawbridge lifted against all edicts to link hands and play 'we're all in this together' with those maundering vacationing hordes out there who clamored to see her imperfections.
On Christmas eve she did not turn on the lights in her room, sat in the dark; for there were mirrors and she did not want to see her face or lips or eyes.
There was a passive day or two when the pain was too great for feeling, and so the mind rejected and Paula felt nothing. Would not honor the barren chasms, but, instead, created an artificial crisis, a synthesis which demanded new decisions, fresh optimisms. She acted on a swift and sudden impulse and altered her original plans, deciding to leave for the San Francisco conference a full four days before it was to begin. Without reservations or schedules, and to the devil with all her rigid controls as long as she wouldn't have to spend New Year's Eve alone in Las Vegas.
Her attorney delivered her final papers on Wednesday morning, December 30th. Paula secured an unscheduled flight reservation for late that same afternoon.
She was now determined to cast off the torpid indulgences of Las Vegas and spend those overlapping San Francisco days preparing and studying for the Conference. For her there was only one role, one label; and if the world had to point to her and call her a name, let that name be 'psychologist' and nothing else. Her mind's talents would not fail her and lead her to sloth as her body's had. She thought of scientists experimenting with mice, taking them off their treadmills and then observing their panic and confusion. I've done that to myself, she thought. A needless cruelty simply to be convinced of something I've always known-my work is everything to me and lust is incidental. How sorry I feel for the people who have nothing but each other every night, nothing but their own familial charades to feed upon. I must never lose my identity again, no matter whom I touch. San Francisco and the American Psychologist's Association's Conference on Social Welfare-my new survival, my signpost, and still another reminder that I have something to live for which nobody else has...
With these flags of defiance raised and flying, the holiday season lost all pain for her. A huge gift-box had arrived from Marta earlier that week, but she had refused to open it. Put it on a shelf in the closet, where it remained when her taxi took her to the airport. She was free and in command again, done with brooding nostalgia, done with the wasteland and the nightmare.
Tonight Max was having his own nightmare, one that had recurred often during those weeks. He kept seeing Paula being attacked and whipped by a bunch of naked guys in broad daylight, in front of people, like it was Columbus Circle or Washington Square. Kept seeing her trying to go back to her old one-night-stand routine as if she were still that same girl and their years together had never happened. And saw the indignities for her in that world, the doom. Not that he forgave her anything. Hell no, she wasn't so lost or sick that he didn't hold her responsible for everything she'd done to him. But Max suffered for her, worried for her, couldn't help himself.
But tonight, as usual, he awoke only to the blackness of reality. His bedroom. Bachelor digs. Master in his master bedroom looking very natural. Too much booze lately, he thought; that's what produced all that crazy sweat and fantasy. And working like a madman on his book probably added to the fevers, because now he insisted on finishing it before that other previous date he'd set for himself, the March date of his firstborn. That book would be the fastest, most independent venture of his career, and then maybe the movie adaptation, then a new series ... and after that? Oh hell, there'd always be something after that, because thank God he was ambitious and working too hard to get lonely. And on weekends, out to Marta's place, or dinner with his own family, who had their troubles too now, with poor old Salvatore wandering around in such a daze, and Max trying to decide if he should move in with the old man now that Emma was gone. Then, of course, there was Art and Eadie finally back together again, reopening the house in Great Neck, insisting that he dine with them once or twice a week. Art had even jokingly offered to go out to Vegas and have a heart-to-heart talk with Paula, and Max had managed some bland laughter to this, because he knew what gagwriters were. But it all meant that he was involved with work and family every waking moment, and as for women, man they were all over the place, thrown at him at Marta's, at Eadie's. Once, just to please Marta, he'd dated an attractive widow she'd found for him. The lady was pleasant company and easy to be with, not a pusher. But the next night on the phone Marta told him the lady had three fatherless children who desperately needed a childless father, so wasn't it ideal and made-in-heaven for everybody concerned? Max knew she'd meant well, but told her that from then on he preferred to pick his own talent and please, no more plots.
And since when did he ever have trouble finding girls? He still had phone-numbers, still knew how to conquer and split. But not time to feel all hot and plugged-up now. And after his years with Paula, who the hell needed sex? All his hard-ons were basking under the sun out in Vegas. Property settlement. Sliced right up the middle. So he'd had his portion, had so many doses of the same medication he'd built up a resistance, had the Queen-Lay and no complaints and no more juice, just muscle and drive.
Then he thought about the nightmares and what a sillyass jerk he'd been to worry about Paula, as if he'd wanted to hang himself up with some sort of father-image. Poor little girl can't handle herself out in the big bad world. Man, what a crock! That crusty broad needed about as much protection as Fort Knox. Marta had read Paula's letters aloud to him, and it looked like she was having a ball out there. Sure, Paula on her own, natural way for her to live and always had been. He'd broken the seal and distracted her for a few years, but it never had a chance. And she knew how to handle guys all right, his gorgeous stately pushover with the eagle eyes and timing. No sweat for Paula. A fighter that gal. Gutsy. He thought of the night the young girl was murdered at the Center, how Paula had been the only one not to panic. Brave. Tough. Just show her a hurdle and she'll jump it. Dare her, go ahead, double-dare her, and she'll come out head-and-shoulders above the rest. Up there on that observation tower mapping out all her troop movements.
Then Max stared up at the ceiling and the loss, shivering, and suddenly ashamed that he could let himself get so sunk with the loneliness. Didn't take much time, really; just a few minutes listening to your own breathing every night could be enough to make you want to turn on the gas and shove off. Busy like a Goddamned whirlwind all day long, and then one quick step inside your door at night and there it was waiting, ready to pounce and grab the life out of you, until you remembered that self-pity would be the end for you, the whining gutless end.
He was the infant, not her, because he'd wanted her to become helpless and needing so he could feel all masterful and dash in on his white horse. But it was never gonna happen, so he might as well face it. Paula would never need anything but her goddamn textbooks and a vaginal smear once a month ...
Max plunged himself deeper under the blankets, crouching and clutching his pillow, then beating it ... "Oh please, God, watch over that crazy whore out there ... and keep her from harm, and let her fool everybody and stay just as safe and cold and bitchy as she looks..."
And in a few moments wore himself down into the beginnings of sleep murmurs..."Baby ... oh baby don't cry ... here I am..."
TWENTY-SIX
It had been raining for days in San Francisco, and Paula's plane was forced to land by instruments. At the airport, however, she welcomed the cold fog and gusty winds, finding it an antidote for Vegas which would make her indoor solace of books and study an even stronger refuge. And how impatient she was to tear into her briefcases and research journals and thus reacquaint herself with the material to be covered at the Conference. Since she was a renowned authority on juvenile disorientation, she had been chosen to address the group on two separate occasions, and knew everyone considered it quite a coup that she was available.
Her hotel reservation was for the following week, and while she was slightly irritated, Paula wasn't too surprised to find that the St. Francis was booked up over the holiday weekend, and would have nothing for her until the Conference convened on Monday. The desk clerk told her there was small chance for a cancellation in view of the storm' and the late hour, and suggested she let some of the hotel's personnel assist her in finding accommodations elsewhere. But when she saw that this personnel consisted of a covey of earthily desirable young males, as well as noticing the heated appraisal of several men in the lobby, Paula declined their help. She'd had enough of such imposing nearness in Vegas, and was now too anxious to be removed and on her own, wanting so much to be locked away from the necessity to resist, wishing they would leave her alone and stop moving in on her so impersonally and pretending they didn't know how painfully easy it would be to let herself want them.
"No ... no," she begged off. "I'll find something myself, something close."
"Mrs. Sinclair, if you want something acceptable on a night like this, it really wouldn't be too wise for you to..."
But she had moved away. Fast. Had her luggage temporarily checked and, shielded by an umbrella, simply walked a few blocks around the corner and found a nondescript but harmless looking hotel called the El Carla. Vacancy sign on the door. An ideal place to hole up and cram for a few days, she thought, and considered it a good omen that she'd been able to locate the spot so easily. Her shelter time, here and waiting.
After a light supper in a nearby coffee-shop, Paula went back to the St. Francis for two of her suitcases, leaving the bulk of her luggage there; then took a taxi back to the El Carla.
She found the lobby delightfully musty and antique with its low overhead chandelier and brass cuspidors. Might well have survived their famous fire and quake, she decided, thus adding a touch of history and tradition to the sanctuary it offered.
The desk clerk was a beery looking pock-marked gentleman who watched her sign the registry with great interest.
"Social psychologist, eh?" he said.
She smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'll be here for a few days of quiet research."
Then he smiled too, his eyes going up and down her mink stole.
"Furs do look pitiful when they're wet, don't they?" she said amiably.
Now he gave her a quizzical look. "I seen you here once before, right?"
"No, I'm new in San Francisco."
"You mean you just hit town and checked in here right off the bat?"
"There is a vacancy, isn't there?"
"Oh sure, lady, it's just that I didn't know we was gettin' so famous out of town." He examined the registry again. "Says here you're from New York. Who gave you the word about us way out there?"
Paula felt a brief foreboding at so many questions, but then immediately thought she saw what he was driving at.
"Oh, any number of people. It seems your reputation is growing."
Nodding, the desk-clerk-a Mr. Ed Moynihan-gave her a wink. "Hey Petey!" he called to a bellboy, an oddly leering and puckish red-haired adolescent, "Take this lady up to 8B."
"The penthouse, huh?" Petey impudently ogled Paula's legs and winked. An air of holiday lechery must go with the service, she thought, deciding that it must be part of the welcome and charm of the city.
"The top floor?" she said. "Then there'll be a view."
Ed Moynihan found this uproarious. "A view! Oh man, that's a good one."
"Too much fog, you mean?" Paula laughed too; and then got into the elevator with Petey.
Another bellboy ambled up to Moynihan's desk. "Pretty classy material, huh, Ed?"
"Damn right. Of course, we gotta play it cool just in case she's a cop, which I doubt, 'cause she don't smell like no cop, not with that New York pitch ... and how 'bout that, man, us gettin' East Coast talent?"
"Wild."
"I figure she's another of them bored housewives and wants some extra pin money without going through her old man's pockets. Remember that Hillsborough matron last month? She worked the whole seventh floor for a week while her old man was out of town at an Elk's convention."
"Yeah, but she bitched plenty when it came time to shell out."
"That's right," Ed recalled, "She thought all she'd have to fork over was rent and tips, and naturally we donl have no contracts, so she couldn't know the house got sixty percent of the take on every John we sent her."
"And I ain't so sure about this new one either," said the bellboy. "I mean all right, so even if she ain't fuzz, are you sure she's hip she's in a call house? Maybe we should have eased her into one of the lower floors to start out with..."
"Oh Clyde-boy, you must be kidding. Look what she wrote down here: 'Social Psychologist.' Now how sly can ya get, eh? And didn't you see the looks we was giving each other, all them signals with our eyes? That's what's known in the trade as communicating without incriminating. And not only that, but didn't you hear ... we was recommended to her!"
"Yeah, I guess you're right," said Clyde, and then grinned. "And maybe later I can run up and grab myself a hunk. I ain't never banged no lady before."
"You're forgettin' your por ol Ma, sonny-boy."
"Aw now shit, Ed, you leave her out of this! Maw was my very first piece and I'll always respect the old lady for that."
The El Carla. Quiet, unnoticed hotel not too far from the St. Francis. But an ageing Tenderloin edifice with a tradition of comfort all its own. First four floors reasonably sedate, full of pensioners for the most part, no floaters. Top four floors, a brothel, busy, frenetic and various. Whores' faces changed once a week with the linen. Shifting personnel, no steadies. A retreat that was famous all over the West, and now ready to indoctrinate its first New York contingent.
There were only a few calls from the desk that night, but Paula didn't hear them. She was utterly exhausted, and after a warm bath and two nembutals, slept long and heavily into the next day. The first night in her refuge of resistance was, happily, uneventful. But tomorrow? New Year's Eve.
It was well past noon when the telephone finally jolted her awake. With the shades drawn, the drab, tiny suite was in total darkness, the winds and rain still beating against the windows. Not fully remembering where she was for the moment, Paula groped for the phone next to her bed and mumbled something.
"Mrs. Sinclair, this is the manager. Just checking to see if there's anything you need."
"Why, thank you," she said, sufficiently revived now by the familiar sound of his voice. "I'm still half-asleep, really, so I'm not sure ... "
"Well, we'd appreciate it if you'd let us know as soon as there's ... uh ... something you want us to send up."
"Send up?" she repeated foggily. "Oh yes, of course, I'm starving!" And she ordered an enormous breakfast.
For a moment she thought the line had gone dead. "Look, I'm sorry, but we don't furnish no room service here." Then he laughed hoarsely. "I mean we got a helluva lot of ovens, but no kitchen, you dig?"
"But there's a restaurant a few doors down the street," she said. "Couldn't you possibly send one of the boys? I'm willing to pay extra. You see, I don't plan to leave my room unless it's absolutely necessary."
"Ah hah, ambitious, eh?"
"Something like that," she replied. "Actually, I'm here for a social welfare conference, and..."
"I'm hip, I'm hip," his scratchy laugh interrupting her, "And you got a lot of boneing-up to do, right?"
It occurred to her now that Moynihan was laughing because he didn't believe her; for why on earth would a woman come clear across the country on New Year's Eve, just to study? And yet, did it matter to her what he believed? Certainly not. Her work mattered now, not people.
Recovering from his seizure, Moynihan said, "Okay, lady, if you're hungry, you're hungry, so we'll see what we can do," and hung up.
Paula wondered if the man spoke to all his guests as if he were their great uncle. Almost too familiar, actually; but at least not cold or malignant.
Rising, she went to the windows and pulled up the shades, but the storm was too fierce to supply much daylight. The famous skyline was dim and spectral through the glowering mist of Russian Hill, but, she reminded herself, there would be plenty of time for sightseeing when she joined her colleagues at the St. Francis Hotel next week.
Then she turned and viewed the worn and empty room closely for the first time. And was instantly struck by something familiar and hounding, felt a grinding-weakness at the pit of her stomach, a clutch of a sob strangling in her throat. The desolation. It was here too, in this room, had followed her. The terrible sensation of falling and losing had not shut out as she had thought, not shed in Vegas along with Max and the dragging ruin of her marriage; but come to her without warning this time, like a visitation, a spirit apart and hovering.
Forcing herself to move, she went into the bathroom and rinsed her face with cold water. She would not become the victim of her glands like some despoiled little teenager. Average divorcees might succumb to crying jags if they happened to find themselves alone in a strange city on New Year's, but not her. She recalled the mewling stream of distraught women whom she had counseled; the furtive drinkers, wallowing demi-massochists, spineless females who draped their self-pity about them like boa wrappers which they cuddled to their breasts in lieu of lovers. Sniveling inverted false values, not for her. Action was for her, and growing.
She dug into the makeup kit for the implements of rebirth. Sticky little-girl tears painted away as she dabbed expertly and carefully redid her face, ran a comb through contoured ripples of dark hair. And, with a start, gave in to a new magic she'd recently begun to find whenever confronted by a full-length mirror, the unprecedented, vainglorious urge to reaffirm her body, to justify physical self ... Ever since that young boy in Vegas, and the twenty dollars ... She stared at the high fullness of her breasts, the long tapering waist ... the body of her...
... it's as if there were something I forgot to tell it. Imagine communicating with one's own body, when before I never even let it come alive until I needed it ...
Removing the filmy nightgown, she stepped into the shower and scrubbed away the reflection and the doubt
She had just dried herself and slipped into a chenille robe a few moments later when Petey the bellboy knocked oh her door. "Got your breakfast, Maam!" he called out.
Letting him in, Paula saw the same freckle-faced redhead with the same irascible winks and eye-rolls. "Thanks so much for going to all this trouble," she took the tray from him and he followed her as she went across the room to a small table. She bent slightly to set the food down, and felt his eyes pouring down her cleavage. And felt the tremor of an excitement which she might have brushed aside more irritably if it hadn't included the reverse thrill of being looked at with desire, instead of doing all the predatory appraising herself. Being wanted, when, until now, only the wanting had counted ... and at her convenience...
She went to her purse and handed him some money.
"Thanks a whole lot, Maam," voice a Nebraska twang, eyes goggling as he stared at the outline of her breasts against the loose-fitting robe. Drooling sexless little beast, she thought; and yet there was a quality the boy had which would have rendered her quite permissive if they were somewhere else: his obvious-if swinish-desire for her. Was this criteria part of the erosion of vanity which had come to her so late? Apparently a man need only possess one qualification now for her to find him attractive-merely the wanting of her would be enough. No matter what they looked like, if they passed that test of desire, she was theirs.
"Pretty crazy storm we're havin' out there, ain't it?" the boy said, his eyes gleaming up and down the length of her robe, Paula detecting a spraying lisp as he spoke. "What do they do on a rainy night in Frisco?" As he laughed his eyes bugged out, and he blushed, which caused his freckles to stand out like tiny beacons. And with a quick half-glance she saw that he stood there before her with a roused erection jabbing the fabric of his trousers. And felt rather amused, until she was beset by the shoddy glow of pride this gross advent gave her, being happy for their desires instead of her own ... and reflectively curious to see what it looked like, for it was still another untapped mystery, was it not? But swiftly turned her eyes away ... for the boy had seen them lingering...
... and yet I feel so flattered by that vote of confidence in his pants, even though I do not physically want him and the look of him disgusts me...
"Want ya to call me Petey, Maam," that boy giggled at the threshold, "And if you need me, or any of us guys, you just stick your little pinky in that dial over there and buzz!" The sibilance again, and Paula wiped a bit of moisture from her cheek, closing and locking the door. And turning about with swift defiance to face the room, the shell of bleakness that loomed so large. Careful, she thought. Austere decompression chamber in a foreign land cannot surround you if you move fast in reminiscence and touch and citadels of home...
Books.
Her world for the next three days. In dedication there is scouring. Not to absolve, but to make way for self-improvement. Not guilt, but ambition. She had never devised punishments for herself before, so why now? For sins of mutual consent? Who had been injured? She had committed acts, not crimes, acts of pleasure, not against the State, not against society. Therefore, it was inner peace she sought, not pain which hurt, nor penance which lowered.
She eyed the frayed dreariness about her. Walls a tranquilizer green, furniture that never knew her. She had filed herself away on this shelf, for future reference. How many centuries had passed since she'd been able to cultivate aloneness ... and where had all the text-books gone?
Paula ran to one of the opened suitcases and pulled out a thick reference book. Stood there and held it to her. Stood firm and devout, uttering a kind of prayer ... "I want it all back again, the lifting and the promise..."
She hugged the book so fiercely against her waist that it loosened the folds of her robe, which fell free and exposed her nakedness. Then she felt the hard texture of book-binding sting against her breasts, and gasped, letting the book drop to the floor...
... No, never like that, never the dual contamination, each to the other, no integrating flesh with books; for if they merge, I lose faster ... lose vision...
Stepping away from the book, her robe half fell from her body. Tremulous tools of joy in evidence now. There and dimensional for her to look down upon and call the roll. All members present and waiting to be accounted for. Palms spread and lowering, she touched herself. No abuse, none of the self-manipulations which everybody knows brings madness; and yet, rapt with the kneading, almost maternal in her pride for the exterior offspring. And if they were so full of release and out-of-school where they could be seen, shouldn't they be led and fondled and tended to?
... No, you must close your fists and not touch them, must lock them up again, must be quick and militant and find clothes and lacings. A costume for the next masquerade. Wound-wrappings...
Moving swiftly, she dug out a simple dark skirt and blouse. Dressed hurriedly. Emergency-monitor, on call and needed. Fast getaway from what's underneath. School-marm on top. Didactic.
Thus wearing the remedy, Paula turned and stared at the book she'd let fall. No, not that one, for it knew now, had seen under and witnessed. But there were others freshly without taint, others naive and impressed with what they knew of her. She ran back to the suitcase and emptied its contents. The books she'd packed, the tumbling barricades. A life of bibliographies spread out before her. She pulled open the rumpled hide-a-bed, opening and distributing each volume in a semi-circle all about her. Synonym for Paula is encyclopedia, wherein can be found words like impregnable, unvanquished. She armed herself with the bulwarks, the library-womb of periodicals, journals, case-histories, anthologies. If it's in black and white it is so, as irrefutable as procreation, and rain and fog and the passing of another year...
... Now that I am free I will go back to being twenty-eight again. When I had it made. And he will marry again very soon. It, too, is written, for he is nothing but a man...
Paula brought the tray of food to the bed, studying as she ate. Next Tuesday, flanked by an IQ of 163, she was to deliver a cogent report on Teen-Age Contraception, programmed directly after another expert's views on the Perils of Early Change...(but rarely, if ever, so early as age thirty-two, Doctor Ovary!) ... and careful, Paula, lest you simper and name a malady, for it's a mass media disease and feeds on fame, yearns to be recognized, so read, Paula. Eyes fixed to the page as if you were being watched and tested by a panel of immortals ... Jung, Darwin, Einstein, Margaret Meade. Don't let them catch you touching yourself and being imperfect, for you are a student of life, not a sampler...
That afternoon Paula studied, and was a great success. Then, shortly after a quiet evening meal in her room, her scholarly composure was shaken by the sounds of riot and holiday, for it was night, and the threat of the new year ticked closer every second. Parties grew slowly behind the paper walls, and then exploded, as neighboring brawls and bashes roared in her ears. From next door wafted a Bossa Nova, and upstairs a male rumble of a voice warbled The Girl From Ipanema, with bongos. Gay tenacious celebrating was everywhere, permeating the very air she breathed, as she read on and was dedicated. Cups of cheer, cups of kindness, running over, daring her to sip', . .
... Eight-thirty. Midnight approaching in New York. Are they together, my last year's celebrants, Mom and Irena and the gang getting sweetly tanked on fruit punch? From my letters they'll think me happy and not alone. At least I've given them that...
Doggedly, Paula reviewed her notes, memorizing the address she was to give, walking about the room and reciting aloud, impervious to the crescendo that grew and pounded, as she hurled her voice high and booming above the wanton, ripe jeering sounds of tradition and good-fellowship, her tones rasping, dictatorial..."The two primary factors we must bear in mind in combating teen-age promiscuity are control and guidance..." then louder and louder rose the guarding rhetoric, pacing faster.
But could not deny the soft knocking sound at her door.
"Yes, what is it?" Paula opened the door only a trifle, and standing there saw a tall, fat, florid-faced man carrying something in a paper bag. Behind him there were others wearing party-hats, wielding garish noisemakers. And passing by in the hallway she saw the trail of doom, unsmiling funsters, aging conventioneers determined to become cut-ups once more, oversized, misbegotten cupids.
"Ed says you might be wantin' to have a party 'bout now, honey," hacked the man in the doorway. "I got a bottle, and me and my buddies here need a good cleanin' out. Are ya game?"
"You've got the wrong room," she kept her foot in the door, "I don't know any Ed."
"She's got somebody in there with her, Russ," said one of the others, "Heard her talking when you knocked."
"Ed Moynihan, the manager," said the first man, "He says you been resting up all day for this..., " reaching under the vast mound of belly and grabbing himself.
"Yeah, baby, we got something for ya!" The man behind started unfastening his belt, as Paula quickly shut the door and turned the lock, her body pressed against the knob, waiting and still until the voices disappeared down the hallway.
She stared down at the notes clasped in her hand. Gibberish now, for they had not rendered her so impregnable after all. Had fooled no one...
... And have they ever been the hiding masks I thought they were, my notes and degrees and good deeds? Was I really so clever with my structures of duality? Men and women and clients and relatives and my mother-have they all known the truth about me from the start?...
Ed Moynihan must have known at once; so positive that she'd come here for a sex-fling that he was blithely recommending her to strangers. All her ruses and facades were no good on this night in this city, and she wondered at exactly what point she had stopped surprising the men she touched. When had they begun to expect everything she gave them, instead of being awed and overwhelmed? When had the stamp of desire reached her face and eyes?
She sat among the books again, but slowly shook her head, denying their power, knowing they would fail her in these hours. The party-agonies from across the hall grew deafening, and Paula tried to drown out the tittering shrieks with Muzak, flicking the switch on the wall and turning up the volume, but still able to hear the raunchy male laughter. How snide and knowing men sounded when they laughed at her like that, for it was meal-time and they could all tell at a glance what she devoured in the dark, the whole staff sniffing out the needs written on her mouth and eyes and body. Despite the sleek clothes and elegant furs, they knew. Knew exactly what she wanted...
... under all that lady, an alley cat. Who said that? Max? Yes, Max in the car with her as the snow fell four years ago. When she seduced him, showed him her deformity...'Now let me see yours!' But he had none, was whole. Couldn't have sex unless it was romantic ... had to be in love even when he played with himself. Funhee? Boffo gag? Lay'em in the aisles?...
Paula went to the windows and peered at the slashing storm, dimly able to make out some of the neon and high-rises wavering in the gusts ... All that razzle-dazzle and this old virgin queen in chains, fingering her chastity belt like a rosary, and wondering what an eight story drop would do to her metabolism. In Suicide City, city that boasts more of everything per capita. More self-destruction, more perverts, more alcoholics, more sex-crimes, and oh damn them, maybe more joie de vivre! Yes, a drink was in order, for books were friends of the day, but useless dust-catchers at night. So she went to the phone and asked to have a bottle of brandy sent up, and hung up fast before having to hear more of Moynihan's innuendos. Wondering if he would expect to have her when the others were through-yes, Moynihan, all sweaty and stinking and knowing she'd get around to the excrements in his pants too.
In the morning she would check out, retreat to the safety of the St. Francis, possibly finding some of her fellow scientists who might also have arrived early. And let this be a night of suspension and limbo-a jumping-off place, but without the leap and signifying nothing.
As she waited for the brandy, Muzak charmed with dance music, for playtime America on the night of nights and singalong and someone stick your finger in my bubble-machine and waltz me around again Willie, and what's a Cha-cha?
... Hurry please, no time to dance, Sir, my Mommy thinks I'm at an art film. No. no tinsel or corsages or confetti, no harvest moons and malt-shops for Paulie...
A moment later her brandy was being delivered by Petey, the winking redhead. "Sure hope you're not gonna kill that all by yourself," his eyes traveling and bulging again, Paula wondering if she were the only woman in the world who found a trace of magnetism in most men between fourteen and sixty no matter how foul their breath or body-fumes, but perversely deciding to practice flirtation with slime-faced Petey. An antic caprice which might spice up her own abyss, and also confuse the gangling neuter by seeming available and getting rid of him in the same instant.
"How many in your crew, lad."
"Sixteen."
"Send up one every five minutes, I'm restless." She eyed her watch. "On the double ... now git!" shoving him towards the door.
"Holy cow, you wanta warm up on the help, do ya?" he said; but she rushed him into the hall and closed the door, clicking the lock.
"But dang it, Maam, most of us is on duty!" she heard him wail.
She turned up the Muzak, surprised that he hadn't laughed. Such a coy, cute trick, so saucily lascivious, so full of fornicating yule logs and holly.
Paula held the brandy bottle in her hand, and for the first time in her life, read the label, word for word ... compound rapture-promises, pretestedingredients, Madam, guaranteed to make you forget everything in the world except your own gulping vulva.
Hurtling shards of night-sounds intruded again as she heard the raw, hostile laugh of a man passing in the hall..."Wow, that little chick really puts out, what I mean!"
... No, not me! because you don't know me, and there isn't a man I've ever had who truly knew what he held in his arms. I was never that girl between the sheets, never what I seemed ... so beware...
Noises from the street began to well up and penetrate, tooting horns and sirens, senseless hoarse vomits of joy and congratulation, moist indulgent flesh-squawks from next door and across the hall, tissue walls recording for her, as if she needed the reminding ... yelps of the drunken body-traders going up in smoke for New Year's Eve, obligated to be out of their pygmy minds with happiness by the stroke of midnight. Clutching the bottle, Paula listened in lament ... harsh thudding sounds from next-door, like two portly torsos falling and tumbling in a desperate effort to make it new, a woman's pretended outrage of a scream, then a giggle, then the gutter-groan of her ... and why the devil hadn't she heard the man, Paula wondered, that silent machete so coldly inflicting ... why do they laugh and never sigh?
Holiday-chorus and brandy in her hands, Paula stood quite still on the edge of sucking city swamp, caught up in the evocative music of bedsprings and revelry, swaying with the rhythms of locked-out swirling pleasures which were near enough to watch and share for her own greed, but mustn't touch, mustn't dip the ladle, but instead, listen to the outside noises of wind and rain and screeching crashes of gin-soaked drivers and policemen's whistles. It was absolutely inspired timing. She'd locked herself in a cell just when the whole bleeding world was out there demonstrating.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Ten p.m. Fourth glass of brandy. Men scratching at her door like ravenous torn cats..."Hey baby!" wet-lipped pleas in the hall, "my nuts're about to fall off, so open up..."
"She's sittin' on it ... ol' hot-lips is sittin' on it, keepin' it warm ... "
"Hey baby, wanna sit on this?"
Paula stood close to the door, holding the stained tooth-glass full of brandy, shouting: "Get away from this door, you'll waken my husband!"
"Oh-oh, that means she's busy ... she's occupied cunt..."
"Yeah, come on LeRoy, let's go find somebody else before I pop my alpaca ... " They wandered away.
Paula moved to the window and tried fretfully to make out the sea of umbrella-shrouded celebrants so gleefully sharing this advent of time's new wake, new step pushing them all closer to the incinerators. As the hour grew later she knew there would be others at her door, for the whole place seemed to have taken on the flavor of some lush-laden jamboree or house-party. All those grisly stags-at-bay, she thought ... why didn't they have dates on such a night, or , . . why weren't they in bars looking for pickups?
... A bar is where I should be in this strange new city of fresh supplies. How swiftly the penalty-time would pass with someone on top of me outweighing the fear. And yet, why not here? Why not simply remove my blouse and bra and open that door? No, impossible here, under my own name, without wigs or masks. Perhaps later it might be diverting to see how many sex-offenders I can find in this city on a single night, fellow sufferers, brethren..."play nice, children, as long as you don't hurt each other!"...
Muzak spewing out a rhyme..."It's much lovelier ... the second time around..." Wait'll you hit a thousand, kids! Paula alarmed by the sound of her own giggling, trying to quell it, then letting it go, full and wretched, hearing someone's stereo whining. "Should old acquaintance be forgot?" Oh yes, please, every night! (and more of the mirthless laugh) Make your bed and empty your brainpan after each application-hygiene ... Twirling her brandy, staring into it, she saw a tear splash, and was suddenly warm, and hated the academic bandage of middy-blouse. Went to the mirror and tore it off, stood there in bra and skirt, examined the full tight mounds, twin volcanoes still taut and undisturbed despite all the Max-swallows. She tapped the brandy-glass against each tip. Fantastic cup-size, and never had to exercise, the rounds and dips and ovals natural part of the vessel, for the symbol of desire was zero and everything had to be circular, mouth, buttocks, penis, breasts ... and round is the color of my true love . ...
... Would I have led so sportive a life if I'd been flat-chested, hare-lipped? Ah, there's a consoling thought, imagining how much worse it could be if I'd never been attractive to men, but still had the same needs. I've been around enough ... no, strike 'been around' ... I've read enough case-files to know it would have meant enforced sublimation by day, and auto-erotics by night, Peeping-Jane blinking through the shades at the newly-weds next-door, hungry deprived beast of a girl writing on walls, keeping diaries ...
A moment later she was stripped and standing under the shower. Drinking too fast, not used to it, no one to catch her if she fell. After drying she felt more alert, and ran through the room naked. Raised the blinds, but only the black rain saw, and despite the persistent applause, there was no audience. She slipped into the chenille robe, thinking that if she remained like that it might prevent her from wandering out, unleashed and hollow-eyed...
There's the phone, Paula, call your mother! It's after one in New York so get her out of bed and play patty-cake patty-cake with the ties and the fictions...'I'm at a Pajama Party, Mom ... we girls just finished a game of Whist and I won a set of doilies!' Poor sweet, wearing those blinders for so many years; but maybe she knew too, and maybe she'd buried the truth deep down like all good mothers who firmly believe that no flesh of their womb could be corrupt. "You're mine, darling, so you can't be a sinner." Blind, ego-born logic even in Marta, the warmest of them all :. .
Before the mirror again, before the sadly aging twin...
... What will happen when a man says 'no' to me, flatly no, and there I stand before him, offering jewels? When they stop being impassioned by what I offer, but I still have the hunger? How long will they be grateful ... how many more years? What sort of mutation will I become if everything diminishes with time except desire? Often, women who have never been highly-sexed find urgent, last-gasp needs for it during the Change, and end up paying for it, as I have already done, though only for a lark, not yet under duress. They buy death-bed reassurance, these women, hiring chorus-boys and muscle-beauties....'Here's a hundred, young man, now pretend to be transported whenever you touch me ... and there's an extra fifty in it for you if you don't hold your nose while you do it ...
What role would there be for her in ten years, she wondered, sagging coquette? In her forties and aching, lonely?
A future which suddenly sprang up so close to her, Paula trembled and dropped the glass she held in her hand, jarred further as it smashed to the floor, raising the hand as if to stem the tide of prediction; telling herself that such public disgrace was for ordinary martyr-women, those drooping swooning fungi who spout Milton every time they crawl between a man's legs, willing to suffer any humiliation rather than face an empty bedroom. Not her, oh damn, then, never her...
... I take my sex neat like a man. No fuss...
She went into the bathroom for another glass. Plastic and soiled. She scraped it clean and poured anew. And was then startled by another knocking at her door. "Hey ma'am!" she heard the nasal voice of Petey, "I got something for ya!"
"Slip it under the door," she called back, thinking what bestial fun Max might have with such a line. Max the crass, Max the tender ... no, not tender, but maudlin, tasteless ... yes, better...
Out in the hall Petey laughed fitfully at her remark. "Now no, Maam, this is for real. Got a message for ya.
There's a little chain on the door, so leave it hooked if you don't want me to see who you got in there."
. . i He thinks I have someone, and I have no one. That's funny too...
The chain in place, Paula opened the door a few inches, immediately struck once more by the aura of strolling disaster in the corridor. So many wall-eyed slobs with bibs tucked under their jowls waiting to glut in the new year, the acrid aroma of their cigar smoke bringing back a few of her special Third Avenue types, the barrel-house species, some of whom had continued puffing on their stogies while humped remedially above her. Such ripe game, she remembered wistfully. Not men, really, but livestock. Antitoxin...
Petey pressed close to the door, partially inserting a knee, and bypassing the leering face, Paula again noted the glints of red hair, the freckles, wondering if his coloring would be the same everywhere, recalling that pubic curls were rarely the shade one expected. Infinite miracle of design, so fluctuating and various, all those secret places as yet unchartered ... ah sweet mystery of filth, at last I've found you ... in Petey's face and poking knee. And now the boy thrust that face so close, she could feel the heat of his breath, smell the garlic..."The joint's really jumpin' tonight, pussycat!"
Oh, how dared he think he could talk to her like that! She'd have him discharged, or flogged; yes, some liked the whip, some wearied of punishing themselves and had to delegate others.
"May even have to set up a few cots in the lobby," he went on.
She spoke coldly. "You said you had a message for me?"
"Yeah, Maam, about that request for service you made a while back? Well, I briefed the crew and ... like ma'am ... they said they'd all be out on their asses if they's to drop in and great you up every five minutes. How 'bout some split shifts, like maybe one an hour? That do it for ya?" He made an obscene kissing sound, but jerked his head back as she slammed the door in his face.
Good heavens, that insipid little gargoyle couldn't have taken her seriously. Then the bereft sounds of her own laughter again as she thought of sixteen bellboys all in a row ... with a zip and a flip and perhaps a turnstile plugged in at the door. She'd be written up in Science
Digest, scaling the heights at last ... laughing like something possessed in this room alone, creeping claiming hysteria because of the storm. Yes, animals panicked in a storm, so why not humans, tight wires of instincts reflecting and prehistoric, sweaty brow as old as Time ... and so is this chill, this tremble of hand...(oh God, quick ... let me know who I am again and fast, please, these minutes I'm losing are my life)
Before the mirror again. Reassurance.
... Convince me that I exist. Stare and convince. Pin the truth to my moment of doubt and tell me who I am. Who was I ever? I am Mrs. Paula Sinclair, which title shall be kept for professional reasons, not just because that's what it says on all my little prescription bottles at home. Take one every hour, Mrs. Sinclair, not one bellboy, Mrs. Sinclair...(giggling) ... one pain pill ... Homesick for prescription bottles, miss them like the rest of my salon-decor, miss my paintings, my drapes, my tape-recorder, my pills...
She went into the bathroom and saw the vial of Nembutal capsules on the shelf above the basin. Fifty. Four or five swallows would do it. Retreat and win? No, ruled out, uncharacteristic, too anti-progress, too weak, too ... too feminine, dammit, that was the word, that crippling crux of a word wherein lay all the handicap and the guilt, so rub it off the blackboard and find yourself a brace, because you are going to walk on the hot coals of this night and live through it.
She hurried into the other room for her glass, for deep and heavy soul-sipping, then sighing with the Muzak, tuneful company for the shut-in ... singing ... 'I've ... got the ... world on a string...(and it's shaped like a testicle, so be careful!) ... sittin' ... on a rainbow...(how many colors can you take up there, little ones?)...
Then felt the surge of shock as she heard someone turning a key in her door, saw the knob moving back and forth, someone trying to get in at her, someone not summoned, not welcome...
... Honey, where are you, it's dark in here!. . .
But now grateful for the crisis, finding it a gristmill for action, going to the dressing room and reaching for the large piece of broken glass, an ugly weapon which she would not hesitate to use on crowing-rooster Petey, to let him know, once and for all, who she was.
Paula unlocked the door and flung it open. But saw another bellboy, older and obviously sober, standing in the doorway, a key poised in his hand, a young girl next to him.
"Oops, sorry lady," he said, "must have the wrong pew." And to the girl at his side, "Guess you're bunkin' next-door, honey."
Paula sighed with relief, and then eyed the girl, the cheap smudge of a made-up face that glowered at her. Barely in her twenties, but offensive, flashy, peroxide and hating. Eyes stark and torn with a bitterness that was an affront, worn trench coat rudely yanked and belted about the middle, mouth full of desertion, caked tears messing the mascara ...
... I know her. This girl is a cry for help and I have seen her many times and taken her hand. Manic sorority of the lost ones, coast-to-coast, pavement to pavement, all the symptoms that plead for someone's lifting. A beckoning in my doorway, a gesture, a medallion of trust reminding me how very much I am still needed....
And as she searched that face, Paula was besieged by the haunted faces of her failures; the brutally slaughtered Viola, and lost Dolores, whose doom she herself had helped to seal. And it was the eyes of Dolores, mocking and accusing...(practice what you preach, Signora!) ... that judged out at her from the sockets of this ravaged child who now stood before her, assigning her, giving her life, sent to dam up the tides of self-disgust and stay the condemning. Self-approval not yet stolen...
... My purity...
Forgetting that she still held the broken glass in her hand, Paula smiled warmly at the girl. "If you're a stranger in town, too, perhaps we can have a New Year's drink together later. I'm Paula Sinclair."
The girl's eyes narrowed in contempt as she stared fixedly at the jagged piece of glass Paula held. "Go cut your throat, Paula Sinclair."
"Here now," said the aging bellboy, leading her to the room next door, "that ain't no proper spirit."
"Oh shove it, Dad."
Paula took a step into the hall to follow her, but thought better of it as a sloppily festive group of men ambled past her doorway. "That's right, Dad," said one of them, "you shove it, but me first!" Eyes going from Paula to the girl, then back to Paula, stepping closer as she retreated ... balding, lip-licking rhino of an admirer panting and wheezing his troth..."What's the good word, baby, you ready for a lil surgical jelly? Got my own tube ... see?" He squirted something in the palm of his hand. "Now open your robe and let me slide some of this stuff up where it belongs."
"Yeah, they're screwin' in the elevator," said another in the group, "so we may's well do it in the hall. Grab her, Vic, maybe this one's on the house!"
Shuddering, Paula quickly slammed her door; but not before she heard the denunciating rasp of the young girl's laughter as she entered her room. Waiting at her door for some signs that the men had moved on, Paula was surprised to hear a murmuring exchange between the girl and the vile-mouthed balding one called Vic. Then the sounds of the others leaving, as the girl let Vic into her room and closed the door.
... No, she doesn't want that ... she's so young, so sad!. . .
Paula leaned against her door, listening, unbelieving; and soon the telltale gasps equaled those she'd heard through the opposite wall, chipped plaster of pulsing echo-chamber, surrounding her...
... If she's ready for that hog on her, she must be desperate, must be at the end of her rope, ready to rob him, or sell herself for a night's rest. . .
Vic's phlegmy howl: "Don't tighten up, ya dizzy little turd, it ain't all in yet!"
Paula turned the music louder, blocking out the grunting evidence, thinking only what it could mean to her to have seen the need on that girl's face in the midst of this night's peril. Fifteen minutes passed and Paula heard the man leaving, and then the girl's low, tortured sobs, deciding that in the morning, after the girl was rested, they would make the healing plans together, would leave this hideous night behind and begin to salvage something from it. And how vividly she was reminded of the progress still awaiting her in New York, the rare gifts and inner powers sopping up all base hungers, making her whole and giving.
Paula swept exultantly about the room now, full of the vigor of rediscovery, ready to show the world how formidable she still could be. Now that she need never again be plagued with the obligation to love, she was free to make of her life the laboratory it was meant to be. She rummaged through her purse and poured over the schedule of events for the Conference, recalling the four blessed days of seminars and lectures that lay ahead, the homecoming after the exile.
As she listened, the girl's cries gradually ceased, and after a last sip of brandy, Paula knew it would be back to the books for her this night; and sat on the bed, sprawling and clustering the circling tomes about her, too much brandy for serious study, but wanting the thick, rock-like touch of them, paternal touch full of wisdom and test-cases, books the closest, most loyal, and if she wanted it strongly enough, she might have her own clinic in New York one day, and write that book ... and earn those doctorates. Nobel Peace Prize up ahead ... concentrate!
Ah, but first a dress rehearsal for the regained image, she thought, one of the sleek chic suits by Chanel or Mainbocher, mauve or black or rust, her uniform, chaste, adroit anonymity. Paula ran to the suitcase not yet opened and unpacked two of these ensembles, holding them up, swishing them back and forth, letting them reinstate the vision of her seated behind that armored tank of a desk in New York, her flagship, her compass. She would try on one of the suits, and perhaps even pull her hair back in the tight badge of a chignon...
... And get into character, genius-lady, letting all ye who enter here bow to the immaculate one...
Elated, Paula chose one of the suits and dashed towards the dressing room, permitting her robe to drop to the floor on the way, running nude. And then she caught the fleeting profiled glimpse of her bare body in the full-length mirror and was brought to a half. Stood frozen there, impaled in flight; staring, placing, reliving. Drawn by a quick warmth of nostalgia in the fullness of that flesh, those old, remembered treasures, her members...
... Here it is at last, what I have been searching for in this mirror today-the sight of my naked body brings them back to me, every last one of them. I look at my body and see their hands on it, more than twenty years of pawing approval, see all their collectors' items, their thirst-objects, see what the boys in the back-room have had, have held ... and want not to deprive, want not to starve them out ...
Her eyes traveled downwards to the silken incline, her lips forming the word, the identity-key..."Souvenir."
. . .Yes, this is the scene, the stage where they performed. So many of their bodies, yet only one of mine, and while they have nothing to remember me by, I have this lavalier, this gravesite. Perpetual care? Yes, not death for desire my lovely prodding lechers, apex not yet gouged...
"Men," she said aloud, her hands gliding where theirs had been, "men..."
Letting the suit drop to the floor, Paula dug in the suitcase and came up with one of the Vegas numbers. High-necked, but a sheer, topless effect to the bodice, so naturally there would be no bra. Deadweight, a bra. The excitement grew and prickled, tongue darting, licking over memory-ripe lips, mouth swallowing the confusions of daylight and ambition, as she dressed and primped and painted....
... In twenty years how many men? Should have kept a file. Could have a reunion if I knew where to reach them. Where are they now ... with their children, or grandchildren? So many hands locked out, all those sweltering cries of joy and madness that only I could bring them...(aw Christ, baby, gettin' ready ... yeah, now ... ooNOW!) ... Where are all the nows, and where are all those haunches that slid and nudged in sweet abuse?. . .
The Muzak went abruptly silent, crowding the party shrieks closer about her, inanity or rock 'n roll taking on new eloquence, squealing retch of vocal riot a new symbolism, really 'in' and fraught, male laughing voices full of taunt and husk, raw and damp and four-lettered, tall rangy desecrations, uncaring but armed.
... Wait, wait, sweet studs!...(girlish tittering, clinging pouting rosebud noises) ... don't spill over ... I'm on my way, Stacked and Female and at your mercy. May even sleep with one of you tonight. May try dancing (can't dance!) and flirting (Mama never taught me!) with someone before dissolving into 'it.' Alter the bid legs-up pattern and gaily tease before swabbing. There are frenzied parties on every floor, attend one! Join a group this time; you've had enough brandy not to be shy, poor schizoid recluse so plugged with fear, so speak whole coy sentences and smile in mystery and touch no one until you yourself are touched. Be polite, and introduce yourself and be courted and flattered and get that fraternity-pin, you poor hot number of a wallflower; this is that prom you missed out on, all those ice cream & cookie parties where they played spin-the-bottle and went steady and petted and read verse aloud together while you were being stuck and pounded under a movie seat somewhere. ... Yes, that's right, black net stockings, lush velvety feeling, so right for the most frantic piece of tail on the Eastern Seaboard ... now amalgamating, wild hunk of pussy looking for four-leaf clovers and moonlight strolls ... hah! ... object, appreciation, gentlemen ... respect before plunging. So fluff out the hair pagan-style, and more perfume 'twixt the knockers...(what a set of boobs, baby!) ... nipples roused and on fire under transparent tulle. Oh God, turn away if you've had enough of me ... because I look shocking and depraved. I am blatant and a swinger and ready for the first guy who touches me there ... here ... umm ... pressing, jabbing, hooking! (O save me Sinners 'cause dinner's ready!) And my sunny kitchen-hearted Mother can't see me ... hah! ... boffo joke on her ... and righteous true-blue psalm-spouting Max can't see me, nor can my lost ones, the baby Camilles so awed by my halos...(the blind leading the blind, baby!) ... but I look biblically debauched so I won't go unnoticed...(O pray for me, Farson, and get me off this fuckin' island!) ... at my very first dress-up ball, very first high-heels, gown of gossamer and angel-hair ... and get in line, boys, if you want me to show you the minuet ... (Still time to repent, Sister!) ... no! I must have a man's hands on me tonight, hands storming this bastille with some physical caring that will postpone my soul-saving future of masks and hysterectomies and sweet charity, postpone everything while Paulie gets her heat on, has her zero-hour, has her last whang-bang before corking it and taking the pledge...(funnee, Max, funnee?) Tomorrow I'll press a switch and revert to plastic...(eyes of denial staring at the textbook on the floor, kicking it under the bed) ... because this hi child prodigy's got the itch...
With a final reckless gulp at the brandy, chin thrust out in studied abandon, cigarette poised in her hand, Paula unlocked her door and stepped out into the blaring hallway. And in the eye of the hurricane saw fear mounting. But now it had arms.
TWENTY-EIGHT
For a moment Paula wavered there on her threshold, wary and incredulous at the straddling din of loiterers and drunks, several couples flattened and pumping against shadowed walls, a few feet down the hall a young girl on her knees before something white-haired and potbellied, her head busy and bobbing as the man glared down at her with conquering grin and laughed an accompaniment, grabbing down at her breasts and pinching them like party-favors, inanimate treats. Intimacies louder, cruder than the hangling music, lurchings splattered with contempt...
... Oh no, not like this, not yet!...
As Paula turned and fumbled for her key, the door across the hall was flung wildly open and several young men spilled out into the hall, eyeing her at once.
"Ooh ... my achin' balls, dig that hunk of jellyroll!"
"Oh praise the Lord, 'cause she's round where a girl should be round..."
" ... with a lollypop butt that would melt in thy mouth..."
"Ah, wouldst that I were a thorn upon that rose so that I might bite the cheeks from whence it sprang ... and nibble..."
"Yea, nibble!"
As the three of them knelt before her for some madly elaborate bows, Paula saw that they must be part of some sort of fraternity celebration, young and innocently robust despite their profanity, not jaded and hostile like the others...
... But they are cherubs, and not for me. Older ones for me, because underneath all the unlovely grunts, there'll be gratitude . ...
As she edged away an arm shot out and seized her about the ankle..."Umm, what stems, Chickie, they go all the way up?"
Another of the boys rose and extended a courtly hand. "Don't mind Erasmus down there, Maam, he's an LSD major and can't do a damn thing unless you show him five hundred dirty pictures."
Erasmus rose and handed her his highball. "A token of my great respect for your blinding patrician-type beauty..."
"And there's a whole lot more good cheer inside, if you join us. We're suffering a frightful shortage of feminine gentler-types."
"Not enough broads!" clarified Erasmus.
The third and youngest looking of the trio had an affecting, guileless air about him which Paula found oddly touching. Not much more than eighteen, she thought, with sandy longish hair, an amusing attempt of a beard, and a smile so infectious with good humor, Paula could only smile in return.
"I'm Bobby Traherne, and too well bought up not to be evil," but belying this, he gave her an ascetic kiss on the cheek, and slipping a guiding arm about her waist. In the next instant Paula was inside the room, revolving in a whirlpool of faces and stereo, as the boy Bobby lost himself in the smoky haze and others took his place. Taking a fast gulp of the highball, she smiled and tried to shake off the confusion of so many wanting to touch her at once, feeling beacons of eyes playing about her bodice, feeling the tremor and swelling of nipples as they looked. She longed for the bra. And then didn't. Inhaled instead. Bravery under fire...
"Man, is this a chesty one!"
"Dig those crazy rosebuds!"
"Hey honey, what do they call ya?"
"They call her all night long, that's what they call her..."
Quickly scanning the group, Paula decided they were obviously well-bred boys from good families, out for a little holiday hell-raising. Peering through the smoke, she saw that there were only three other women in the room, rather brassy types, she thought, stationed on a studio couch, several boys hulking over them, necking and mauling, their mouths hungering low as they sprawled there, unzipped and finger-stroked by their ladies...
... Where everyone can see! Don't they care, don't they hide it ... ?
Someone shoved another drink in her hand as Paula tried to edge closer to the couch so she could watch this shock of public display, watch the community nuzzlings of unknown lips drinking in the flesh-assemblage not her own, watch the member-mergings of other people to see if they sank as low, and somehow afraid to learn that they were just as unique as she in their craving, or that desire was, in reality, the most common mass-reflex of all; and then backing away, not wanting to be reminded, trying to feel shame for their lack of discretion...
And was then herself swept up in more immediate propinquity, as the sight of so many tall and lumbering boys milling about her became a dizzying, heady thing ... feverish silhouette-chorus in unkempt beatnik attire, tight, mound-clinging corduroys becoming bandages of genitalia and arousal, sparse sandals through which prodded the phallic clumsiness of man-feet, noble rearing heads needing haircuts and shaves, tawny virility-flaunting manes tossing as they laughed and slid nearer with the multiplied heat of what she could weep for, could drawl for...
... But no, gentlemen, not in caucus, not while your brothers look on . ...
Yet powerless to pull away from the steaming, pent-up aroma they exuded, lost in the stallion swarm and feel of them, as one she pretended to dance with each of them, her smile stricken with forced gaiety as they pressed her urgently against their bodies and she knew that some of them wore nothing under their jeans, boys' fresh frenzies not yet dead with encore, but supple and expectant, new juice-flows ready to give her life and involvement. As each of them held and rubbed her body with a half-hearted rock 'n roll beat, Paula abandoned all hope for light social repartee, no small integrating talk with seething bearded lads in the alley with the neighborhood lay, their hooves grinding, their tongues licking parched, flesh-yearning lips that longed to dip into the vat of her, make waste of her ... and not wanting them to see her face so stripped and inane, Paula drew heads down for party-kisses, to fill the mute unsocializing gap, to fill the idiot-basin desire made of her, as she necked and smooched and French-style petted all the hot and brawling boys' mouths that grabbed and crushed and clung, partly open truant yowls so damply loose and burning, tongues rowdy and swabbing...
... But the kisses themselves are tender. Sweet and young and respectful, harmless ... hurtling needful junior-lips so desperate to sop up recreation before their final exams ...
The commotion caused the other women in the room to take serious notice of Paula for the first time, and she felt their eyes on her, eyes full of savagery and resentment. Suddenly the whole tableau was too strange and new for her, initiation too blunt. . .
... Other women must not witness when men touch me, the picture is so marred and out of focus with women present and watching and knowing and ... oh, they can't wait to get on the phone and tell everyone ... gossips, pride-killers!...
She counted nine boys in the room. Had never been touched by more than one man at a time, always draped and private, only one learning her secret, never the world. And here was a clubhouse full of lifelong buddies while she was the one and only stranger. Which role to play with so many viewers? Which status to seek to hold at bay what she could not keep her hands off? There had never been so many recognitions to synchronize and balance, never so many names given...
"I'm Tad..."
"I'm Chuck..."
"I'm Rod..."
"I'm Buck..."
One of the girls shrieked across the room at her. "Who the hell sent for Lady Tease-Pot over there?"
"Yeah, get her, actin' like she's Queen of the May..." said another.
" ... and she's so meat-hungry she don't know who to screw first," offered the third.
"What's the matter, fellas, think we can't handle the assignment, think we're on the rag or something? Are you on the rag, Lorraine?"
"Shit no, I'm not on the rag, Estelle, are you on the rag, Blossom?"
"Fa Crissakes, would I be here if I was on the rag, ya dumb farthead! She's the one must be on the rag, or she'd be good and speared by now."
The girls' escorts tried to silence them with newly attentive sprawls and finger-ramming. "Keep your pants on, Blossom," said one.
"Goddammit to hell, I don't wanna! It's almost midnight, and all my life at twelve o'clock on New Year's Eve I got fucked!"
"It's a regular pilgrimage she makes," explained Estelle.
"Like goin' to Mecca," added Lorraine.
Paula tried not to hear the lashing onslaught of their language as she slid away from clutch and pull of boys' hands, more insistent now that kisses could no longer appease them, mouths lowering as fingers undid the filmy tulle that covered her breasts, exposing the tremulous fullness, lips swirling and dabbing at the nipples, taking impatient turns at the moist satiny devouring, two heads at a time, nursing, imprisoning. And then a boy called Timmy on his knees before her, sliding her panties to the floor and hurling his mouth against the fresh exposure there, mouth slung hard and sipping as the others held her skirt high above his head, and Paula gasped and half-fainted with the raiding madness of tugging lips, the thrill of outrage and public abuse, seeking to pull away, but held firm and straddled by the others as they murmured, "Let him mop it, baby, that's his kick..."
"No, please ... you don't understand..." she tried to squirm away from the head between her legs, but they held her, another mouth crowding around to cover hers, two more descending, searing at her breasts, nipples bruised and swollen, but bursting with what they wanted, unable to tear her eyes away from the youth-fill they made of her body, feeling herself sinking into euphoric waves of freedom and sensation that she'd never before known except in the impossible visions of her dreams ... that ultimate flesh-fantasy of having a whole arena packed with sensual throbbing men-slaves, eager to do her bidding. Control had kept such fulfillments from being realized, for she had sensed that in such a situation the bidding would not be hers, but theirs. Everything would be theirs. And seeing this so vividly brought back all the pain and dread of debasement, and Paula lunged her body away from the clenching boy's mouth and kicked at him with her knee, violently freeing herself from the others..."Listen to me, all of you, please! It can't be like this, don't you see that ... not a crowd of you, but one of you, perhaps ... it could be sweet like that, could mean something tonight..."
"All right, then that's it, you guys, one at a time, that's the caper..." Paula felt a sudden shifting of stance and attitude as they moved slightly away, mumbling and huddling together as if in football formation, one of the boys edging over to the studio couch and whispering something to the girls.
"Aw, you lousy prick," yelled Blossom, "if you think you can dump us just because she's givin' it away..."
"Goddamn shitheels, we're busted and it's New Year's!" said Lorraine.
However, all three quieted down as a few of the boys pulled out their wallets and shoved several bills at them. In a few scurrying seconds they were gone, and someone lowered the lighting to a soft amber.
... They're whores. All the women in this hotel, whores...
Paula clutched at the word, examined felt an insane welling giddiness rise up in her throat. The El Carla. Quiet, unobtrusive Cathouse. And little Paulie with her books, come to study, little Bo Peep in Bablyon. 'O please, Sire, I've never been out of the castle before!' She thought of Petey and the other bellboys and Moynihan and the innuendos, the whole staff taking it for granted that she was not merely a pushover, but a professional as well. Epic stag-party joke on her that was only now being consummated, as she heard the door close, heard the sound of locking. Locked in and stashed away in the cave of youth and manure-dipping pranksters, ready to benumb her gullible receptable-flesh with theirs, ready to pound and flood and shoot into her one headless orgasm after another, leaving her their sweat and spit and laughter as she lay there in debris, spread and pared and offal, legs still stiffly apart waiting for the creams to crust and form the rot...
... O listen to them, the drill sergeants, the prep-school dandies, ready to take me by rote, so neatly courteous, so militant . ...
"Dammit, Rod, alphabetically is the only way I know how to do it, 'cause only one of us can bang her at a time..."
"Unless some guy sticks her up the rear while another's doing it in the front. Golly, wouldn't that ever be sublime!"
"Shh, she can hear us; no need to embarrass the lady. Let's just quietly line up and get out of our pants . ... "
... Listen to them shuffling and stripping in the shadows, listen to the sound of jeans dropping in the night, little girl's moist festering dream, eleven year old kicking off the blankets and sending all her fingers up to ease the string of longing, but never for the life of her wanting that dream to come true, so en masse and jeering, stud fraternity-serving, village harlot smuggled into the locker room to be pillaged and tossed. How to scream out the reasoning to them, how to give them the credo in hysteria, and make them see it is not the sex I object to...(mercy no fellas, it's never the sex I reject, but the accusation!...) ... for it is the stigma of your mass knowing that I cannot bear, the stigma of conspiracy, mass joking, mass comparing notes, mass dirty-labeling, the unanimous group-categories draped over me like leper-shrouds, deriding majority-identities I've never let myself face before, never had to watch this slandered, brutal merging of my two worlds, each telling the other what I am ... crushing all that was left, the core and the purpose. There are no shields in this room and I am exposed to all the names they're calling me-listen to the boasting whispers, see the classroom full of boys pointing, snickering, leveling. I am being flogged and shackled in the public square and cannot move...
Dimly from across the room she made out the outline of the one called Bobby who appeared not to be undressing with the others, but standing apart with his drink. Paula thought he was either a voyeur and as eager as the others for the bullying to begin, or as sensitive as she'd assumed upon first seeing his face.
And now the first in line moved close to her and she saw the white and hairy patch of nakedness from the waist down, thoughtless shadow-plank of erection ready to brand and perform..."Hey, you're not still dressed, are ya, doll? Or maybe you like gettin' it with your clothes on so you can feel all jumped-on and raped..."
As he reached for her, Paula swiftly lowered her body in the dark and swirled away from him, crazily, wildly determined to escape their gloating, palm-rubbing victories as they took turns on her squatting braggarts watching their deserving comrades relieving themselves with such heroic dash and bravura. No, it would not happen, and she moved, half-crawled towards the one remaining light in the room-sex-light, trick-light-and sent the lamp smashing to the floor, remaining on her hands and knees and silently moving towards the windows, ready to die rather than be torn to shreds under the dissecting eyes of their laughter, ready for anything to prevent the team from grabbing and upending and finding out the hungry lapping truths that would be inside of her when they entered and routed and forced the confessions out from between her legs and into the public air for judging ... caught and wracked now by her own gasping sobs ... feeling someone near again, someone rangy and barefoot, but making a sharp turn in the dark, sliding her body out of sight on the floor as she heard them curse and search for a light, flattening, sprawling, edging slowly forward, yearning for some blessed exit, some way out of this engulfing ... afraid to cry for help, but holding that cry lodged in her throat, stillborn but reaching, and then hearing the rasp of whispered name torn from her lips...(Max ... tell them about me, tell them they're wrong ... you know who I am ... stand up with that faith and tell them!) ... and was about to scream out his name as in one instant her hand touched a window-sill, and in the next, someone reached down and lifted her in his arms, hurling the both of them towards the door and tossing a huge bowl of ice-cubes to the floor for the others to slide barefoot and tripping and knocking against the furniture...
"Jesus! what the hell goes on here?"
"Who threw those ice-cubes ... I think I busted an ankle!"
"Where is she? Dammit, I don't wanna chase'ya, honey, wanna get my nuts off!"
"Aw Christ, I gotta sink it into her, I'm gettin' the drips!"
But the rescue action was as fast and sure as a gridiron maneuver, and once they were in the hall Paula watched the delicate-featured Bobby Traherne lock the door from the outside, and then half-carry her around a corner to the service stairs.
"Remember me, Duchess?" he grinned at her.
With a sigh, Paula nodded, and felt the relief and the smile on her face. "Yes, you're Bobby, and you kissed my cheek."
"That's right, and I've got my own room two flights down. The others don't know about it. You can relax now, you're safe."
Bobby, she thought; the boy with the courtly manners and foolish beard. How eager she was for such soft caring poignance to cushion her and wipe out the ridicule; and if this child-knight in waiting still retained some stately image of her, she must use what was left of her control to sustain it. Straw in the wind to make her whole again. Instead of pointing, he had given her shelter. Compassion from an unexpected source was what she'd hoped for tonight, and he was not like the others. Even said as much as he unlocked the door to his secret room.
"I'm not like the others. I despise brute force. Couldn't simply stand there and watch them ... defile you."
Suggesting that she might want to freshen up, he led her to the bathroom; and when she emerged a few moments later, makeup renewed and hair freshly combed, he handed her a drink.
"I really think I've had enough of this for one night," she said, setting the glass down on a nearby table, "and I can't begin to thank you for what you did. So very ... shocking, what was about to go on up there, and you see ... I'm not used to drinking, so I'm still not fully aware of all the liberties they were taking ... I mean, it all seems such a terrible haze, a nightmare ... a..."
"Forget it, Duchess," he stopped her compulsive rush of words and placed the drink back in her hand, "but I do think you need a few more sips to calm you down..." He held up his glass for a gallant toast, and they drank together. Gently, she thought, no quick and guzzling mouth-feasts here ... and what an intense look about the eyes, avid scholar in my midst, bright yearning under-grad...
"Tell me, Bobby, what's your major, what are you aiming at?"
"Biochemistry," he said tersely. "Why don't you have a seat?" He indicated the divan, where Paula took her drink and reclined, grateful that here, at last, was an attractive male who might also become a friend. It's his respect for me that would permit this, she thought; a simple grace and revering in his eyes.
Excusing himself, Bobby went to the phone and made several calls. He hurriedly explained to his fraternity brothers that he had recognized Paula as an old friend of his family, that her husband had followed her to the hotel in a jealous rage, and at this very moment was rushing her home in a taxi. Before they could think this over, he phoned down to Moynihan and asked him to send the girls back to his buddies' room. Then he went to the divan and sat close to her, his eyes eager and watchful. "Bet you had no idea you were in a call house, sweet lady, because you've got royalty written all over you."
"Oh no," she lied hastily, "I suspected from the first that it was more than a hotel ... and I suppose I was really giving myself an inquisitive little tour, to kill the time, as I'm due to attend a very important Conference at the St. Francis ... but couldn't get a reservation ... and..." and as she spoke, thinking there was no doubt as to what the boy wanted, but yet, seeming so desperate for a woman to instruct his passions; not some mawkish panty-raided kid, but a woman who was as ready to learn about mercy as he. Feeling his hand on her knee, Paula gazed down at the pale, tapered fingers, sensing something almost Edwardian in his refinement of hesitation. "Bobby, don't be afraid to touch me, there'll be no pain for us..."
His mouth shot out at her like a missile, graceless and pecking, and at once rough urging hands probed under her skirt. "Oh dear boy, wait!" she laughed gaily. "No need to rush, there's time for what we need!" ... almost certain now that this was his first experience with a woman, and naturally he hadn't wanted the others to know. His secret would be safe with her, and how endearing it would be later after she had shown him the tenderness she had learned...(from a master?)...
Breathing hard and unevenly, Bobby rose and made a lunge for the door, double-locking it, his face pale and perspiring, his body shaking with excitement as he returned to the divan and stood over her, little-boy eyes feasting, Paula gazing up at him with a smile of patient askance ... as she listened to his flung salute..."Hot damn! I got me a nympho for New Year's Eve!"
She kept staring at him, his words so grossly out of context, words thudding against her brain and clogging; and then she leapt to her feet and in a burst of outrage, struck him full across the face. As the whistles blew and the bells rang and voices screamed their carrion-call in the white-hot emergency of new year 1961, for the hour was midnight and crucial, and with repeated blows to his face Paula was negating with all her body and years what he had said to her, as he laughed out riotously and ducked and seized her wrists, his shirt now soaked with perspiration..."Happy New Year, you poor fuck-hungry broad ... you were so hot and quivering for it upstairs you could hardly stand up!"
"No ... please, wait..." pulling away from him, "you're so wrong ... those are lies, distortions ... you don't know me!"
"Oh come off it, just one sniff and every guy up there knew what you wanted, knew what your tongue was hangin' out for..."
Oh no, God ... don't let him, she thought, stumbling backwards across the room, it would not be like this, not when he'd been so young and needing with such a face, such poetry and questing in the eyes of the child, the scholar yearning for newer depths ... no, it wasn't fair to let her hope for the very sweetest freshest sharing and, instead, still be confronted with the same gutter-squirming, the same contorting whiplash ... and was there never to be anyone close for her now who did not first want to grind the hell in her face?
"You are ... quite mistaken about me," she murmured, moving towards the door, "I'm ... none of those cheap, sophomoric things you called me. As a matter-of-fact, I'm a ... a highly renowned psychologist, academician ... tonight has been nothing more for me than ... social research ... yes! that's it, and I have credentials too ... and I can prove what and ... and who I am ... yes, references and ... and degrees ... and, if need be, sworn statements from recognized authorities ... I guide the young, I ... I lecture ... I ... do good!"...(oh please don't let me do this-beg for dignity and birthright in his eyes-stop me and tell me I don't have to, remind me!)
But swiftly he was across the room, standing between her and the door, pinning her arms to her side..."Holy Christ, listen to the lady Airedale, backin' right up into it with every bark! Honey, I've been nuzzlin' pussy since I was eight, and believe me, you stink of what you want ... poor, dethroned Empress mingling among us commoners to see how we cohabitate, tryin' to hand me that Madonna-with-Child routine like you were some goddamned Mother-Superior. Well Mother-baby, to you I say ... balls!" Grabbing at her hair, he yanked her head back and lowered his face for a trough-feeding insult of a kiss, and as she felt the pointed slime of tongue darting between her teeth, Paula opened her mouth as if to receive it, and then bit down. Screaming out, Bobby shoved her across the room and sent her sprawling onto the divan; then plucked an ice-cube from his drink and sucked on it to relieve the pain.
"Filthy little pervert," she cried, "you don't know what it means to be a man, can't even kiss a woman like an adult, that's why you were so ashamed before the others ... didn't want them to see how ... how sweaty and fumbling you could be ... and you're worse than they are with your grabbing ... impotent dirty little boy, poking and secretive under the backstairs, masturbating at recess ... oh God, you make me Sick to my stomach, so keep your hands off me ... you do not intrigue me ... I am not a child-molester, no, not yet ... no ... don't need you ... don't need your kind..." detesting the tears streaming down her cheeks, dreading the moment when he would touch her again with everything he knew.
Bobby stood across the room watching her, slipped the ice-cube out of his mouth and laughed softly, not moving towards her. "Look, I've got a little bullwhip in my suitcase, but with an old pro like you I won't need it; hell no, I'm not gonna strain my milk trying to take you by force..." he laughed out loud and sharp. "You want to see how I can get you begging for it without any bloodshed? Watch me!"
He switched on a portable record-player after setting it up on the coffee table directly in front of Paula, aimed the needle, and then stepped back as the jungle beat of an instrumental filled the room, something Afro-Cuban, a panic of drums and cymbals. Slowly, in frenetic rhythm to the bongos, Bobby began to undress, effecting a stylish burlesque of a strip-tease, gyrating deftly about the room, his movements glibly sensuous and mocking. Instantly caught and bemused by the travesty of motion, Paula's eyes followed his swaggering jeer of body as he undraped and taunted, traced the crazily inventive dips and turns as he daintily began unbuttoning his shirt, giddily exposing first one shoulder, then the other, revealing one flat, hairy nipple at a time, lanky frame madly swirling, circling her. And when stripped to the waist, let his fingers play lightly about his belt-buckle, while with easy, sliding strokes he removed the belt as if he were uncoiling a snake, and, watching her face go rapt and tense, did a wriggling belly dance and dropped the trousers before her, no briefs, but standing fully nude in her eyes..."Oh..." she murmured lowly, as in her eyes appeared the soft beam of fidelity and blight, the blotting out of everything save that which was there and on the scene, enthrusted, pinioning, claiming ... her face gone transfixed and pilfered by the sweetly damning evidence...
Bobby manipulated and waggled himself at her, body full and sprung for her ... as he whispered: "You wanna touch it? Wanna feel it burn?"
"No..." shaking her head, eyes still fastened to the taut throb of accusation ... affirmation, so unworried and proud.
"But baby, half the world goes to bed hungry," he reminded her, slowly moving towards her, his hand lowered and fat with what it held for her.
"No ... I'm not like that ... it isn't me..."
He stood slung out before her now, assailing her with scent and definition, muttering..."It's an inch away from your mouth, how 'bout a kiss?"
Stricken half-sobs now as her face moved slightly forward and her lips barely brushed the pulsing heat, and then she flung her head back against the divan in a surge of grief and denial, burying her face in her hands, shaking ... weeping..."I ... was lonely ... oh ... I was lonely!"
"For prick," he said, and suddenly dashed about the room again, resuming his dance, turning the music louder, his body wriggling and obscene.
Paula leaned towards the record-player and pounded her fist against the needle until there was silence. "No, damn you, I was lonely like a woman. If you're a man, you must understand that..."
"Oh shit, I saw where your eyes went upstairs, and it wasn't straight to our hearts, hot Mama ... I mean, if you knew how, you'd spray!"
"Oh you're so blind, you liar ... you're blind and you lie!"
"All right, tell me to put my pants on, tell me to cover it up..."
She said nothing for a moment as she watched him cavort about the room, waving and bobbing at her, circling ambush..."Lonely," she said again, "it was such a ... lonely night with my books and no one."
Bobby went to the door and unlocked it. "All right, walk out of here ... walk away from it!" ... yelling, staring at her.
Paula rose and moved towards him..."Shh!" she said, "don't open that door, we mustn't let them see!" edging slowly towards him, hands poised and bereft, sleepwalker above the rapids. And then-locust-fingers at him and feeding.
Tugging at her clothes, Bobby grinned. "Hooked, aren't ya?"
"Oh ... let it be better than this!" she whispered urgently, quickly naked and leaning against his body. "If it must happen, let it be better for once, something higher, something dear ... oh please, it's possible, you know; every time two people touch it's possible..."
His hands teasing and jabbing at her flesh, he pulled her to the divan and threw her down beneath him and began pumping without caress or preamble, his eyes glazed and doggish, body heavy and burying..."Hope you're not a greedy little slob, lady, 'cause I only pop once a night ... that's the way I fly."
"Oh for God's sake, wait, Bobby, and let's find out who we are first! Please, can't you say something nice to me, something personal ... can't you kiss me and say me name? I'll love you, Bobby, if you kiss me and ... make love ... and hold me gently, my darling ... and say ... say...'Paula dear' to me ... oh please, oh God ... say you love me ... this time one of you must say it!"
He said, "Hold still, I gotta spit on it a little bit ... ah ... yeah, now ... that's more like it ... grind that beat-up twat for me, baby ... grind it ... yeah ... ooh sweet Christ ... and bang and bang and pow ... and aw motheragod! ... va va va VOOM!"
...But he wants me, wants me for something-and the orgasm is our farthest reach from death. Please, God, if you hear me, nod...
Softly cherishing, Paula's arms embraced the hoisting jerking body-machine, one hand open and grasping out behind him, hand imploring ... Honey, where are you, it's dark in here ...
TWENTY-NINE
Four a.m. Corridors still blaring and sleazy as Paula hurried up the service stairs to her own room, stepping around the drunken, rolling couples on the stairs, the barnyard pleasure-squeals joining in cacophony with the snorting horn-blowers still amok on the streets. And while she was able to elude the hands that clutched at her thighs in passing, the self-loathing clung to her inescapably, clung like another person, nagging and torpid, and waiting up ahead for her in the room when she slammed and bolted her door.
... This is the 'me' that will always be waiting and I can no longer live with it, can no longer live with my own droppings forever on display, reminding me of the foulness, and stench of what I am...
If she had only found the power to walk out of that room after his insults, if there were some way to forget the crushing irony of at last seeking love-words from the unlikeliest candidate of them all, Bobby the callow thumping one, the shallowest of the herd. And she had been the seducer, aggressor, had done all the violating. Eternal glutton-girl pleading to stay the night, when he'd made it so clear that he was done with her in less than an hour...'next time I'll give ya a real thrill, baby, and sit on your face, but for now, cool it!' Yet, she had lain and thirsted there, warming herself on the life of him, on the statement of his body-existence which somehow meant hope to her ... wanting voraciously to reprise their moments of human-linked connection, no matter how heinous ... holding on to the mere pulse and structure of him despite his abrasion of words---'Goddamn mink, don't you ever sleep?' Finally, as the boy snored in oblivion, Paula watched herself take more exploring pleasures from him while he heavily slept in his disdain, dismissing her, not caring how stirred she remained by the fresh gnawing wonder of someone's tight-muscled skin needing something from hers, her body still submerged in the lounging careless heat of him in the dark, loutish contempt mingling with the flesh of him which easily dissolved into all male flesh ...
... And the dread condition. Whispered underground quarantine of the ages. Oh God, that textbook epitaph so greedy to sum up my life, that cliche true-lie born of old wives' tales and witchburnings ... oh that scourge of an outhouse joke-nympho!...
A moment later Paula stood in the bathroom and stared at the bottle of nembutal capsules, taking the cool neat vial in her hand, knowing that it too had been waiting for her, the only friend in a room full of enemies, the mercy that had been lurking in the back of her mind, the reprieve. And now the world would let go of her and the fighting would cease, and ready or not, fire and brimstone, here I come! Laugh-sobbing fitfully to think that she was moralizing and condemning herself for the first time in her life, life of flesh-accessory pleasure and swill ... and before the rattle of death comes the rattle of conscience ... and no one escapes what they do because they are what they do ...
'It's always the overeducated ones who end up killing themselves.' Would they say that about her instead of the truth? It would be nice to think they'd say that, place the sweet shrouds over her and bury her with her degrees and diplomas and masks, letting her take her sham-life with her when she went ... Ah, but first more brandy to oil this passing of a Titan. Then clean the room. Empress's crypt must be immaculate, so hurry and sterilize the bier for virginal outer shell ... ivory princess stricken in her tower, skin of public virtue peeling ... She found the sleek black uniform-suit on the floor of the dressing room and, after quickly removing the ripped party-dress, slipped safely into wool and armor. Scrubbed off the silliness of makeup, pulled her hair back in the chignon of crumbling giantess. And, after straightening up the room, took her brandy and capsules and sat on the divan, kicking the books to the floor; ex-saviors, armless and therefore useless, indifferent.
The pills would not be indifferent, would care and minister inside of her, go right to the bloodstream, the heart's flow ... and cancel out this debris of soul, this squalid driven thing of a woman ... squirming malfunction that should have been dropped in the fields somewhere and quickly covered...(oh Mama darling, can't you see it's a monster ... drop it and run ... run, Mama and don't look back!) ... feeling the vial hard and cold in her hand, fifty yellow tickets to obscurity. Massive dose. Massive whore takes massive dose ... except that she wasn't a whore because she never charged...(ruled out on a technicality!) ... never charged but paid. Only woman in the house who didn't sell it. Wide-eyed innocent trapped in a bordello, worldly-wise psychologist victim of white-slavers...(I've never been out of the Clinic, so be kind!) ... They didn't know she wasn't a whore, but knew she was something. The fact of what she was spilled from her pores whenever she moved near a man...(ya stink of what ya are, baby!) ... and whores at least had the status of barter to show for all the dirt, while she had never been left with anything but the symptoms of more hunger ... so sit here and clutch and gulp at the brandy, for it takes courage to sentence and execute the someone who is really you after all, and not nearly so blandly detached and out-of-it as you've tried to believe. With these pills go one ego and one mind, so stop gathering all your flimsy disguises about you, because it is you who will cease to exist, not them; 'they' never for a moment lived or sheltered what you are, pig-girl, lust-girl, crawling in the mud for it ... and every man's touch was the embodiment of what you felt for every man's touch, never any distinctions. As for your glorious hope of a career in New York, all your shining dedications? Pitiless delusions, subverted by the malady. Nymphomaniac! Listen to the whip-crack sound of that word ... the sound of something that shouldn't be let loose among others, least of all be permitted to cure and guide its fellows. So sound the alarm, Vigilantes, and ... oh capture and cage the carnivorous thing ... Beast at large! ... and for all you know, everyone in New York has seen that sign of warning posted on your office door-your grand network of discretion a pure myth, for if they don't know now, it's inevitable that they'll find out one day, your idolatrous clients, respectful colleagues. Requires merely one incident of gossip for the destruction to begin, one badly-timed lie or signal or motel. And without your work, you will be refuse, Mrs. Sinclair; so why wait for an avalanche to bury you? Do it now...
She emptied the contents of the vial on the divan, bright capsules glistening against dank upholstery . ...
... Could it ever have been different for me with ... him, with Max, if I had ever let him close, let him be to me ... what he was to me? Max! ... oh God, why must it hurt and shame me so to say his name, the man's name? He's been here all night, my judger-boy, my deacon, waiting to shield or chastise, I'm not sure which ... and I mustn't make a romantic figure of him as if it were a last rite....no, I must be honest and admit that I wanted him just as I wanted the others ... more of him, perhaps, because he was so adept, so noble of beauty and prowess ... and even in this moment, sitting here ready to die, I know what I wanted most from Max, and damn the towering Lord so sure of his powers, I want it now ... want Max in bed once more before the end comes, and to hell with all his scars and sensitivities and all I couldn't give him, for it is still flesh and Max and men and sex all flowing into the greatest dominant force of my life ... and I repeat ... (oh let me say it fast!) ... there were no distinctions, none at all ...
And then heard her voice crying aloud, the torn denying sob, the lonely argument..."No, it's a lie! No one can hear, (shh! he mustn't know there was hope, not now!) and it's too late for it to change what I am, but I loved him." Heedless tears streaming as she drank more of the brandy; and without a witness, Max stood before her, undisguised a last, neither clown nor oaf nor braggart, but lover only, and again, to herself, she used that word for him, the word for Max ...
... Love. Not his money, not hi? body, but what he gave me of himself, what he gave. A light in the cave, a glow of manhood's dignity, offered so freely ... and I met it with terror, cold, icy. All those devout predictions of what he felt I could be for him; but not now please, dear loyal one, no longer ... oh stand back, my God, or you'll catch what I have and fall, and be dragged down with the deformities of me you never saw ... and oh my darling big and gentle man, who did you think I was, who was that dream you painted? Go ... run and find her, Max ... she's in your eyes, not mine, your warmth of future, not mine...
Paula took some of the capsules in her hand and rose, pacing, careening fretfully about the room, clasping the pills in her fist as a wavering montage of scenes tumbled through her mind, the family-sharing scenes led by Max, who had tried to take her hand and make her a part of his blessed tableaux, a part of all those others whom he'd loved and included in his life, all those warm and giving people, loving without effort or thought, inbred with it, as he was ... as if they were all born like that, their hands reaching out to one another without fear of punishment or loss. How does it all begin for them, she wondered. The same way? In bed, breathless and grappling? Can people really build from ... just that?...(but it's so dirty!)...
And now tormented by other memories, charades of cruelty and infliction, her handiwork, her great war against all the sexless, bedless love in her house, so dreading to be touched anywhere except in shadow, remembering all she'd done to hurt and humiliate Max in order to clog and stifle what he offered, as if hoping that it would some day be he who would perform this execution, wanting him to kill her before discovering the weakness of truth inside of her...(forbidding yearning there, fear of surrender) ... and saw the lacerating visions of Max building his nursery, Max later ripping at the walls with his bare hands, crying and beating his fists against the fallen rocking horse ... Max weeping and in despair, and always because of what she was, because of the venom in her that grew and smothered and ate its way into the best of what they had, the very dearest....
... Why did I punish you, Max ... why you, for God's sake? Oh ... please let me end it let me crush it let it stop ... brain and body all silenced and done ... and oh dear God, let me die! ... how I hate what I am ... I hate, I hate ... can't bear to have it touch me, so alive and squirming ... can't ... bear ... the ... pain! ... oh please let it be now, let me go ... and ... oblivion...
She knelt before the divan and scooped up the rest of the capsules, holding the brandy poised and ready, whispering..."This is real. Nothing else was ever real for me, but this it..."
And then, abruptly, stood up quite straight, sobering and alert, letting the pills drop to the floor.
She was being watched. The feeling was unmistakable. Eyes from behind.
Turning, she saw only the windows; and yet the certainty that there was another person very near did not leave her. Cold with new fear, Paula wanted to run, wanted to hide, not to be caught or apprehended in such an act. After death it wouldn't matter, but to be exposed in the gesture of retreat, the lowest shame of all, without dignity or grace, quisling in the night wanting out of it ... oh what was she doing here before other eyes? She kicked at the pills until they rolled out of sight under the couch.
And now saw the shadowy figure as it paced outside on the window ledge, eight stories above the pavement.
The girl in the next room, floater-whore, peroxide child ready for her own extinction ... baby Camille summoning the nerve to jump. Paula remembered the young girl she had saved from the same fate, remembered that she had succeeded where a priest had failed, remembered, too, Max's insistence that it was her maternal instincts and not psychotherapy that had guided her...
... Then this one is mine too, and must come before everything, before self and this moment. Dolores and Viola slipped away from me, but this one will stay...
Brain and eyes acute now, tears rubbed from face with back of hand, smile brisk, forcing herself to recall the oddly impulsive sort of humor that had been her key with the other girl. Laughs and puns ... and c'est la vie! ... attitudes so foreign to her, until Max ... yes, his softening, his warmth of jest...
Taking a deep breath, Paula went to the window and flung it open. "Happy New Year ... is this your first solo flight?"
The girl peered down at her, mouth tight, eyes sullen..."Stay back, lush-head, or I'll drag you with me."
"Splendid, I always make at least one suicide try on New Year's Eve. Of course, heights get me dizzy, so I usually try strangling myself, which isn't easy..."
... Oh God, Max, is that you in there with the quips and jargon, is that you, a part of me...?
The rain had stopped temporarily, but the winds were cold and damp as the girl huddled against the building in her cheap trench-coat, her face streaked with tears and makeup. "Oh hell, you're so tanked, you're about to climb the walls," she said, "I watched you in there, guzzling, havin' yourself a jag."
But hadn't seen the pills, Paula thought, and knew now there was little time to theorize. Very quickly, this girl must be given something to live for, must be offered everything-a friend. "It's true that I've been drinking more than usual tonight," Paula said. "You see, I've just been divorced and it's my first holiday without my husband . , . " Oh grieve for me, child, grieve...
The girl studied her face, untrusting, hostile. "And you came here?"
"I didn't know it was a ... a..."
The girl's laugh rang out mournfully, but Paula wanted to sweep her in her arms and tell her more, tell her the whole story, and let another woman's troubles give her life, give her someone other than herself to pity....
"Well, if you didn't know where you was, you sure's hell must have found out awful fast," the girl said, " 'cause you look like you done more business tonight than I have all year."
... Neat therapist-image shattered, but a distinct advantage now, for it's I who am reaching to be saved, and if she lives, it's my hope as well as hers. Can I make her give me another chance, can I will it?...
"You know, I've got a lot of brandy left; why not come in and we'll drown our sorrows together? So much easier that way ... "
"Oh knock it off, I ain't no alky and I ain't no junky, and you can stop conning me that you don't know why I'm standing out here. I'm not a Goddamned weather-vane, you know, I'm gonna jump."
But Paula detected a tremor of fear in her voice; not fear of death, perhaps, but fear of the act itself, the pain involved. "Can't you at least tell me your name before you ... uh ... drop the subject?"
"This season I'm callin' myself Toby, and you'd better do something about the cruddy sense of humor of yours."
"Can't," Paula bemoaned, "I was married to a gag-writer."
"No shit?" mirthless laugh again, but interested.
Something incredibly unexpected happened to the girl's face when she smiled, Paula noted; an illumination at once piquant and tomboyish. The vivid gaudy makeup seemed accidental, misapplied. Gamine trying to look femme fa-tale, but not really caring who was convinced.
"Toby listen, I'll bet I can think up a dozen better reasons than you for jumping off that ledge."
"Great," voice old, cryptic, "open the other window and we'll make it a duet," small, heart-shaped blear of a mouth, tensely lodged indictment ...
"Oh ... but why, Toby? Tell somebody why first, because if you can put it into words, maybe you'll know too."
"Oh can it, lady, I know all right. Whew! ... man, I can list all the reasons on a scratch sheet ...
"Then do it, Toby, list them! Number One?"
Toby's eyes met hers in mute defiance for a second, as Paula casually pulled up a chair and sat down, a safe distance from the window..."I'm waiting," she said; "or have you forgotten why you're out there?"
"All right, Reason Number One!" Toby spat at her through the window. "The last trick I turned wanted to strap me to the bed and piss all over me. Golden Stream he called it ... and how's that for starters ... crazy, huh? And it would'a meant fifty bucks..."
"And you refused."
"I kicked him in the goddamned nuts is what I did! Then the mothafucker slugged me and stole my last ten bucks ... and went downstairs, spillin' his guts out to Moynihan..."
"The manager."
"The sonofabitchin' whoremonger! He phones up and says he don't want me around no more ... and ... and I can't work this joint again...'cause he ... he. ... " words rushed and trembling, "aw ... he gets nothing but complaints about me, like I don't cooperate, don't play the game. But Jesus, don't nobody want to make out the old fashioned way any more? I mean, you wouldn't believe some of the shitty things these creeps ask me to do ... and oh Christ, I ... I can't take it ... ain't built for it, I tell ya..." As if suddenly ashamed of the shaking throb of her voice, Toby fell silent, turning her face away, digging in her pocket for a cigarette.
Paula said nothing, did no more prompting, watched the eerie flickering glow of the girl's lighter out there in the beginning of dawn, and waited.
"So ... I ain't makin' it as a hooker," Toby said; then deeply sighed. "Got this scrawny ass and practically no tits, and when you're built like me you're 'spose to do everything in the book to make up for it ... and I don't, and ... and period."
"You should feel very relieved."
Toby glared in at her. "Listen you, I never wanted to be no whore. I mean ... even if I had bazooms out to here..." she gestured meaningfully, "this wouldn't have been the kind of life I'd'a picked out for myself."
"Then why...? "
" 'Cause I'm a washout! A ... a twenty-one year old, Grade-A Loser, like any place I can crawl behind an eight-ball is my home, ya get it? I mean, look, you name any kind of job, and ten to one I tried it, and bombed out ... because no matter what the hell I do, sooner or later I fuck up. Ya see, I got this weird condition some Doc once told me was 'nervous imbalance,' so when I was tryin' my damndest to be a cocktail waitress I dropped drinks all to hell 'n gone ... same way I couldn't juggle a two wheel bike when I was a kid, like who knows, maybe I got some brain damage up there..." voice trailing off again, slow reflective puffing on the cigarettes, "sure, monkey-brain, that's me. And my last job was at this place in North Beach, where I wasn't doing too bad yet, you know? Then I get hit with that topless jazz, and I'm dead again ... boss tells me I should go somewheres and get myself an injection. I mean, can you picture it ... can you see me topless? Holy Mary, under these falsies I got shoestrings, two little warts that ain't gonna grow no matter who licks 'em!"
Toby crouched in a squatting position on the wide ledge, and as their eyes met, the two women burst out laughing. The girl gripped the window-sill and held on while she roared out hilariously. Until the tears began.
"Oh Christ, don't I know how funny it is? Back home in Modesto, no matter how many trees I climbed, I'd fall out. And all the kids in the neighborhood would make this circle around me and ... and split then sides. So it's a gas, a real kick in the head the way bow-legged, skinny little Toby gets everything bass-ackwards. And what the hell, so I laugh with 'em, ya know? But I'll tell ya something when I am all alone ... and ... like there's nobody in this world who gives a good sweet shit whether I live or die, aw ... it ain't funny no more..."
No more silences, Paula instructed herself, waiting for her to go on; don't let her stop crying or complaining. "None of us laugh alone, Toby. We all need an audience..."
Toby said nothing, twisted her body around, looking out and down, letting her legs dangle over the edge.
"Toby, isn't there someone? Tell me."
Slowly, the girl nodded her head. "Was ... someone..."
Paula waited again, wanting to pull that frail silhouette in and safe, but afraid to make a move.
" ... only thing in my whole stinkin' life I didn't louse up," Toby went on. "I got married, just like other girls do, the ones that are clean and smart and stacked. Married this big gorgeous Greek fella ... picked me up at the Carousel Ballroom. And I mean to tell ya my Sebastian was the swinginest lookin' dreamboat you ever laid eyes on, and ... and he could have had any broad in that room, 'cause believe me, they was all bustin' their bras to get his attention. But he picked me ... and he was sober, but ... like that first night, right way, I levelled with him ... I says 'look, Daddy, half of me is foam rubber, you sure you don't wanna go back and shop around?' And ... aw girl, he was so sure-or so psycho-we got married that next week. Real legit. Not no damned ass or pimp neither, had himself a good steady union job out on the docks, regular hours ... and ... and fringe benefits, and he wanted me ... is that wild?"
"You were happy."
"Oh hell, you can take that word and wipe your ass with it, honey, 'cause it ain't never gonna happen for nobody else like it happened for us. He was even teachin' me how to cook Greek-style, me who ain't even caught up with Aunt Jemima yet. And ... paintin' the apartment together, him laughin' like hell, 'cause I'd keep fallin' off the ladder ... and aw ... we done everything so fine and nice ... buyin' furniture on time just like all them ticky-tacky commercials. And he knew I'd been a hustler, but ooh God, he loved me real, that man. And I'm here to tell ya in bed we'd turn each other every way but loose. Sweet crazy guy ... had me screwin' in every position known to man or beast, and with him I wanted more...'cause he was so lovin', ya know? like ... I wanted to be near and touchin' him every minute, and no guy before or since could ever turn me on the way Sebastian did."
"One man girl," murmured Paula.
Toby wrenched her body back towards the room, eying Paula shrewdly. "You too, huh?"
"Yes." Not a lie, thought Paula; but too late to be the truth. "What happened to your marriage, Toby?"
"Gone." Toby turned her head away again and said nothing for long seconds. "Accident. A year ago. A cable slipped and a two-ton crate fell on him..."
"Oh Toby..."
" ... right on his head, ya know? I mean ... like the whole top half of him was nothing but ... squashed brains and pus, practically nothin' left of him to identify, 'cept his union card ... and ohh my God, I couldn't believe it, and I ... aw hell, I kept goin' down to the docks with his lunch-pail every day, callin' out his name and ... walkin' up and down lookin' for him, like I was outa my head..." with a gasp, a hand flew to her mouth and stopped the words, her body torn by sudden, convulsive sobs..."aw ... my sweet lovin' baby..." mumbling, choked..."my baby, oh my baby ... they took him, they ... took him!"
Paula's arms half-reached, but she did not rise. She knew she was strong enough to keep the girl off that ledge by force, but felt that if any violence were involved, Toby would be more-likely to make another attempt very soon. And, since living was a voluntary thing, opposition could not save her.
"Toby, you've had something very precious in your life. Now you know what to look for."
Toby looked down, tears streaming unchecked.
... Displace her grief. Whether it be glib therapy or latent truths, displace her grief, and humbly...
"My husband was everything to me too, Toby, so I know a little of what you're feeling."
Toby gazed in at her again, thoughtfully rubbing at the tears on her cheeks. "You mean you can't make out with no other guy neither?" her eyes wide with pity now, and younger.
Paula nodded. "That's it."
Toby stared at her, looked around the room, at the bottle of brandy, back to Paula's face. "And that's why you got yourself so crapped up tonight? You been tryin' to jazz every guy in the house, but it just won't work, will it?"
Paula lowered her head. "It was awful." Then, startled by the sharp peal of the girl's laughter, she looked up again.
"Hey, how much did'ja take in?" Toby wanted to know. Paula looked away. "I don't think that's very funny. I was serious when I told you I didn't know what ... sort of place this was."
"Aw hey, lookit ... I'm just tryin' to cheer you up!" and laughed again in wonder. "How 'bout that, I'm gonna do a swan dive, but you're so knocked out, first I gotta dry your eyes ... or I can't jump!" Sliding fully around on the ledge, Toby's legs now dangled inside the room, eyes resting on living things, on furniture and light and the doom of someone else.
First maneuver won, thought Paula, still making no move towards the girl-she's looking in and caring again. Then, seeing the gleam of one last capsule on the floor at her feet, Paula kicked the pill under her chair, out of sight and mind.
THIRTY
"Hey, my cigarettes are all wet," said Toby, "you got any? Hey, I forgot your stupid name..."
With a smile, Paula told her; then went to the divan and reached into her purse, finding a package and tossing it to the girl, still wary of any sudden approaches.
Using her fighter, Toby inhaled deeply, continuing to stare curiously at Paula. "Paula Sinclair ... " Toby repeated the name several times. "Nob Hill out for some kicks, right?"
Her smile deepening, Paula shook her head. "New York."
"Okay, so I was close, wasn't I?" eyes still damp, smile crooked, clumsy; and Paula thought: I like her, and would even if she weren't so in need. I must somehow manage to help her without sounding professional or citing case-histories to myself...
"This is one for the books," said Toby. "I mean, here we sit, you and me, a couple of real sexy swingers when it comes to one particular guy, but any other man in the world who gets us might just as well go home and diddle himself, right?"
Paula nodded. "Involuntary fidelity..." recalling Max's fierce attempts to prove himself with other women; sentimental impotence...
"Now for you, that ain't so terrible," Toby went on, "because you probably know how to do something else, right?"
"Right."
"Or anyways, you got enough dough ahead so's you'll never have to peddle it. But dammit, I didn't even go to
High School, and after I blew all of Sebastian's insurance money in Reno, there wasn't nothin' left for me to try, unless I started scrapin' guys off the streets."
"Your folks alive?"
"Hah!" mirthless rasp again. "My ol lady's a live one, all right. She runs this cheap two-dollar country house just outside of Modesto. Caters to nobody but Orientals, 'cause they're quick and easier for the gals to handle, never built too wild nor nothin', ya know?"
"Your mother runs a..."
"A gonorrhea Geisha-house, honey, and you'd better believe it-as low-down as that joint is she won't even take me on as an employee. Christ, she calls the cops every time I try to visit her ... tells 'em I'm a Goddamned trespasser, like she's ashamed of me 'cause I didn't pop out in the right directions, and she can't use me like she done most of my cousins ... had 'em grinding out enough money to meet her taxes ever since they was twelve. Nope, my lil ol gray-haired Mommie sure don't dig me, the Goddamned fink! One time I remember fallin' off the roof of the garage and bustin' my ankle, and she sees me through the kitchen window and doesn't budge a muscle, just keeps sittin' there countin' her trick money from the night before..."
"And your father?"
"They're divorced, but she keeps him on as a maintenance man. Pays him two fifths a day, and once a year sends him to Napa to get sewered out..."
"Then you're an only child?"
"Oh hell no, I got me a sweet lil baby brother. Jerry and me was educated together on the dear old country estate..."
"Not private tutors, surely," Paula chided.
"Yup, dozens of 'em, honey, and seven nights a week. By the time I was eight and he was six, we got tired of hearing all that mysterious creakin' and gruntin' and wanted to know what was goin' on. So we got busy and drilled outselves a whole mess of secret glory-holes, sittin' there, peekin' ... and laughin...'cause they all look so funny doin' it, ya know ... but playin' with ourselves too 'cause it can get you goin' after awhile ... and man! talk about growin up overnight! 'Course Jerry, poor baby, he got all hung up watchin' them wild Sodomy rites...(Mongols and Koreans love it, ya know!) ... so naturally, he went the other way. In fact, right this minute he's the maddest campiest dragqueen they got in this here town..."
"But you're fond of him, aren't you, Toby?"
The girl nodded firmly. "Love him," crushing her cigarette out against the window-sill, face going suddenly solemn again, head turning back towards the city and the mist ...
"You could make a home for each other," Paul hurried on. "Do you see him?"
"Jerry? Oh please, that poor doll's on a Seconal buzz half the time, and I mean shootin' real high, honey, so far out he thinks everyone in the world's his sister, not just me. Kinda wish he did need me a little bit, but why push it ... he's got a whole gang of husbands and wigs and sisters and bars ... so he's happy, and sometimes I call him in a pay-booth and he keeps sayin' 'darling and baby and oh-you're-mad!' ... and I'm never sure if he knows it's me...
Silence once more, and Paula newly afraid. Discussing her brother had apparently reminded Toby of the isolation that had driven her out on that ledge. And now with a sudden scowl of vehemence the girl glowered at her, voice tight, bitter..."What the hell you eggin' me on like this for, makin' me spill my guts, when ... when you ... don't care!"
"That's not true, Toby, and you know it."
"Oh shit, it's the only thing that is true, Goddammit, nobody cares about nothin' 'cept sittin' on their own toilet in their own home ... and bein' left the hell alone!"
Words that struck at Paula like a blow, her own years of detachment in the basest light, crass entrails of a negation she had clung to, but refuted now ... disowned. "No, no, Toby ... listen."
With a lurch, Toby rose to a standing position on the ledge. "You just happen to be on the scene, so you gotta play hero, start the new year right ... and do a good deed, ya fuckin' den-mother, I bet you went to college too!"
"Oh Toby, I don't care what you say, you're not going to convince me you're tough..."
... Go to her, grab her, there's a gift for life there, someone real under all that makeup and playacting ... under that masquerade . ...
"Oh Jesus, lady, I am gonna tell you something..." Toby wavered, wept on the ledge, the rain beginning to fall again, her forehead pressed against the cold bricks, "and hey up there, you listen too, God, you listen to me ... the truth of the matter is I ... ain't makin' it alone. So maybe you're right and I ain't tough enough ... but oh man, wherever I gotta go I can't get there by myself no more..." heaving, desolate sobs as Paula watched the grip of her hand loosely cling to the open window, "Like ... listen to this ... I'm so Goddamned scared all the time, I mean, hell, you wouldn't believe some of the things that scare me. like ... when I'm gettin' on a bus and I don't have the right change? God, I get this feelin' the driver's gonna grab me and beat me up, and maybe the other passengers waiting to get on behind me ... why, they're gonna gang up and help him ... Christ, lately I think everyone's gonna hit me, and I want to hide all the time ... like I'll go in some dinky grocery store and ... and deliberately make myself stand there until everybody else is waited on before I ask for what I want ... like ... like maybe I was afraid to ... to impose what's left of me on the human race, as if I ain't got any rights no more, even when I'm able to pay my own way ... although sometimes I just gotta take things for free, just put'em in my bag, ya know?" Paula nodded.
" ... but these people on the streets, in the stores they look mean at ya, or laugh at ya or rob ya or spit at ya, or treat ya like you wasn't even alive. Hell, when these guys get me in bed it's like they was playin' with some kind of corpse, like I don't have no feelings left, and ... I bet most of them act real beautiful to their wives or sweethearts ... but me, I'm some damned machine without no ... no soul, for Christ's sake, all the time givin' ya these directions on what's their favorite position, 'turn this way, kid, now crawl that way, kid ... or kneel or squat or grind' ... or they'd say...'slower, ya little bitch ... or faster, ya little bitch' ... sometimes yellin' out some other chick's name, all the time they're givin' it to you they're all cryin' and sweet for somebody else ... but shovin' and hurtin' you like they'd never hurt their wives or sweethearts, damned dirty guys, damned bastards, it ain't nice that they shouldn't look at me one time like I was something human ... and then afterwards, tellin' me ... oh Jesus! lookin' so mean and tellin' me I'm a lousy lay! After all that hurtin' ... and ... and meanness, that's what they tell me..." she turned her back on Paula, body aimed outward..."but oh
... the worst of it is that nobody looks nice at nobody any more, don't ya know that? Nobody's glad to see ya..." and looked down, stood perfectly still, poised and ready.
Paula strained and urged her body to remain motionless.
... She's thinking of me. In the back of her mind she knows there is someone near and concerned, but wants to prove herself wrong, is testing me, testing the whole hating world. But I won't let her dare or threaten me, because she knows what I feel, so the gamble will be mine, and I won't go to her, won't move . ...
Toby turned and stared at her, eyes wild with accusation. "You're gonna let me do it, ain't ya? Oh damn you, so I was right ... and you don't care what happens, and ... and maybe you'll even get your jollies watchin' me smash myself to a pulp down there in the courtyard..." ... And now, Paula, be kind: cauterize...
"My dear girl, if you want to kill yourself, it's none of my business, is it?"
"Aw no ... aw please don't!" Toby crouched to her knees, and with outstretched hands let her body fall inside the room ... and slumped to a kneeling position on the floor..."aw no ... aw please don't sound like that to me...'cause Sebastian ... ya know, he was all I ever had ... and afterwards there was nothin' and ... and Jerry doesn't know me any more...'cept that you were nice, and you ... you did look like you cared about me, didn't you? Your eyes looked like you cared ... looked like you needed somebody too ... and Goddammit, you did care, I know it!"
There was the brief flutter of an instant as Paula dropped her arms to her sides and the girl ran to her, the last outpost, warm discard of a body flung in her lap, head buried to end the lonely vigil; arms tightly clinging...
... I never touched the others, so many lost ones under glass, application of words and phrases, always the desk separating us. The barrier protecting me, not them. But this one wasn't afraid to storm my gates. She doesn't know I'm a therapist, but here she is, the closest I've ever helped...
Paula held her, found it new and disturbing that she could comfort another without instructing. Silently cradled, stroked the stiff bleached hair, lending herself, waiting.
After a moment or two Toby looked up, her face a streaked aoology. "Smart-Ass, you knew I wouldn't do it, didn't ya?"
Smiling, Paula said, "I think what you and I both need is about a gallon of black coffee." Rising, she went to the telephone.
"Hold it, fa Christ's sake!" Toby stopped her. "You don't want none of the help seein' me up here, not the way I look, and what they know about me. Jesus, lady, ain't you done enough to damage your reputation for one night? I got a small jar of Instant, and a beat-up little hot-plate in my room, I'll go get it ... so put that phone down."
Paula did as she asked while Toby went to the door; then suddenly stopped. "Holy Christ, I must have rocks in my head! Listen to all that traffic out there, all them cruddy bellboys watchin' me come out of your room ... now how's that gonna look? Think!..." tapping her forehead..."use your noodle. Maybe I can't get any dirtier no matter what they see me do, but you we gotta keep clean until you're out of here and around your own kind again..." Toby headed back to the open window, and before Paula could speak, crawled out on the ledge and, with an unworried agility, crept back to her own room, returning a moment later with the coffee and hotplate, stepping gingerly into the room, grinning..."Nothin' to it, long as you don't look down..." Taking her hand, Paula quickly shut the window behind her.
They talked for nearly an hour, drinking coffee and smoking, and at once it was apparent to Paula that Toby's direst need was to have someone listen and care; as slowly Paula felt the resurging old powers to rescue and thus be rescued, the giving of solutions her solution.
"You know, Toby, if you'd told me that prostitution was all you'd ever wanted, I'd have said 'go ahead and jump, dear, you're glutting the market.' "
The girl mulled this over. "You tellin' me I'm too good to be a whore?" her face lit up. "Hey, that's cool, never thought of it like that."
"We're going to put you in an office, Toby, and I'll bet in a year or two-once you let that hair grow out-you'll be married again."
"Oh now hold the phone, honey, what the hell'd I be doin' in any office?"
"You know your alphabet, don't you?"
"Sure, but I only went to grammar school, remember?"
"Fine, you'll make a splendid receptionist, or file clerk. And at nights you'll study for a high-school diploma, and learn how to type. Nothing to balance or carry or drop; you simply sit there in the pool with the other girls, copying your reports and looking bright and alert."
Toby listened in awe to the rest of these plans, seeming to believe such fantasy only because of the conviction in Paula's voice and eyes as she spoke. And to herself Paula vowed to remain in San Francisco long enough to see the girl newly outfitted and settled in healthier surroundings. Then, on the following week, they could meet after daily sessions of the Conference and go shopping together, Toby leading her on sightseeing tours.
" 'Course, I ain't so sure about catchin' myself another husband just because I know how to type. I mean, even if I'd want one after the sweet guy I had."
"Oh please, Toby, you have too much to give to hold out for another Sebastian," Paula said. "And it wasn't any one loss that was making you so miserable, but the lack of all human affection. These are the quieter things which would have grown from what you and your husband had, if he'd lived, things you can find with someone else, if you work at it..."
Toby appeared lost in thought as she sipped her coffee and took deep pulls at her cigarette. "Then you mean ... if a guy really loves a gal, after awhile it won't really matter to him if they ... if they don't bust a spring every time they hit the sack?"
Smiling, Paula nodded, something about the girl's brashness coaxing Max back into the room again, Max standing near; tentative, watchful. "Second choices, Toby," she said. "They stay with us the longest."
"Yeah ... I think maybe I dig. like a gal's got only one lifetime to get herself mismated...'cause if she's some kinda romantic nut and holds out for the guy she thinks she needs, she might end up out on that ledge. And ... and even if I marry some square and we fight like a sonofa-bitch, that's livin' too, ain't it?"
"Yes."
... To brush against another who knows who you are, is living; to find intimacy even in antipathy, is accompaniment, is better than the dark, more passionate than the transience ...
Paula soon had the girl laughing again when she explained about her hotel reservation, arriving in town days early, and finally choosing the El Carla as a quiet sanctuary to rest and do some reading. Toby sat down on the floor and laughed until the tears poured down her cheeks. "Oh honey, you are too much! Either you're big for your age, or you spent most of your life in a Convent."
Excitedly, they continued mapping out Toby's new life, which, Paula reminded her, involved mainly the changing of old habits, old ruts. The rain had, at last, stopped and New Year's Day was dawning bright and clear in San Francisco as Paula threw open both windows and felt the brisk air, drank in the Bay View, which she was finally able to make out.
How startling to feel this reborn so quickly, she thought And how incredible that merely the presence of someone less equipped for despair than she could bring this about Others were so much sadder, weaker, more confused; and this was how she 'fit in' with the hordes, not as a mirror, but a key; her compromises and alternatives still breathing after all. And if she could hold to that force of contribution, it might lift her above the pits and keep her there; elevated, where she could reach out of herself and do the most good. No one personal commitment for awhile in any capacity, but many. And being truly important to these lives she reshaped, not simply the manipulator, omniscient dispenser, untouched and perfect; for now she had her own suffering to show them, and make them well with it, had stepped down into the pain of them to discover that when she wept she wasn't nearly so unique as she'd imagined. Pain, the conformity that heals, for to see it in others is to walk towards a solving, an easing. And if she could work that fresh awareness into a survival for herself, and consistently prove it, and make it last, she might one day feel ... ready, or ... oh what were the words she could believe! ... worthy, deserving, absolved, enough to face Max again. With her expiation they might both be able to forget how they had torn at each other in the name of love and fear. If it were not already too late, for Max had always sought out love, so there was no reason to expect he had stopped looking now...
The two women stood at the open window, basking in their dual rewards. "Ooh, Goddamn! I ain't never felt this good in the morning before," cried Toby. "Hey world, get me! I'm gonna be a friggin' file-clerk!"
They decided to freshen up and go out and have breakfast together, although Toby insisted they leave the hotel separately. Paula, however, said that it made little difference who saw them together, since by noon of that day they could both check out and find something more suitable, suggesting now that Toby go next-door and get her things.
"Nothin' but a turdy ol suitcase which I've been livin' in and out of since last Summer..." Paula saw the tremors of self-pity about her mouth, tremors so recent and long-lived, not easy to erase, oh never easy the casting out of self-hate, not without vigilance and steel..."Oh hell, you know something, lady? It's been so long since I cared what happened to me..."
"Just wait till you see yourself in a suit of mine I'd like you to try on," said Paula, "you'll be so impressed."
"Jesus, it'd probably do nothin' but hang on me," Toby quickly laughed again, " 'cause those're some way-out measurements you got goin' for you, girl..."
"Nonsense, it can be very easily made over for you until we've gotten you some replacements. And incidentally, why don't you loosen that trench-coat?"
"Because underneath I got a sweater that's full of ratholes, see?" She unbuckled the coat and stretched it open. "Cerise sweater and orange Capris. Kinda makes ya want to write in to Readers' Digest don't it? 'Most unforgettable hooker I ever met..." Toby hurried towards the door, but caught herself before opening it. "Oops, I almost done it again, hung that neon shingle around your neck," grinning warmly at Paula as she turned back towards the windows.
"Oh now really, Toby, I don't care what these people think," new words, new fortress, "I ... don't care what anyone thinks of me, so please..."
"Nope," Toby broke in, "I'm not gonna let anyone see us together till I look decent. And anyways, it's bad luck not to go back the same way I came, so don't get your pants in an uproar. I'll get my suitcase and we'll meet outside on the street."
Remembering how wide the ledge was, and that it was only a few brief steps to the room next-door, Paula let herself relax and joined Toby in what could now be a spirit of harmless adventure. Perched on the ledge, the girl cautiously made her way to the open window of her own room. "Careful now," warned Paula, leaning out, watching, "don't get acrobatic, and don't ... "
"Yeah, I know," Toby cut in, "and don't look down, and look both ways before crossin' the street ... wheel it's nice to hear someone worryin' about me again..."
Paula watched until Toby safely reached her window and was about to climb in; but then paused. "Hey, girl, this'll really gas 'ya, but you remember earlier last night when you first saw me out in the hall and asked me in for a drink?"
"Yes."
"Well, honey, now don't take no offense ... but I thought you was a damned lesbian, no shit!"
Their laughter rang out into the morning stillness, Paula tossing her head back, her attention averted only for an instant. Then she heard the hoarse gasp, and looked back to see Toby wavering on the ledge, clutching at the air in suspended horror. She had slipped on the wet cement and fallen to one knee, then lost her hold on the open window ... and after that, what some Doc had once called her 'nervous imbalance' took over and her moment of hovering was brief. Their eyes sought and met as Paula leaned and strained her body out towards the girl ... oh no, oh please God ... don't let her go! Then Toby fell backwards, shrieking curses and obscenities, hacking out her 'sonsa-bitches, mothafuckers!' ... as Paula reached and screamed, her hands lurching downwards at the cold unseeing morn-kig..."Stay, Toby! Oh ... wait ... wait!" And sank to her knees there near the window, hands crushed against her ears so as not to hear the thudding sound of the body landing in the courtyard, her throat too dry for further cries, unable to move from the window, nor turn her eyes away from the small crumpled heap eight stories below, the trench-coat flared out on either side of her like broken wings, wings not yet tried, an arm reaching limply upwards to her, to Paula the caring one, to Paula ... in parting half-salute. Then the body lay still.
THIRTY-ONE
Several moments later Paula heard the sirens. Gazed down and saw that a crowd had begun to form in the bleak, garbage-littered courtyard, and realized that she must have fainted there beneath the window. She got to her feet, shut both windows and drew the blinds. Then, fingers pressed tightly against her temples, moved unsteadily towards the bathroom. And vomited there. Dry, agonized heaves. Kneeling, supplicated...
After washing, she packed her belongings and phoned downstairs for a taxi and someone to help with her luggage. There was no answer; due, of course, to the commotion in the courtyard. Paula flung open her door, thinking to find a passing bellboy, but instead saw the rushing confusion of deserters. A suicide-leap and the impending arrival of the Police had jolted everyone from their lustful hangovers. The synthetic party-thrills were yesterday's toys now, the children sated with their ravenous deviltry and now facing the real, grownup drama of escape and anonymity, mortal threat of exposure ... swamped bed-tanglers speaking not a word to each other as they hurried and shoved to be first down the service-stairs. Faster, don't talk, don't look back, save yourself, save who you are and what you are, because it lasts longer than fucking ... everything lasts longer than fucking, so don't let the world's eyes raid and record what you did here when you have already forgotten and flushed it-run!
Paula stood there for a moment, too numb for a decision, wanting to run down and be close to Toby, keeping the crowd away, guarding the body ... but knowing that hysteria couldn't help the girl now, and there had to be more constructive ways, contacting the family, arranging a funeral. Then someone loomed across the hall at her and grabbed one of her suitcases, seized her arm. Bobby, who had returned to join his friends only moments before. And behind him the pale, urgent faces of the other boys, avoiding her eyes as they pushed their way down the hall. "Move it, Duchess!" said Bobby, leading her with him, "unless you want to be in a lineup..." She felt his arm guiding and strong about her waist. Was it Galahad after all, she wondered; and had the decency always been there, under the whelps of him?
"OhmyGod, if Mom and Dad ever get wind of this," moaned one of the boys...(Timmy the oral one, the crawler!) ... voice close to tears, misbehavior promising the spanking, glee-fears of added joys, society willing to confirm the desultory image, for in authority's nightstick lies the limelight, the pointing glory ... and oh golly, Dad, you caught me ... but I'll be good, scout's honor! ... so please don't find out how many pigs I screwed and bit and sucked and never used a rubber and didn't wash it and didn't brush after eating ... and ... oh please, Dad, look the other way, and don't tell Mom...'cause she crochets ... Mom crochets, so don't tell her, or let her read about it, or see my pictures taken here, see my mouth right after where it's been ... and plunged up some other woman ... oh please, Mom crochets and sits on lace, so don't tell her ... don't!
"Goddamn, it's the end of this joint for sure," muttered Bobby. "That chippie's face is probably known by every cop in town."
"Oh no ... don't talk about her," said Paula.
Bobby eyed her stricken expression. "Jesus, who the hell'd you climb in with after you drained me?"
Paula said nothing to this as he grabbed her other suitcase and pushed her on ahead of him, down the stairs with the others. Panting shuffling silence, down the musty flights, stairway narrow, but nobody hand in hand. Everyone separate...(don't touch me, I'm in danger!). . .
As they ran through the gangway that led to the street, Bobby spotted a taxi stationed in front of the hotel next-door.
"Here, Duchess, make a run for it," he handed her the luggage, then whistled for the driver, who hurried out and took both suitcases as Paula swiftly got into the cab.
"Somebody said they seen this gal take a dive out of her window," the driver said, "sure brought the cops down on old Moynihan's head in a hurry."
Vaguely, Paula realized that if it had been her window from which Toby had fallen instead of her own, she might have been implicated in a murder charge. Registered under her own name at the gray, shielding hotel, might have been implicated in anything; deeds and attacks undreamt of, furtive acts of attrition which now chased their committers, but left her too uncaring to dwell upon, too stripped of awareness to be afraid in the holocaust, eager to build the limbo that would lift her out and away. And then as the cab started, she glanced through the rear window and saw a group of uniformed policemen emerge from behind the building and detain several of the departing guests, saw one of them grab Bobby by the arm and question him. The boy appeared calm at first, shaking his head in denial, pretending to be neither material witness nor resident of the hotel which was so suddenly under police surveillance. The officer searched him, however, and found a room-key, on which, Paula remembered, was clearly printed the words 'El Carla.' As her taxi pulled away, she saw Bobby trying to make a run for it; and when he was caught, saw Bobby going into a violent, spastic fury, stamping, yelling..."I'm a Biochemist, Goddammit, leave me alone. I've got a scholarship, gonna graduate in February ... Biochemist, do you hear me? I don't need this!" waving, pointing at the El Carla..."brilliant future, never saw that cathouse before ... never touched'em, let me go, I'll give ya fifty, give ya a hundred..." gangling, kicking truant now hooked and mounted for the lashing ... So sadly soon for the world to see his underlife, thought Paula; and feeling nothing, took her own key from her purse and tossed it from the window.
Giving her a leering wink in his rear-view mirror, the cabdriver said: "Lucky gal, ya musta got out of there without havin' to pay Moynihan his kickback."
At the St. Francis, Paula again asked if she could be accommodated, despite the fact that it was still three days before her reservation was to take effect. But once more was reminded that it was one of the biggest holiday weekends of the year, and at the moment there was absolutely nothing available.
"But several of your group have arrived since you were here last, Mrs. Sinclair," said the clerk, reading off a few familiar names to her. "Shall I ring one of them? Perhaps they'll ask you to share a suite."
... No, not ready for the New York probers, my dissective, lucid colleagues so eager to observe and chip away at the veneer; not ready to have them see me like this, so inarticulate, so stamped by the El Carla...
"If you don't mind," she said, "I'd prefer to wait for a checkout." And sat for two hours in the lush carpeting of that New Year's morning, anxieties glossed-over in affluence, coddled aura of brainwashed pastels, soft muted lighting filtering out the scabs. And felt mercifully sedated by this cult of ease and convenience, a sanity-religion all its own.
Paula thought of the telegram that must be sent to New York. But the words involved were so simple, they kept eluding her. Trite cliche-phrases never before in her vocabulary, so who would believe them, coming from her? Who that knew her? She sat there and composed, over and over again, until the words jumbled and lost all meaning, until there was no alternative but to settle for one line and quickly ... Gesture made, panic-button pushed, and socialized medicine I'm here and waiting, proudly emptying myself for the fulfilling...
Soon after sending the wire, she was summoned to the registry desk and told there was a suite for her. Grateful that she hadn't, as yet, run into any of the other Conference members, Paula was escorted upstairs, where she swiftly unpacked and phoned down for black coffee. The attendant who served her was of impeccable demeanor, like polished china. And as she drank the coffee, smoked countless stupefying cigarettes, Paula gazed about at the antiseptic decor, thinking that all rooms should be like this for the troubled rich-institutionalized luxury, in the lap of which all was beige and confection, smooth-surfaced incubus ... cushion-ceiling slowly descending, locking her away for a mending, a wait ...
Later, she went out to the street to find a public phone-booth. Having glanced over the front-page story at a news-stand, Paula learned that Toby's last name was 'Warren,' but was unable to find a listing for her brother Jerry under that name. She then telephoned the Police and gave them a description of the girl's mother, mentioning the house near Modesto, thereby hoping to secure a proper burial for Toby. When asked to identify herself, Paula hung up and returned to the hotel.
She slept for twelve hours. Upon awakening at four in the morning there was terror in the room with her, life-torn echoes of it, a girl crying out...'I'm so Goddamned scared all the time, afraid everybody's gonna hit me ... ' Paula tried to convince herself that she was experiencing merely the symptoms of hangover; all that .brandy, the unaccustomed highballs. But now, because she listened again, sensed again, and it was terror. She took a pill, and made a warm cradling pouch of her blankets, and slept safely in there until mid-day.
She breakfasted in her room, after which she went out again to the pay-phone. Toby's mother had denied any knowledge of the girl and, of course, refused to claim the body. Paula urged the Police to take no action until they received her Western Union money order to cover Toby's burial expenses. Again she refused to give her name, saying she was a friend of the family who wanted to help without publicity; and at the telegraph office signed a pseudonym.
Returning to the hotel, she found a telegram under her door. Stared at it, almost afraid to touch it. It was from her mother, wishing her darling girl the happiest of New Years, and how very much she wanted to be with her now but was still too afraid of flying, so please, would Paula hurry home instead so she could maybe feel like a family again?
Paula still held the wire in her hand a few moments later when a bellboy knocked, bringing her the Christmas box Marta had sent her in Las Vegas, which she had left buried there, but forwarded now. Opening the package, she found homemade cookies and pastries; neatly wrapped, corrugated, still fresh. One by one, Paula held each of them to her cheek.
That afternoon, Saturday, Paula rested, and doggedly reviewed her notes for the Conference. She felt devoid of the animation necessary for such a project, but through the haze of shock and fatigue realized the necessity for a diversion. Avert the attention while, behind your back, time hurries over the scar. Sweet time, do something for us, give us distance and charity; and then, perhaps, a promise?
On Tuesday she was to deliver the lecture on juvenile contraception, and again recited and memorized aloud...'Dispensing birth-control pills to teen-agers would not only lessen the national rate of divorce and abortion, it would also make promiscuity much less attractive to the adventurous adolescent. From whence would come the forbidden thrills of danger and social ostracism, once she was mistress of her fate rather than its victim?' ... on and on her voice droned, believing the words, but no longer moved or fired by them, their sound taking on a knell of impotence. ... Not what we say but what we do. Not our intentions or theories, but our hands ... ushering...
Although Paula still wanted to put off contacting any of her friends in the hotel, she wasn't too surprised when they found her that evening, one couple particularly insistent that she join their group for a small holiday fete in their penthouse suite. Remembering that her associates had long ago given up trying to exchange personal confidences with her, Paula felt that an hour or two of their inevitable shoptalk might prove a welcome respite. However, she was once again ignoring the significance of being in San Francisco at holiday time; for while it was true that most of her scholarly cohorts maintained a rather bookish, pedantic deportment at other conferences, Paula now found them full of release and exhilaration. Feeling somehow turned loose by the free-wheeling charm of the city, they apparently wanted to cast off all obligations to be eternally seeking, diagnosing. The women, usually more male and unadorned than their husbands, suddenly wanted the giddy tidbits of small talk, Paula viewing these lady-scientists displaying their uncommon penchant for romantic trivia, discussing the sex-mores of San Francisco, making extravagant comments about Paula facing her divorce with such courage, wanting to hear her impressions of Las Vegas, sociologically speaking, of course.
And yet, glancing about the room at these polite cocktail-holders, Paula could see their newly expressed interest in her as one of innocent cajolery and fun. Through the years there had always been a certain amount of good-natured teasing regarding her enigma-status as the mystery woman, the invincible one. But no real suspicion, she thought now, calmly watching their faces. Nothing insidious, no double entendre or hidden hostility.
... These people have enough old admiration for me to respect my privacy, are moderately fond enough of me to accept me as I am, as I have always been to them scholar-image planted and fixed many years ago. They are decent, dedicated people, and haven't the meagerness of soul on which gossip feeds...
The discovery was a quiet one, as Paula sat among them, her fellows.
... The distrust was mine, not theirs. I, the jailer, no one else. And for them I am the same. Accomplished, equipped, an able contemporary. They look neither down at me, nor up, but straight and evenly ahead. A shared plane. When did I stop feeling unworthy? When Toby touched me?
There was to be a group sightseeing tour on Sunday, but Paula invented a migraine and remained in her room. She slept. There was so much feeling and response which still lay ahead for her, and she must be well for it, in sleep must somehow find readiness for the newer awakening.
Early Monday morning, after securing necessary information from the police, Paula rented a car and drove to Toby's funeral. The freakish rains had returned during the weekend and the day was dour and deluged. Paula parked near the cemetery, which was situated in a tomb-ridden little suburb called Colma. She watched. Watched Toby's pallbearers, none of whom had ever seen the girl a-live. Mortuary-attendants, hearse-drivers, grave-diggers. Strangers until the last, wielding her body. Except for her mourners; three young girls and two middle-aged men. Hookers and tricks who hadn't bothered to look her up in months, but had seen the garish headlines and identified. Paula noted that there were several other cars parked along the road, the morbidly curious having nothing better to do on the long, dismal weekend than ogle a bit of vulgar earth-drama which could, blessedly, never touch them. But none but the three whores and two Johns outside braving the mud and rain; umbrella-guarded, half-staggering and drunk ... for wasn't it New Year's and party-time and new crying-jags to be dug up and torched over? ... sharing pints of gin, comradely, intra-consoling ... one of the Johns' faces gleaming with angry red boils, as he sobbed...
Paula thought of Toby's insistent words...'Honey, you can't be seen with me till I look decent!' The moment is now, Paula knew, and got out of the car, opening her umbrella, hurrying across the road, standing near for the words to be said.
As the priest in attendance began some cursory rhetoric, a red jaguar, its brakes screeching, pulled up to the curb across the street, and from it emerged two quite tall young ladies elaborately garbed in black and flowing widow's weeds. They were each heavily veiled and, evidently grief-stricken, kept dabbling black lace handkerchiefs at their eyes. Hearing the priest's words, the taller woman began fitfully to wail and vocalize her deep anguish, flinging her arms about in a peculiarly theatrical manner..."Oh Jesus, Mary and Josephine, some mothafuckin' man drove her to this, do you hear me, Miss God?" face eloquently pointed upwards..."Yes, it's you I'm screamin' at, you big mad Madam in the sky with all them stars on your dressing-room door, writin' us all off in your dirty old trick-book. Some sonofabitchin' piece of rough trade made that poor little queen take the gas pipe..."
"No, doll, she jumped from somethin', " the other woman corrected her, "said so in the headlines."
"Oh shut your hole, Ramona-Sue, I don't care if she fell off a tall douche-bag, she's gone ain't she? Oh my Gawd, my Ass, my G-String, tonight I'm pumpin' in an overdose and it'll be intravenous purgatory ... and Big H is gonna get this girl for sure!"
Voice falsetto, thought Paula. Unnatural. Toby's brother Jerry. Oh ... not like this, not here and now...
"Oh ... Holy Mad Mary blowin' Gabriel up there in Heaven, your mother cannot bear this torture, this suffering, like it's too much ... like it's Joan Crawford on the late-late show cutting off her tits and drinking hemlock, like it's Lana Turner stabbing her gangster-mother's lover, oh ... my ... Gawd!" Groaning and faint, Jerry flung his body over the coffin, the back end of which gave way and tipped downwards into the gaping grave. The men hadn't, of course, been ready to lower yet, but with this unforeseen mechanical failure, further aggravated by the rain, they started to curse in fury.
Meanwhile, Jerry's delirium was crucially augmented by the slumping of his sister's coffin, and his dramaturgic roars now descended the scale several octaves..."Mary-Mother-a-Pearl, she's still alive! Oh Holy Christ and Sophie Tucker, I knew it ... I tell ya I saw it in my beads just last night ... had this bloody vision of Miss St. Peter in drag, all drippin' sequins and pus and fallout, reachin' down for poor Miss Toby ... poor lil queen, tryin' to stand up in her coffin 'cause she felt my mystic presence...'cause she knew it was me, her mad mad campy sister who knows more about trade than any La Belle Fruit on the Coast! Oh Ramona-Sue, get my snuff, your mother's gonna die, do ya hear me ... she's gonna but die, girl!"
As he swooned over the coffin again, the funeral director and one of his drivers moved in and grabbed his arms, and Ramona-Sue shrieked out a warning. "Oh girl, it's Dirt, run!"
Jerry whirled about and cracked an elbow against the director's jaw, saying: "Run my rhinestoned ass-hole, I'll beat the crap out of 'em, honey, but the crap!" And promptly knocked the strong-arming driver unconscious with a swift rabbit punch to the chin. Dazed, the funeral director stumbled over to the ashen-faced priest, muttering: "Bless us quick, it's the end of the world, it's anarchy!" As the other driver and an attendant rushed at Jerry, Ramona-Sue tore off his flowing crepe hood and let fly with fists, judo-jabs, and slicing spike-heels. "Hold the big one for me, girl!" cried Jerry. "The lousy latent-Fagbastard, think-in' he's so straight just because he's wearin' that visor-cap-he'll look like Jeanette MacDonald in a picture-hat before I'm through with him. Watch it behind you, Ramona-Sue, here comes one of the gravediggers swingin' a shovel!" Turning, Ramona-Sue socked the digger in the throat and sent him flailing, as the funeral director staggered back to help the first driver off the ground, both of them advancing on Jerry again. "Oh you motherin' fairy-embalmers, I'll kill you for touchin' my sister ... and grindin' her through your meat-house, when you don't know her, never saw her!" yelled Jerry, the director turning and running back to the priest as Jerry sent a fist smashing into the driver's face, but feeling his skirt and train being ripped off as his victim went down, exposing Jerry's tight boys denims and ladies' pumps underneath...
"Fuckin' swish pervert callin' me names!" the driver contemptuously spat teeth in Jerry's face as he rose upwards again, "I got a wife and five kids..."
"Five little midget-queens suckin' each other off in the pantry like their Daddy taught 'em?" queried Jerry, and ducked as the driver's fist slammed his way, the man falling and glazing his head against a shovel, his eyes going bulbous in surprise, Ramona-Sue helping him up to slug him repeatedly in the temple with knuckles and dinner-ring, as one of the gravediggers jumped on Jerry's back, straddling, strangling, until Jerry let himself fall bluntly backwards in the soggy mud, half-burying his attacker, quickly pivoting about to place a foot on the rheumy face and shove it deeper into the slime, the digger gurgling up epithets like..."froods ... cogsuggas..."
"Slap his dirty ghoulish face, hon!" sang out Ramona-Sue, "slap it!"
Mouth agape as he watched this blasphemous charade, the priest suddenly raised his habit and bolted, hurriedly rattling off..."Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and repent!" over his shoulder; while the hookers and Johns stood there in shock as they witnessed the circling battle about the capsized coffin of their mourned and doomed one, their little neon deity half-toppled in the rain, the whores adding their own inanity-cackles to the maelstrom: "Kick'em in the balls, dearie, if they got any-you lowdown degenerates got a right to live too." Passing and shuffling the gin bottles among the Johns as one of the other hookers babbled her rosary and crossed herself so often she broke a nail, wailing out: "Oh shit, God, is this what Toby died for?" the third whore kneeling and starting to sing: "Onward Christian Soldiers ... ya pimps! Ooh sweet Jesus, it's rainin' pimps ... get'em, girls, get'em!" tilting her bottle as the two old Johns laughed themselves silly at the sight of a couple of dragqueens beating the hell out of a bunch of brawny hearse-drivers and morticians.
Finally, as the cars that had been parked along the road discreetly disappeared, the attendants and gravediggers ran off, carrying the bleeding driver between them. "And don't none of ya come near her again," shouted Jerry, "ya bunch of fruity werewolves, all dirty male-impersonators ... aw ya phonies, you're all alike when there's trouble for a girl, and ya run...'cause you're men and you're afraid of your mothers, so you run, ya queers!" Then, slowly, Jerry looked down at the grave, and was quiet. And knelt there; weeping, hushed. Removed the disheveled wimple, tore off the honey-blonde wig, tossing them into the pit beneath the half-lowered casket. "Oh honey..." he sobbed softly, and the voice was a man's, "oh honnee, I'm here ... the kid's here ... the kid who wouldn't crawl out of her drags and love 'ya till it was too late ... aw honey!"
Paula went back to her car and waited there while the two boys took over and finished the burial. The whores and Johns continued passing their pints as they joined them at the shovels, drunkenly alternating, a clump of earth for each mourner, everybody sharing equally in the solemn rites as they huddled there and wept in the rain, howling out great gaudy bathos and bereavement. Mascara-streaked faces of hookers and queens, the boys' gossamer black crepe gone stringy and matted, long Woolworth earrings trickling raindrops, redly false fingernail claws on big hairy men's hands that clutched at their holy-grail shovels in timorous reverence ... tears and rain smearing lipstick into beard stubble...
Afterwards everyone knelt and passed more gin. And soon the gin was gone.
In the car, Paula's tears for Toby at last found release. And she wept, too, for those across the street in the claiming earth, so piteously lamenting and abnegated as they clung, the vagrant ones, love-definers at the base and crux of sorrow, the wisest. And Toby, profane illiterate sharer over there in the damp, closest kin of all.
Jerry spoke, softly, camp-fire warmth of mourner's bench in the mist..."Poor wacked-up lil baby never had a chance. Even my knockers were bigger'n hers. Ummm
... we used to be such dizzy little kids ... used to play nipple-measurin' sometimes ... used to pretend we was the McGuire Sisters and I'd be both Dorothy and Christina. Used to play with these big imagine Spanish-type dolls and put strings on 'em and make like they was puppets, only we'd both want to act out the leading-lady roles, so ... we used to fight, but I'd let Toby dress'em, as long as I could do their choreography and set their hair. And I'd ... set Toby's hair too, and play with paper-dolls we'd tear outa Sears Roebuck or Monkey Wards. Used to pretend everybody in the world loved us when we was alone in that house except for the squealin' of Momma's Johns upstairs ... and sometimes when there was a thunderstorm we used to hold tight to each other and laugh, 'cause it'd sound like every one of Momma's customers was comin' at once, like bank-night and big Casino ... only we didn't really care 'cause we learned what it meant to hug onto each other when there was bad times in the house ... and Momma'd try to keep us hidden in the basement during business hours, and we'd make up these songs. Used to be such dizzy little kids ... used to play with dolls..." the man spoke on, thoughtful. No one interrupted, heads lowered. The rain stopped.
THIRTY-TWO
Back at the hotel, Paula was only a few feet inside the lobby when she stood taut and still; knowing somehow, even before she saw him, knowing that he was there, waiting, his eyes on her. And after searching the room, she found him-lumbering frame, enormous strides as he rushed so eagerly towards her, man big and vivid and expansive, man holding up the world and sent-for. Max.
And was afraid of him there in that glaring throng of a room, beset by doubts and inadequacies as she remembered what he had the right to expect from a woman. In a flurry of panic Paula took quick steps in the opposite direction, towards the elevators.
"Hey, what the hell!" Carrying a suitcase and his New York overcoat, Max lunged after her and took her arm, which she immediately wrested free. "Paula, I got your wire, but I had to wait thirty-six hours for a damn plane..."
"Max please," she said, "not here, all these people..."
Max glanced about them and grinned as he recalled her old penchant for privacy, disciplining himself to wait until they were alone, although what the hell he was waiting for he was afraid to think about. But oh Christ, that wire, coming when it did, right after he'd shown his agent the first ten chapters of his book and the man had torn it to pieces, told him he was a gagwriter and not a novelist, said all his characters spoke in punch-lines and were not to be believed, and that as another Evelyn Waugh he'd make a lovely Goodman Ace; and then handing him a fat new TV contract and some kindly advice: 'Get off the pot, Sonny, you're a performer in print, and that's it' God, how that had hurt, after more than a year's work on the book. But then, Paula's wire, Paula's fantastic words...
The elevator was jammed and he and Paula were shoved into a corner, their bodies pressed tightly together, Paula even more unnerved at being thrown against him like this, having to face him so physically, to stand under that proud staunch chin of his without courage.
... First quiet look at him I've had in years. Old swarthy mobility of face seems gaunt somehow, and older. But there's still the unguarded longing about the eyes, still the intensity of presence which disquiets, disarms; old Max-aromas playing at the senses, pipe tobacco, hair tonic, shaving lotion ... all so damnably evocative, and oh this heady-hulk of him, what do I say, how do I begin when he's such an undisputed reality, so full of being and fact and here and now ... pressing...
She's been on her own and seen something, Max thought as her body crowded tensely against his. Seen something lousy, something that hurt so much she's even trembling with it. And maybe she'll want me to hold her and cuddle her and make it well, and tell her what a wrecked and useless capon I've been without her, tell her about all the bottoms of whorehouses I scraped trying to duplicate the chemistry, and how I can't brush off the weak and senseless thing it does to me to stand anywhere near her. But no, goddammit, she sent for me, so the first move is gonna be up to her. So no, I won't touch her, won't kiss her or ... or anything, not even a handshake unless she asks for it...
"A bit of inclement weather, eh?" he said, keeping to the mock-neutral tones.
Managing a smile under his close scrutiny, Paula felt he could see that she'd been crying, and thought: God only knows what he's making of it. No doubt thinks I've simply become bored with sampling the population and now want him back as a last resort, for comfort and security-and somehow this is what I must prevent him from thinking, because he must know all my truths no matter how self-deprecating. I must ... hand them over to him, and myself.
The elevator reached her floor, and as they walked down the corridor, Max kept speaking in exaggerated stage whispers: "You think we're still being overheard?"
"Oh hush, you fool!" she laughed. Humor again the leveler, she thought; and at the moment, an ally.
When they entered her suite and closed the door, however, the raillery waned. He looked so immense and tentative standing there as if awaiting some cue from her, arms stiffly at his side, body tense as a panther about to spring, and she knew that any other woman in this moment would be a woman and throw her arms about him and weep and cling and profess adoration. But coming from her, such feminine simplicity would be suspect after all that had passed between them, and she could not ask him to accept a miracle with a single embrace.
Max watched as she went across the room to the closet to remove her raincoat, and his eyes went warm and relieved to see her body in motion again, to see Paula real and walking before him, to see the body of his love. Thinner now, he thought, which made her look both wiry and voluptuous, which was impossible because it meant she had curvaceous bones ... and wow, he'd better cool it and start his brain clicking again and stop stalking her and getting lightheaded and thinking how long It had been since he'd touched her, except that it would be so wonderful if he could grab her for one big hug and feel her next to him ... and after that she could tell him what miserable lowdown trick she was trying to play on him and this time he'd kill her for sure; no qualms, no sweat, no hesitations, because if it was more bitchery she was dreaming up, he would end everything she was to him with his bare hands ...
As she went to the divan and reached for a cigarette, Paula thought of all those other couples from whom Max had drawn his domestic patterns, all that equanimity in the kitchen. Could she ever be that for him, ever meet such a deadline? Tightly-knit PTA groups, company picnics, bridge parties, hostessing his opening nights with grace and elan. Good, her fears were so old.
Max crossed over and lit her cigarette. "Paula, in that wire you said, 'Max, come at once, I need you.' What does that mean ... are you in some kind of trouble, or is this some weird sort of game you're playing, seeing if I'll jump through one last hoop before you close the book on me?"
"Max no, it's nothing like that, it's quite serious, it's ... well..." she paused, took a slow drag from her cigarette, feeling suddenly inundated by the towering closeness of him, "it's ... something not easy to explain, at least not quickly, not simply ... it's ... well, it's a new problem, and I ... I..." her words stopped and she gazed up at him, "Max, would you ... back away from me please?"
"Oh hell!" he said in disgust, and moved to the other side of the room.
"I didn't mean that as a reprimand," she said hurriedly. "I only meant I ... wanted you off somewhere in a kind of perspective, so I can think without your ... standing over me, so demanding, so ... all right, I'll say it ... so disturbing ... "
Ah ... then we've still got that between us, he thought, the common ground, the old boudoir pull ... and damn her it's still not enough for me, and this time she's gotta have more to tell me, much more ... she's gotta have news!
Paula watched the old swaggering gait of him and instantly regretted her admission, certain that he was strutting and gloating over his powers as he used to-if, of course, that were ever true and not part of the delusion which she'd forced upon herself; but unable to stop the hostility-sounds now, finding them the easiest amenities..."That suit's absolutely ridiculous for you, Max; was it made for a bookie?"
Max laughed, almost welcoming the familiar acid in her tone. "Nope, I had this suit made in London, ex-tailor of Sinatra's. And hey, guess what..." clapping his hands together to muster up an enthusiasm he did not feel, "I signed a big new contract. Starting in the fall I'm head writer for the Continental Plastic Hour. It'll involve a lot of jetting around, because the shows will alternate; one month in New York, one month in Hollywood..."
"Then you've finished your novel?"
He shook his head, eying her closely with his next words. "It bombed before it ever got off the ground, Paula. My agent says I've been hustling gags too long to make it as a serious writer, so it looks like I'd better stick to what I know best; pays a helluva lot better anyway."
Now he's giving me the chance to gloat, she thought, because I always predicted this, always saw what lay underneath the buffoonery, even when I denied it most and ran the fastest, I knew it was there, the tender power, the empathy..."I think you ought to finish the book, Max, and maybe even try another. After all, what do agents know? They're so ... so brassy, so commercial ... "
A grin of surprise on his face, Max took out his pipe and began to light it, thinking that here was some news all right, here was a sign; but suddenly restless and edgy, wondering if she was being sarcastic, watching her face in profile as she inhaled her cigarette ... and where the hell did she come by all that majesty, always so damned beautifully proud and imperious? Puffing fiercely on his pipe, he went to the window and gazed out at the view, the shrinking mural of urbanity set against hills and bay. "Even in lousy weather there's something special about this town, isn't there?" he said idly.
"Yes, it's ... alive," she said. "Max, I'll bet you're dying for a drink, shall I ring for one?"
"Hell no, I had so many vodka martinis on the plane I'm still hitting air-pockets."
We're both straining to be casual, she thought; and it's not the way. But, of course, he's afraid too, isn't he? And if what we feel for each other is so strong, each of us holds a whip.
"Paula, what do you want from me, money?" he blurted out, "is it money?"
"Oh no, Max, listen..."
"You had heavy gambling losses in Vegas, right? Or ... or you shot your wad trying to keep up that mad social whirl..."
"Nothing of the sort. Vegas was awful. I was miserable there."
"Oh sure. I read all those letters you wrote Mom."
"Lies," she said, and sighed with truth's first utterance, so joyous a trial run she wanted to rush on with it ... and tell him, oh tell him!
Max glared at her queen's profile across the room, hating her because he was so afraid to believe her, had given up long ago trying to sort her shams from her realities; and anyway, what the hell was it to him if she'd had a lousy time in Vegas ... it had cost him enough, and was what she'd wanted..."Look Paula, if you're gonna go on talking in riddles, maybe I do need that drink." He went to the phone and ordered two double martinis.
"You know I prefer brandy," she heard the snap of her voice and wondered how it could have seemed easier a minute ago, and now even more painful.
"From the looks of you brandy's been getting a pretty big play, like maybe you've been belting it down by the barrels full, and maybe that's your big scoop ... you got hooked on the grape and need good old Maxie for a prop..." Oh Jesus, listen to us, he thought, hacking and needling as if we didn't even like each other, and dammit, do we? And oh, who the hell knows, for Christ's sake, do we have to? Who said? Where's it written you've got to like somebody just because you can't live without her?
"Max, please spare me your quasi-attempts at analysis," she was saying.
"Oh shit, honey, I'm just as quasi as they come, so why should I stop now?"
"It's ridiculous to think I'd have you come clear across the country just to ask you for money," she said. "I'd almost forgotten how dense you can be."
"Then Goddammit, stop horsing around and tell me what the fuck gives here! Tell me in a simple grade-school English so dense old Max can understand."
"No, I can't reason with you if you're going to shout"
"Jesusgod!"
They said nothing for a moment as Paula lit another cigarette and watched him at the window, his back to her; watched the pipe in his hand, and remembered the other pipe held captive in her New York office, the locked effigy, to be set free now, for here was the original, and she need only extend the hand. But, instead, sustained the warring silence, neither of them speaking again until the waiter had appeared with their cocktails and departed. Max gulped his down, and seeing that Paula chose to ignore hers, strode to the table next to her and seized the drink.
Paula wanted to grab the big darting hand and press it to her cheek, but said: "Careful, Max, you drink badly, remember?"
"Baby, since you left I've built up a real rawhide capacity." Oh man, no, he thought, pacing restlessly about the room, that sounds like I've been a big torching slob. "And not alone either," he added-which, he decided, was even worse.
"But you were always popular with the ladies, Max. Perhaps you're even ... even ... engaged..." her voice shook with the word and she took a hurried puff of her cigarette, turning away from Max's quick, intent gaze as he sharply sensed the newness in her, the vulnerability. But dammit, he thought, that's desperation, and there could be so many reasons for it that have nothing to do with me. And yet ... it was me she sent for, so I've got to believe what she said in that wire and give her a chance..."No, Paula, not engaged. And listen, I'm sorry we got off to such a bad start, because I should realize you have something serious to tell me or I wouldn't be here. So ... I won't push it, you tell me in your own time, the way you want to. I'm ... well, I'm here, and I'm listening."
Ah yes, now, she thought, when he's like this; receptive, trusting, the shoulders and the heart of him. Try the word aloud, use it in a sentence to break ground. "Max, do you still..." (say it!)..."Love me?"
Max stared at her, his eyes going alert and expectant, as if waiting for her to go on and say the rest of it ... and, damn her, tell him why she wanted to know, tell him that first before he gave her anything. But no, there was nothing more, just that blunt and hurled question, that tone of probing..."What is that, Paula...'do I still love you?' ... a public opinion survey maybe, a questionnaire?"
"Oh well," she shrugged, "we never could talk." Acid's return.
"Oh no, honey, I could have spilled my guts to you plenty of times, confiding intelligently and warmly and ... and comprehensively like adult partners are supposed to ... but you were so damn sure that for us there was only one function in this world, and that was to get in the ring every night, screw ourselves silly, and come out fighting!"
"You're really not any more lofty than you seem, are you? That sewer of a mouth, those Times Square manners."
"And how you got all those straight A averages with your legs up in the air, I'll never know."
"Oh you liar, you ape!"
"Always putting me down, never any respect for my work. Well it just so happens that in a whole bunch of grownup circles I am considered a thorough professional, a ... a comic genius, and I got credits, goddammit, I got status...."
"You've got nothing, Max, because you're a hack, and a ... a clown..."
"A few minutes ago you said I should start writing another book."
"I was humoring you, being polite, because you're really so pitiful, you know, so backward ... and I tried to get you to read more, didn't I ... but you simply would not read! Proust ... Flabert..."
"Oh fuck off, you big phony, you did all your homework in the bushes."
"Boor!" she cried. "Whore."
"Plagiarist."
"Killer."
"You CLOD."
"You PIG!" They fell silent.
Max sank into a chair at the other side of the room, stretched his legs out before him, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
All that linked them now was the bridge of defeat; and Paula wondered ... is this it, then, the final impasse? Oh God, please don't let it be-send us a language ... And yet, saw the insurmountable logic separating them, saw love failing to conquer all, failing to disarm or remove the talons; and it was still the same, what they had, a mutual devourment, a feeding. And, in this moment, knew that she loved him so much that the manner of their reaching did not matter. So let them devour and be quick about it, because she had seen the other alternatives, the starving, the unbelonging, and wanted no more of it, wanted him, wanted everything about him that she had run from ... the gentleness, the humor, the ease, the man...
Max got up and headed towards the phone. "I'll call the Airport," he said, "get the next plane out ... "
"No, Max, wait!"
He stopped, his back to her. "For what, Paula?"
'To find out what you're here for, Max, to ... to find out how ... how sorry I was to hear about your mother, because I loved Emma, you know, and ... I love you, Max; that's why I sent for you, to tell you that ... and tell you that certain things had to happen to me before I realized the truth. For God's sake, Max, don't you hear me? I love you, I want to live with you again."
Max had turned to watch her face as she spoke, and was still staring and silent
Oh the bastard, she thought, he's going to be the judge and jury, he's not going to let me off until I repeat it and beg him and plead...
"Dammit, Paula, if you're puttin' me on, you'd better let me know it now, because if I find it out later, it'll be both our heads. Remember Dolores and her boy-friend? Two bullets, Paula, I swear to God."
"Max, listen to me ... you have the right to demand proof, I know that. But I wanted you to believe it before we touched, wanted you to know that I ... I love you without bed, without flesh and climax and prodding hands ... love you away as well as near..."
There's my cue to go to her and gather her in my arms, he thought-damned beautiful pig wants me to carry her into that neat little bedroom and lick her wounds. But I can't feel sorry for her because I love her too much ... and if she wants me to play old Standby Loving Max who's supposed to be there and loyal no matter how much slime she rolls in, let her drop dead now, or let the bomb fall, because I don't want to play bodyguard, Goddammit ... don't want to be used, want to be loved. And if she can't, if maybe she's too sick to try, then brother that's gotta be the ball-game, because then I don't want her around where she can hurt me, where she can ... not love me, but get at me. No siree. Slow fade and go to black.
"Max, don't you know what I'm saying ... aren't you listening?"
Max went to his chair and sat down again, hunched forward, eyes still probing, waiting ... Aw sure, baby, I'm listening, but it's your move, not mine ... saying you love me and still sitting over there like a keg of ice, not bringing it to me, never bringing anything to me ... damned sweet lost little bitch-ya ... ya done enough to me, so I don't crawl, sweetheart ... aw honey ... aw damn you to hell, baby, I love you so much right now that sittin' still makes my teeth ache and my nuts ache ... but I won't budge, woman, and how's that for willpower ... your big weak slob of a clown won't go near you until you show him what you're talking about.
"Max, you always knew what I felt for you," she said. "You knew if from the first ... and you were right."
Aw ... kill her if she's lying, kill her if it's only a keeper she wants or a servant she wants or a sentry she wants or a stud she wants or a sponge of a Goddamned crying-towel she wants ... kill her before you believe her...!
"Max?" Why does he wait and stare, she wondered-he's like granite. Has he something to tell me, then ... about someone else? Another woman he's found, woman entitled, woman endowed? "Oh Max, what are you keeping from me? I love you, don't you hear me ... I love you!" shrieked out, hacked...
Go to the door, ya big patsy, he ordered himself ... ya sucker, walk away on all fours from what's sittin' over there ... lovely queen-sow ready to spread again, ready to squat and hook you under again. Get up and go to the door and maybe then you'll know ... walk, Goddamn ya, walk like a man!
"Blow it, baby," he said, rising, "as an actress you stink..." taking a step away.
"Oh no, Max, please ... you must believe me, because ... you see, I can't ... I'm ... not making it alone, can't make it without you. I found out, Max ... oh can't you understand, I found out!" Echoes of Toby's lost desolation on the window-ledge, as well as new fears that perhaps it was true after all ... love was unreal, reaching-out was a futile begging-for-alms. But now, too, at last, dissolution of all pride's armor, antidote for acid ... the flood of self-urgings...(if you have to beg him, do it, Paula, he's your life!)
Max was at the door now and she ran to him, crazily careening and hurling herself at his body, violently colliding and flinging her arms about his waist with such force that he was taken off balance, tackled by her fever-claim and knocked to the floor, as she clung and buried her face against him ... as they sat there, dazed in their child-sprawl, her body shaking with its chokes and rasps of sobs ... tears in plain view and not caring ... oh God, not caring that he saw, that he witnessed this fall from Olympus ... bent and thrown at his feet, clumsily clutching the dear big burly warm hands and kissing them ... crude and knuckled Max-fingers cradled and hers again, links most precious, not subjugated, not conquered ... but loving him and immersed with it, alive with it ... and not being ashamed to let him have the advantage that was also hers ... because part of it was touching him too, it was everything that involved him ... his beard and his pipe and his pulse and breath-flow, being near him by day, near him by dark ... naked or masked, up or down ... being there where he was in a room that he filled, a Max-world, her circle her hub, her nourishment, her love ... oh, so warm the word, so warm to know it, to say it ... oh to say nothing but it ... private language..."Max, listen, I love you ... love ... love ... love you ... luv ... love ... love you, Max ... tell me how often to say it, it's so new ... tell me when to stop ... often as you like ... love you ... love, Max ... luv ... how many times before you'll believe me?" ... reaching up and pulling, tugging, strong-arming his head down to her ... finding his mouth and the hearth of kisses, so lost, now joining ... crawling her body upwards on him so that he fell back on the floor with her on top of him..."Wait, Paula ... hush, baby ... God ... hush..." feeling them both begin to tremble as her kisses went to his eyes, to his cheeks, and his lips again..."Unnn ... sweet..." he murmured, "wait ... oh honey, listen..." he tried to speak but had only boy's whimpers as he held her ... rolling with embraces ... swayed and reeled by the kisses of her ... lady's mouth on his again ... home's comfort, home's heat ... their tears mingling now as his arms pulled her in and hugged her like his child ... oh his lover-woman-child ... caressing the bowed head in a tearing wonder, in disbelief at what he was being given, afraid even to see what he knew was in her face now, her eyes ... afraid to move unless she did, for fear of disturbing the dream of her, here, of all places, in his lap and loving and weeping with it ... Paula loving Max ... not just applying him to her, but loving! And stroked her hair as her face pressed near and eager against his chest..."Oh Jesus, I got a woman in my lap..." drawing her closer, this hot needing body now to be a sheltered belonging part of him, oh a part of him, goddammit, and just let anybody tell him different ... his arms tighter about her as he rocked here there on the floor, held and possessed her there..."Aw, you baby, you wild wrestling Amazon you ... took you all this time to find out there's no end to what we've got together..." raising her chin for more of the gently sweet and questing grabbing kisses, for future's diet ... for blendings of time and touch and body and oh so light and tender ladyfingered hands that traveled and owned him ... his hands undoing her blouse in the familiar childish hush of knowing that all of her was his again and more ... his mouth lingering down at her throat his cheeks dampened by her tears ... her hands hungrily seizing his ... fingers locking, interlocking, reaffirming ... tips touching and nestled..."Oh Max, there's never been anyone but you ... no one ever but you ... first love ... oh ... love..."
A few moments later they lay naked together, and while the bedroom was strange to them, they had never known such a mutual redeeming, such a state of flesh's grace ... assailed by the rediscoveries in the corniced dark, as he held her close in great astonishment, this life-comrade of a new unwrapped treasure given in first trust, this body that now met his in first wedding...
Afterwards, as they still clung to the pledged unstopping force of nearness...(love has no climaxes!) ... Paula tried the new sounds again..."Darling Max..."
"Unnn ... say it, never stop."
"Love you, my darling Max."
"Love you, darling Paula ... aw ... my lady, my lover..."
"My friend."
He began to cry again and her lips went to his eyes; but he gently placed his hands on her cheeks and pulled her face lower, above his, and with his mouth against hers, the awed and secret vesper, the whisper..."You ran to me like that..." small glory of tone so young, "how you ran to me..."