“I’m the sensitive type, you mustn’t make fun of me.”
“But really you are, and I feel so free with you. You’ve no idea.”
I looked at the red imprint left by the straps of her bra, thinking, Who’s taking revenge on whom? But why be surprised, when that’s what they hear all their lives. When it’s made into a great power and they’re taught to worship all types of power? With all the warnings against it, some are bound to want to try it out for themselves. The conquerors conquered. Maybe a great number secretly want it; maybe that’s why they scream when it’s farthest from possibility—
“That’s it,” she said tightly. “Look at me like that; just like you want to tear me apart. I love for you to look at me like that!”
I laughed and touched her chin. She had me on the ropes; I felt punch drunk, I couldn’t deliver and I couldn’t be angry either. I thought of lecturing her on the respect due one’s bed-mate in our society, but I no longer deluded myself that I either knew the society or where I fitted into it. Besides, I thought, she thinks you’re an entertainer. That’s something else they’re taught.
I raised my glass and she joined me in a drink, moving close.
“You will, won’t you, beautiful?” she said, her lips, raw-looking now without makeup, pouting babyishly. So why not entertain her, be a gentleman, or whatever it is she thinks you are— What does she think you are? A domesticated rapist, obviously, an expert on the woman question. Maybe that’s what you are, house-broken and with a convenient verbal pushbutton arrangement for the ladies’ pleasure. Well, so I had set this trap for myself.
“Take this,” I said, shoving another glass into her hand. “It’ll be better after you’ve had a drink, more realistic.”
“Oh, yes, that’ll be wonderful.” She took a drink and looked up thoughtfully. “I get so tired of living the way I do, beautiful. Soon I’ll be old and nothing will’ve happened to me. Do you know what that means? George talks a lot about women’s rights, but what does he know about what a woman needs? Him with his forty minutes of brag and ten of bustle. Oh, you have no idea what you’re doing for me.”
“Nor you for me, Sybil dear,” I said, filling the glass again. At last my drinks were beginning to work.
She shook her long hair out over her shoulders and crossed her knees, watching me. Her head had begun to weave.
“Don’t drink too much, beautiful,” she said. “It always takes the pep out of George.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I rapes real good when I’m drunk.”
She looked startled. “Ooooh, then pour me another,” she said, giving herself a bounce. She was as delighted as a child, holding out her glass eagerly.
“What’s happening here,” I said, “a new birth of a nation?”
“What’d you say, beautiful?”
“Nothing, a bad joke. Forget it.”
“That’s what I like about you, beautiful. You haven’t told me a single one of those vulgar jokes. Come on, beautiful,” she said, “pour.”
I poured her another and another; in fact, I poured us both quite a few. I was far away; it wasn’t happening to me or to her and I felt a certain confused pity which I didn’t wish to feel. Then she looked at me, her eyes bright behind narrowed lids and raised up and struck me where it hurt.
“Come on, beat me, daddy—you—you big black bruiser. What’s taking you so long?” she said. “Hurry up, knock me down! Don’t you want me?”
I was annoyed enough to slap her. She lay aggressively receptive, flushed, her navel no goblet but a pit in an earth-quaking land, flexing taut and expansive. Then she said, “Come on, come on!” and I said, “Sure, sure,” looking around wildly and starting to pour the drink upon her and was stopped, my emotions locked, as I saw her lipstick lying on the table and grabbed it, saying, “Yes, yes,” as I bent to write furiously across her belly in drunken inspiration:
SYBIL, YOU WERE RAPED
BY
SANTA CLAUS
SURPRISE
and paused there; trembling above her, my knees on the bed as she waited with unsteady expectancy. It was a purplish metallic shade of lipstick and as she panted with anticipation the letters stretched and quivered, up hill and down dale, and she was lit up like a luminescent sign. “Hurry, boo’ful, hurry,” she said.
I looked at her, thinking, Just wait until George sees that—if George ever gets around to seeing that. He’ll read a lecture on an aspect of the woman question he’s never thought about. She lay anonymous beneath my eyes until I saw her face, shaped by her emotion which I could not fulfill, and I thought, Poor Sybil, she picked a boy for a man’s job and nothing was as it was supposed to be. Even the black bruiser fell down on the job. She’d lost control of her liquor now and suddenly I bent and kissed her upon the lips.
“Shhhh, be quiet,” I said, “that’s no way to act when you’re being—” and she raised her lips for more and I kissed her again and calmed her and she dozed off and I decided again to end the farce. Such games were for Rinehart, not me. I stumbled out and got a damp towel and began rubbing out the evidence of my crime. It was as tenacious as sin and it took some time. Water wouldn’t do it, whiskey would have smelled and finally I had to find benzine. Fortunately she didn’t arouse until I was almost finished.
“D’ you do it, boo’ful?” she said.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, but I don’t seem t’remember …”
I looked at her and wanted to laugh. She was trying to see me but her eyes wouldn’t focus and her head kept swinging to one side, yet she was making a real effort, and suddenly I felt lighthearted.
“By the way,” I said, trying to do something with her hair, “what’s your name, lady?”
“It’s Sybil,” she said indignantly, almost tearfully. “Boo’ful, you know I’m Sybil.”
“Not when I grabbed you, I didn’t.”
Her eyes widened and a smile wobbled across her face.
“That’s right, you couldn’t, could you? You never saw me before.” She was delighted, I could almost see the idea take form in her mind.
“That’s right,” I said, “I leaped straight out of the wall. I overpowered you in the empty lobby—remember? I smothered your terrified screams.”
“ ‘N’ did I put up a good fight?”
“Like a lioness defending her young …”
“But you were such a strong big brute you made me give in. I didn’t want to, did I now, boo’ful? You forced me ’gainst m’ will.”
“Sure,” I said, picking up some silken piece of clothing. “You brought out the beast in me. I overpowered you. But what could I do?”
She studied that a while and for a second her face worked again as though she would cry. But it was another smile that bloomed there.
“And wasn’t I a good nymphomaniac?” she said, watching me closely. “Really and truly?”
“You have no idea,” I said. “George had better keep an eye on you.”
She twisted herself from side to side with irritation. “Oh, nuts! That ole Georgie porgie wouldn’t know a nymphomaniac if she got right into bed with him!”
“You’re wonderful,” I said. “Tell me about George. Tell me about that great master mind of social change.”
She steadied her gaze, frowning, “Who, Georgie?” she said, looking at me out of one bleary eye. “Georgie’s blind ’sa mole in a hole ’n doesn’t know a thing about it. ’D you ever hear of such a thing, fifteen years! Say, what’re you laughing at, boo’ful?”
“Me,” I said, beginning to roar, “just me …”
“I’ve never seen anyone laugh like you, boo’ful. It’s wonderful!”
I was slipping her dress over her head now and her voice came muffled through the shantung cloth. Then I had it down around her hips and her flushed face wavered through the collar, her hair down in disorder again.
“Boo’ful,” she said, blowing the word, “will you do it again som
etimes?”
I stepped away and looked at her. “What?”
“Please, pretty boo’ful, please,” she said with a wobbly smile.
I began to laugh. “Sure,” I said, “sure …”
“When, boo’ful, when?”
“Any time,” I said. “How about every Thursday at nine?”
“Oooooh, boo’ful,” she said, giving me an old-fashioned hug. “I’ve never seen anyone like you.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Really, I haven’t, boo’ful … Honor bright … believe me?”
“Sure, it’s good to be seen, but we’ve got to go now,” I said, seeing her about to sag to the bed.
She pouted. “I need a lil nightcap, boo’ful,” she said.
“You’ve had enough,” I said.
“Ah, boo’ful, jus’ one …”
“Okay, just one.”
We had another drink and I looked at her and felt the pity and self-disgust returning and was depressed.
She looked at me gravely, her head to one side.
“Boo’ful,” she said, “you know what lil ole Sybil thinks? She thinks you’re trying to get rid of her.”
I looked at her out of a deep emptiness and refilled her glass and mine. What had I done to her, allowed her to do? Had all of it filtered down to me? My action … my—the painful word formed as disconnectedly as her wobbly smile—my responsibility? All of it? I’m invisible. “Here,” I said, “drink.”
“You too, boo’ful,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. She moved into my arms.
I MUST have dozed. There came the tinkling of ice in a glass, the shrill of bells. I felt profoundly sad, as though winter had fallen during the hour. She lay, her chestnut hair let down, watching through heavy-lidded, blue, eye-shadowed eyes. From far away a new sound arose.
“Don’t answer, boo’ful,” she said, her voice coming through suddenly, out of time with the working of her mouth.
“What?” I said.
“Don’t answer, let’er ring,” she said, reaching her red-nailed fingers forth.
I took it from her hands, understanding now.
“Don’t, boo’ful,” she said.
It rang again in my hand now and for no reason at all the words of a childhood prayer spilled through my mind like swift water. Then: “Hello,” I said.
It was a frantic, unrecognizable voice from the district. “Brother, you better get up here right away—” it said.
“I’m ill,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s trouble, Brother, and you’re the only one who can—”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Bad trouble, Brother; they trying to—”
Then the harsh sound of breaking glass, distant, brittle and fine, followed by a crash, and the line went dead.
“Hello,” I said, seeing Sybil wavering before me, her lips saying, “Boo’ful.”
I tried to dial now, hearing the busy signal throbbing back at me: Amen-Amen-Amen-Ah man; and I sat there a while. Was it a trick? Did they know she was with me? I put it down. Her eyes were looking at me from out of their blue shadow. “Boo—”
And now I stood and pulled her arm. “Let’s go, Sybil. They need me uptown”—realizing only then that I would go.
“No,” she said.
“But yes. Come.”
She fell back upon the bed defying me. I released her arms and looked around, my head unclear. What kind of trouble at this hour? Why should I go? She watched me, her eyes brightly awash in blue shadow. My heart felt low and deeply sad.
“Come back, boo’ful,” she said.
“No, let’s get some air,” I said.
And now, avoiding the red, oily nails I gripped her wrists and pulled her up, toward the door. We tottered, her lips brushing mine as we wavered there. She clung to me, and, for an instant, I to her with a feeling immeasurably sad. Then she hiccupped and I looked vacantly back into the room. The light caught in the amber liquid of our glasses.
“Boo’ful,” she said, “life could be so diff’rent—”
“But it never is,” I said.
She said, “Boo’ful.”
The fan whirred. And in a corner, my brief case, covered with specks of dust like memories—the night of the battle royal. I felt her breathing hot against me and pushed her gently away, steadying her against the door frame, then went over as impulsively as the remembered prayer, and got the brief case, brushing the dust against my leg and feeling the unexpected weight as I hugged it beneath my arm. Something clinked inside.
She watched me still, her eyes alight as I took her arm.
“How’re you doing, Syb?” I said.
“Don’t go, boo’ful,” she said. “Let Georgie do it. No speeches tonight.”
“Come on,” I said taking her arm quite firmly, pulling her along as she sighed, her wistful face turned toward me.
We went down smoothly into the street. My head was still badly fuzzed from the drink, and when I looked down the huge emptiness of the dark I felt like tears … What was happening uptown? Why should I worry over bureaucrats, blind men? I am invisible. I stared down the quiet street, feeling her stumbling beside me, humming a little tune; something fresh, naive and carefree. Sybil, my too-late-too-early love … Ah! My throat throbbed. The heat of the street clung close. I looked for a taxi but none was passing. She hummed beside me, her perfume unreal in the night. We moved into the next block and still no taxis. Her high heels unsteadily scrunched the walk. I stopped her.
“Poor boo’ful,” she said. “Don’t know his name …”
I turned as though struck. “What?”
“Anonymous brute ’n boo’ful buck,” she said, her mouth a bleary smile.
I looked at her, skittering about on high heels, scrunch, scrunch on the walk.
“Sybil,” I said, more to myself than to her, “where will it end?” Something told me to go.
“Aaaah,” she laughed, “in bed. Don’t go up, boo’ful, Sybil’ll tuck you in.”
I shook my head. The stars were there, high, high, revolving. Then I closed my eyes and they sailed red behind my lids; then somewhat steadied I took her arm.
“Look, Sybil,” I said, “stand here a minute while I go over to Fifth for a taxi. Stand right here, dear, and hold on.”
We tottered before an ancient-looking building, its windows dark. Huge Greek medallions showed in spots of light upon its façade, above a dark labyrinthine pattern in the stone, and I propped her against the stoop with its carved stone monster. She leaned there, her hair wild, looking at me in the street light, smiling. Her face kept swinging to one side, her right eye desperately closed.
“Sure, boo’ful, sure,” she said.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, backing away.
“Boo’ful,” she called, “My boo’ful.”
Hear the true affection, I thought, the adoration of the Boogie Bear, moving away. Was she calling me beautiful or boogieful, beautiful or sublime … What’d either mean? I am invisible …
I went on through the late street quiet, hoping that a cab would pass before I had gone all the way. Up ahead at Fifth the lights were bright, a few cars shooting across the gaping mouth of the street and above and beyond, the trees—great, dark, tall. What was going on, I wondered. Why call for me so late—and who?
I hurried ahead, my feet unsteady.
“Booo’ful,” she called behind me, “boooooo’ful!”
I waved without looking back. Never again, no more, no more. I went on.
At Fifth a cab passed and I tried to hail it, only to hear someone’s voice arise, the sound floating gaily by. I looked up the lighted avenue for another, hearing suddenly the screech of brakes and turning to see the cab stop and a white arm beckoning. The cab reversed, rolled close, settling with a bounce. I laughed. It was Sybil. I stumbled forward, came to the door. She smiled out at me, her head, framed in the window, still pulling to one side, her hair waving down.
“Ge
t in, boo’ful, an’ take me to Harlem …”
I shook my head, feeling it heavy and sad. “No,” I said, “I’ve got work to do, Sybil. You’d better go home …”
“No, boo’ful, take me with you.”
I turned to the driver, my hand upon the door. He was small, dark-haired and disapproving, a glint of red from the traffic light coloring the tip of his nose.
I gave him the address and my last five-dollar bill. He took it, glumly disapproving.
“No, boo’ful,” she said, “I want to go to Harlem, be with you!”
“Good night,” I said, stepping back from the curb.
We were in the middle of the block and I saw them pull away.
“Noo,” she said, “noo, boo’ful. Don’t leave …” Her face, wild-eyed and white, showed in the door. I stood there, watching him plunge swiftly and contemptuously out of sight, his tail light as red as his nose.
I walked with eyes closed, seeming to float and trying to clear my head, then opened them and crossed to the park side, along the cobbles. High above, the cars sailed round and round the drive, their headlights stabbing. All the taxis were hired, all going downtown. Center of gravity. I plodded on, my head awhirl.
Then near 110th Street I saw her again. She was waiting beneath a street lamp, waving. I wasn’t surprised; I had become fatalistic. I came up slowly, hearing her laugh. She was ahead of me and beginning to run, barefoot, loosely, as in a dream. Running. Unsteadily but swift and me surprised and unable to catch up, lead-legged, seeing her ahead and calling, “Sybil, Sybil!” running lead-legged along the park side.
“Come on boo’ful,” she called, looking back and stumbling. “Catch Sybil … Sybil,” running barefoot and girdleless along the park.
I ran, the brief case heavy beneath my arm. Something told me I had to get to the office … “Sybil, wait!” I called.
She ran, the colors of her dress flaring flamelike in the bright places of the dark. A rustling motion, legs working awkwardly beneath her and white heels flashing, her skirts held high. Let her go, I thought. But now she was crossing the street and running wildly only to go down at the curb and standing and going down again, with a bumped backside, completely unsteady, now that her momentum was gone.
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