Night of Violence

by Louis Charbonneau

  Her mother swore. Irene had never heard her swear before.

  “You’re vile!” her mother said. “You’re worse than he is. You don’t deserve to be a father. All you can think about is the money.”

  “Now, honey, take it easy. If it means that much to you, okay. He doesn’t have to come again—”

  “Take your hands off me!” The words were cold and hard, full of venom. “I don’t want you to ever touch me again! Do you hear!” The voice grew shrill, the voice of a stranger, her mother. “Do you hear me? Don’t touch me!”

  Irene fled back to her room. She lay trembling in her bed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, trying to pretend that it was all a dream, that she had not heard the voices of hate and greed, that everything was the same as it had always been. She fought the tears and the pain, drove them back way down inside her, covered them up, until a numbness crept through her brain and she lay stiff and cold, feeling nothing.

  She had not cried. From that time on she had never cried again.

  Her life with her parents had changed after that night. Irene was quieter, more distant. And there was a new, hard strength in her that was proof against the bewildered misery she sometimes saw in her father’s eyes.

  She never saw her Uncle Charles again. She refused to go to his funeral.

  After a while the incident itself seemed to fade completely out of her mind. Only the memory of her parents’ quarrel remained vivid. But as she grew older, she found that she loathed having boys touch her. Feeling their hands on her body made her cringe inside. And gradually a hatred of being poor grew stronger in her. If you had money, you wouldn’t have to cater to people or be afraid of them.

  It hadn’t worked out that way at all, Irene thought. In order to get the money, she had had to cater, to suffer the looks and the fumbling hands of the fat men, to smile and to flirt and to pretend. Even after marrying Richard, the one man who had never tried to paw her when they went out on a date, the man with the bright, promising future. Even now the fear was always present, because she always had to be careful not to make a mistake. And the world was full of the Uncle Charleses.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Richard said sharply.

  Irene turned over on her back. “Aren’t you through?”

  “I said I envy them,” he said. “The lovers. Have you ever noticed how many of them there are? Every time you drive at night you see them. Driving in front of you, the two heads almost touching. I see them at parties, just looking at each other. When they dance you can see how it is with them. They’re sensitive to the touch. Did you ever notice that about lovers? They’re so aware of each other, of where they’re touching, and they touch each other gingerly. Have you ever noticed that?”

  “No,” Irene lied.

  “I envy them,” Richard said, his voice rising. “I envy every man who was ever loved by a normal woman. I’m sick with envy for every couple I see cuddling close in a car or kissing in a theater balcony.”

  “Stop shouting,” Irene said. She was shaken, but her cool voice didn’t show it.

  “A year and a half,” he said. His voice trembled. “For eighteen months I’ve watched the men stare at you and envy me. Me! Wishing they could trade their drab, ordinary wives for you, if only for one wild night.” He laughed harshly. “One wild night! What a wild night that would be!”

  “Stop it, Richard!”

  “Oh, you’re good,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her. He rose from the chair and approached the bed. “You’re beautiful. God, how beautiful you are! The perfect woman. The perfect sex machine. The sight of you is enough to set a man off on a free wheeling erotic binge of dreams. There’s only one thing wrong.” He bent over the bed, close to her, and Irene was shocked to see tears in his eyes. “You’re not human,” he whispered. “You’re not human!”

  Anger reddened her smooth white cheeks. She sat up in the bed and slapped him, hard.

  “You’re a filthy beast!” she said through her even white teeth. “You’re an animal!”

  Richard laughed mirthlessly. “Yes,” he said. “I’m an animal. I didn’t think you knew!”

  At that explosive moment they heard a woman’s scream and the crack of a gunshot, its reverberation like an echo of the hatred which had erupted in the small motel room, the ugly hatred born of love.

  They both looked toward the window facing the courtyard. There was another shout, followed by a second shot.

  “Richard! What it it?” Irene cried, frightened.

  Without a word he strode across the room and swept up his trousers. He carried them with him as he ran toward the window. Irene swung her legs over the side of the bed and automatically reached for her robe.

  “Good God!” Richard said frantically. “A man’s been shot!”

  Irene came around the bed toward the window. Richard had jerked on his trousers and was starting toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” she said.

  Richard stopped. “Somebody’s got to help that man.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” she said angrily. “It’s nothing to do with us!”

  He gazed at her steadily. “The man’s hurt,” he said.

  “All right!” she cried. “All right, he’s hurt. But I don’t want you to get hurt. You can’t help him. You’ve got to think of yourself.”

  “Maybe we’ve done too much of that,” Richard said tightly. “You and I.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We were just talking about it—the story of beauty and the beast.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Richard!” She flushed, feeling the red stain her cheeks. “Why should you risk your neck for someone you don’t even know? You’ve got everything to live for, your career—”

  He uttered a low, ugly four letter word. Then he jerked the door open. Close by a woman shouted. With a quick glance, Richard Wallace took in the scene. He didn’t hesitate. He started on a run toward the man lying on the ground across the courtyard.

  “Keep away!” a voice shouted.

  He kept moving. Another shot exploded and a spray of gravel was kicked up near his feet. He went into a crouch, still running forward.

  “Richard!” Irene screamed, the danger now frighteningly real. “Richard!”

  It was like a nightmare in which he had made a decision that took him irrevocably away from her. Every step carried him farther away. The bond which had tied them together stretched out, thin and weak, near the breaking point.

  “Richard,” Irene moaned. “Come back!”

  27

  Frank Herman woke confused. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. When full awareness dawned it brought a simple need. He clambered out of bed and started toward the bathroom.

  He saw that Lois’s bed was empty. The fact mildly surprised him, until it occurred to him that she must be in the bathroom herself. He turned back toward his bed, but the utter silence in the unit struck him. Puzzled, Frank walked into the front bedroom. The bathroom door was open.

  Lois wasn’t there.

  For a moment he stood in the darkness, too surprised to move, not thinking very clearly. A vague worry stirred him to action. He went over to the double bed and shook his father’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Dad,” Frank whispered.

  “To hell with it,” Burt Herman muttered thickly.

  “Dad, wake up!”

  “Huh? Wha-what-?”

  Burt sat up suddenly, shaking his head. His eyes cleared and he glared at Frank.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he said irritably.

  “Dad, Lois is gone!” Frank said, still whispering, not wanting to wake his mother up and get her excited.

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Lois! She’s not here!”

  “What do you mean?” Burt climbed out of the bed and lumbered toward the rear bedroom, muttering. “What do you mean, she’s not here?”

  “Just what I said,” Frank answered in an angry stage whisper, glancin
g anxiously again at his mother. “She’s gone!”

  Burt went into the back bedroom. When he returned he was wide awake and anger was boiling in him.

  “Where did she go?”

  “How should I know?” Frank asked defensively. “I just woke up and saw she wasn’t there.”

  Burt’s face darkened with suspicion. “If she went to see that goddamned singer, that pansy….”

  He left the threat unspoken. With fumbling haste he started to put on his trousers and a shirt. Frank watched him, not saying anything, wondering if Lois really would have sneaked off to see the guy she thought was Sleepy Summers. Jesus, you never knew about girls. But Lois!

  Bess sat up suddenly in bed. “What’s the matter?” she asked clearly, her voice frightened.

  “Nothing,” Burt growled. “Go back to sleep.”

  He was tying his shoelaces, swearing to himself angrily, when the woman screamed and the shot rang out, very loud, as if it were right in the next room. Bess gave a small frightened cry and started to get out of bed.

  “Burt, what-?”

  Burt ran to the door, Frank right at his heels. “Stay here!” Burt snarled at Frank.

  Frank heard his mother scream. As he whirled, she came flying toward the door, plump and disheveled in her nightgown, a wild fear in her face.

  He threw himself in front of her.

  “Burt!” she screamed.

  He fought her with all his strength, fought the amazing power in the warm, plump body, until he sensed that her strength was spending itself, and he saw the tears begin to dissolve the beloved kindness of her face, and then he held her tightly.

  Burt ran out into the courtyard. He saw a man running forward from the office and recognized the motel owner.

  “Keep back!” a voice shouted.

  Burt looked toward the voice. There was a sudden splintering of glass and in the unit right next door the barrel of a gun appeared through the broken window, poking through the screen.

  “I’ve got the girl in here!” the voice shouted. “Don’t come any closer or she gets hurt!”

  Lois! The thought thundered in Burt’s head. With a bellow of murderous rage and pain he hurled himself toward the door of the adjoining unit. A shot roared in his ears, so close that he could see the orange spurt of flame from the gun’s muzzle. Something kicked his legs out from under him and he pitched forward on his face. There was a warm bright pain in his left thigh.

  Lois! he thought. There in that dark room with that man, the singer!

  He tried to push himself to his hands and knees, but the pain increased alarmingly in his leg. He felt himself getting dizzy. The ground rocked under him.

  Burt collapsed, falling forward onto the gravel, face down, all the strength evaporating from his body, leaving only the pain and the consuming, hopeless hate.

  28

  In Unit 3, Lucy spent a long time in front of the bathroom mirror, slowly brushing her red hair. Horace Stockwell was in the bedroom, smoking a cigar and watching her through narrowed eyes. Lucy knew he was suspicious, but the fact didn’t bother her. What still rankled was the memory of that startling moment when Art had actually got up from the bed and walked away from her, while she lay waiting, eager and receptive.

  No one had ever done that to her before. No one.

  Lucy studied the reflection in the mirror speculatively. Her face showed its age, but not alarmingly. It looked around thirty-five. Not thirty-five years of wear, but of wisdom and experience. Not in the sense of being ravaged by life, but simply in a knowing look around the eyes and in the mouth’s provocative curve.

  It was a sensual face, partly through the accident of nature, partly by design. Full red lips were emphasized and widened, their generous pout defined by lipstick. Eyebrow pencil sharpened the naturally inquisitive lift of her eyebrows. Blue lid shading and black mascara accentuated and deepened the blue of her eyes. The natural red of her hair had been picked up and given a brighter sheen by the rinse she used.

  She gave her face a lot of care—and it was still good enough to make most men take a second look. That is, if they saw her face at all. The ripe lips parted in a smile. It was an old joke, but Lucy knew that a lot of men who saw her on the street or in a bar wouldn’t recognize a picture of her face if it were shown to them five minutes later. Their gaze didn’t get that high. Her face wasn’t her fortune.

  Lucy studied her body. Her hands thoughtfully cupped her breasts, then moved down over the creamy skin to her hips. Except for a slight increase in fullness, her body didn’t show its age at all. It was lush and firm, bold in its promise. She was proud of her body, pleased by its starting whiteness—the skin untanned, protected from the sun because she burned too easily—gratified by its blatant femininity.

  Art had reacted to it in the old familiar way, both in the office and in the bedroom—at first. He had been excited. It astonished her that he had had the strength and the control to stop at the moment when his desire must have been at its peak. It surprised her, and it irritated her.

  The reason couldn’t possibly be that tall girl in the office, although she was obviously nuts about him. It couldn’t be—not that skinny body, not that I-want-you-too-but-I’m-too-innocent-to-let-you-do-it act.

  My God, it couldn’t be!

  She strolled over to the bathroom doorway and stood there, once more stroking her hair pensively with the brush. Horace hadn’t moved from the chair, and he hadn’t said a word yet about the scene with Art and the girl. Lucy smiled inwardly. He was still brooding over his suspicions. The tall girl’s maneuver had thrown him off balance, made him unsure, but any minute now the questions would start. She saw his eyes glitter as they roved over her body. He put out his cigar.

  “What are you keeping in the drawer?” Horace asked abruptly, breaking his long silence.

  “What drawer?”

  “The desk drawer, of course. You made a big deal out of getting the key for it, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, that drawer. Yeah. I thought I’d put my watch and jewelry in it,” Lucy said indifferently.

  “Funny,” Horace said, still suspiciously calm. “You never locked it up in the other motels.”

  “I just thought of it,” Lucy said, beginning to be amused. “I should have done it before.”

  “Who is he?” Horace said suddenly.

  Lucy was startled, and she tried to cover it. “Look, what is this?” she demanded. “What are you trying to get at?”

  “You know him,” he said. “Where did you know him? What is he to you?”

  “You’re crazy,” Lucy said, turning back into the bathroom. She wondered how close he was to guessing.

  Horace rose and followed her. “I asked you a question,” he said.

  “Well, you can just go to hell,’ ‘Lucy said angrily. “And don’t use that tone of voice with me. I’m not one of your stenographers.”

  “I’ll use any tone of voice I goddamned well please,” he said, and there was a hardness in his voice which made her look at him sharply. “Now who is he?”

  “Go ask him,” she said contemptuously, and she turned her back on him.

  Horace grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. His fingers dug into the soft flesh.

  “You’re forgetting that you’re my wife,” he said harshly.

  Lucy looked at him coldly. “That can be changed.”

  Horace’s fingers bit deeper into the flesh of her arm. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, in a voice that had no uncertainty in it at all, a voice with a quality of menace she had never heard in it before. “We been married eight months now, and I let you throw yourself around like a slut because it made you feel good, and I figured you’d get over it after you got to know me. Yeah, I’m older than you are, and I’m fat and ugly. But you married me. And now the playing around is over. I’ve given you everything you asked for, and all I asked was that you remember you were married. Now I’m through asking you. I’m telling you! Don’t ever say a thing like that
to me again—because this time nothing’s going to be changed. This one’s for keeps.”

  She tried to twist away from the grip on her arm, but the blunt fingers held her easily with a strength that astonished her, making her feel helpless, bringing the first hint of fear.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said, almost pleadingly.

  Her words were punctuated by a shrill scream from outside that was lost in the loud crack of a gunshot.

  Lucy stiffened, and Horace looked startled. He released her arm. There was a faint shout from the courtyard. Horace whirled and moved swiftly toward the front window. He parted the slats in the blind and Lucy peered past his shoulder through the crack. She saw a thick-set man run out of one of the units, and she recognized Art moving toward him from the office. The stocky man gave a hoarse cry and plunged forward toward the room next to his. There was another shot, and the man’s legs seemed to fly out from under him. He fell flat on the gravel and tried to get up. Lucy saw Art take a step toward him. Without thinking, she ran to the door and threw it open.

  “Art!” she screamed. “Art! Get back!”

  Horace was suddenly beside her. He grabbed her arm and then jerked her back inside. Then he slammed the door.

  “Let the bastard get what’s coming to him,” Horace snarled.

  Lucy’s eyes glittered with anger. “Get out of my way!” she said, and she rushed toward the door.

  He hit her. He did it with the broad, thick palm of his hand open, but the stunning force of the blow knocked her backwards, reeling. Her legs hit the edge of the bed and she sat down suddenly. For two or three seconds she stared at him wide-eyed. Her cheek was stinging. Then the anger erupted, and she came off the bed in a leap, her fingers clawing. Her nails raked his cheek.

  “Damn you!” she raged. “You hit me!”

  He struck her again, viciously, with his palm. The blow stopped her cold. The back of his hand lashed back, striking her on the mouth, rocking her head. Lucy took a step backward, whimpering. The open palm slammed back at her and she ducked. It hit her on the side of the head, knocking her off balance. She fell heavily.