“Go away,” he muttered. “Not you,” he explained to Marsha. “The inside bees.”
She smiled. “Inside bees? You’re a strange one, Stuart Hadley.”
Annoyed, he scowled. “Why do you always call me Stuart Hadley? Either Stuart or Hadley, not both.”
“Why not?”
He concentrated, but nothing came. Irritably, he swept the question away. “For God’s sake, what kind of a person are you? I don’t understand any of you . . . a bunch of toadstools popping up. Preying on us—what are you after?” He pulled angrily away from her. “What am I supposed to do, get down on my hands and knees and pray?” His resentment surprised him; it boiled up in and around him, carrying away his tongue. “I came all the way up here—what’s he want me to do? He tells me it’s up to me; you think if I knew what to do I’d be here?”
Listening intently, soberly, Marsha said: “I didn’t realize you were so angry.”
“Of course I’m angry! I came all the way up here for nothing . . .” His voice blurred off in baffled confusion. “I don’t think it’s fair. He didn’t do anything; he just sat there working.”
“What did you want him to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Miracle healing?” Gently, she continued: “He’s not a saint; he can’t raise the dead and multiply bread.”
“At least he could have listened to me!”
Queerly, she asked: “What did you have to say?”
Hadley shook his head dumbly. “He should have known. I thought he would know. I wanted his help—I didn’t get a damn thing except a blue card. And it cost me a dollar and fifty cents.”
“Maybe,” Marsha said, “it’s too late to help you. I don’t know, either. Probably he understands you better than I do . . . I’ll ask him.”
“How could he? He only glanced my way a couple of times!”
Marsha’s even white teeth flashed in laughter. “He sized you up, Stuart Hadley.”
Shocked fear swept over Hadley. “Oh, you mean I didn’t measure up?” His voice shook. “I’m not worth saving? I’m not part of the select group, is that it?”
“Stuart Hadley—”
“Stop calling me that!”
The woman’s nostrils flared. “Nobody decides who can be saved. Nobody selects, like a draft board picking eligible men. You’re saved for the same reason a ball rolls downhill—because of natural laws.”
Hadley grunted sullenly and subsided. “It doesn’t make sense. Predestination—I remember that stuff. The saved and the damned.” His voice rose bleakly. “Damn it, I’m not going to sit around. It isn’t fair. I have to do something; I thought he’d tell me what to do—” He broke off.
“You’ll have to decide for yourself,” Marsha said. “He told you that; remember? You’re the only one who can decide.”
“Forget it.” Hadley gulped down more of the John Jameson. He was beginning to feel sick; his stomach turned over queasily, and a raw, metallic deposit rose thickly in the back of his throat and gagged him. Lumberingly, he turned around and poured out the contents of the glass onto the dark pavement.
“What are you doing?” Marsha asked sharply.
“Urinating.”
She laughed. “You’ve had enough; give me the bottle.” She took the fifth and jammed the lid over it. A sudden metallic click; she had stuffed it and the glass into the glove compartment and locked it.
“Maybe I will do something,” Hadley asserted after a while.
“What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s not talk about it.” The night wind was beginning to turn chill; he reached out and pulled the door shut.
“Do you want to leave?” Marsha held up her thin wrist and examined the dial of her watch. “It’s getting late; I’ll take you home.”
“Wait.” Convulsively, he grabbed her hand as she reached to push the ignition key into the lock. “Not yet.”
For a moment she held her hand there; then she smiled and put the key away. “The man of action asserts himself.”
“I don’t want to go back yet. And I don’t like to be driven around by a woman.” He added: “I’ll drive the rest of the way.”
“Can you?”
“Of course. I drive the store truck all the damn time.”
Marsha shrugged indifferently. “Whatever you want. But we can’t stay here much longer . . . It’s getting cold and I have to go all the way back to S.F.”
Abruptly, Hadley pushed the car door open and stepped unsteadily out. He slammed the door after him and moved a few uncertain, wavering steps into the darkness.
“Where are you going?” Marsha called shrilly.
“Home. You go on back—I’ll walk.” He stumbled over the rising shoulder of the road, managed to regain his balance, and began systematically tracing his way along the edge of the gravel.
“For God’s sake,” Marsha snapped excitedly. She leaped out of the car and raced after him. “You don’t know which way it is; you don’t know what you’re doing!” Exasperated, she caught hold of him and shook him furiously. “Get back in the car and behave like an adult!”
“Let go of me.” Muddled and embittered, Hadley tore her small cold hands loose from his coat and shoved her away. “I know where I live; I’ll find my way back. I’ve walked longer walks than this.”
“You damn fool.” Half laughing, her voice trembling with cold and rising hysteria, Marsha hurried along beside him. “You’ll pass out and some car’ll run over you.”
“Not me,” Hadley said. Brooding as he stumbled along he mumbled: “Why not? Get it over with. After all, it won’t be long. Beckheim says so; listen to the Master.” He stepped from the road into the dry shrubbery at the edge of the shoulder. “All right, I’ll walk along here. Off the goddamn road.”
Running around in front of him, Marsha furiously blocked his way. “Stop it!” she gasped. Hands digging into his shoulders, she pushed him back toward the car. “Get in and I’ll drive you home. For God’s sake there’re houses around here—somebod’ll hear you.”
Hadley caught hold of her arms and held on to her. Under his fingers ran the taut cords and ligaments and muscles of her body; there was no excess flesh, only the mechanisms that made her a functioning machine. The suede leather of her jacket was moist with night mist; in her hair, particles of light glittered and sparkled. He pried her fingers loose by lifting her arms; gripping her by the elbows, he raised up until she winced with pain.
“Stop it,” she whispered, turning her head away. Suddenly she was terrified of him; she sensed the deep violence and hatred in him. He no longer was a human being. He was a force, impersonal and beyond reason. “Please,” she whispered.
He stepped down onto the highway beside her. In the night stillness her breathing was audible: harsh and rapid, very close to him. Awareness that he still had hold of her came to him. There wasn’t anything she could do. Silent, biting her lip, she stood waiting, hoping he would relent and let her go.
It was not a sexual thing he was doing. He felt no desire or passion, only a cold ache, a growing bitterness. Her body repelled him; the nearness of it made his flesh crawl. Dry, faintly warm, her body was snakelike . . . It was loathing and disgust that rose up in him, and a gathering drive for revenge.
“Goddamn it,” he snarled, “it isn’t fair.” All his disappointment was coming to the surface, his deep-rooted frustration. He had been cheated again, and it was her fault. “It isn’t right!” he shouted, and in his pain he clutched her tighter and tighter.
“Stop it,” Marsha quavered. In panic, she struggled to get away from him. “I’ll yell—for Christ’s sake!” One small hand tore loose and flashed up at him, sharp nails gleaming in the cold starlight. He knocked it down from his face and yanked her around in a half circle. Half carrying, half dragging her, he plodded back to the car and dumped her onto the seat.
“No weeds,” he said thickly. “Not in the rubbish and weeds.”
Marsha stopped figh
ting. “I give up,” she grated. “Will you let me go? All right, I’ll do it. Come on, let go of me!”
Abruptly, he released her, and she sat up, brushing her hair back and fumbling around on the seat. Now, at least he had brought it to a level she understood; his drive had finally channelized in a recognizable form. Or so she imagined. She thought it was sexual desire he felt, physical longing generated by her presence, the dark night, and the liquor; but she was wrong. “I think I dropped my purse out there,” she said shakily, beginning to recover a trifle.
“Here it is.” He found her purse on the floor of the car and brusquely handed it to her.
“Thanks.” Trembling, she groped in it. “The keys are in here, thank God.” For a moment she sat leaning back against the steering wheel, getting her breath. “Look, do you know what you’re doing? Or are you drunk?” She was stalling for time.
“I know.” And he did know; it was true. She was the one who was mistaken . . . He could sense the easy misevaluation in every line of her thin, proud body. And his ruthless hostility grew.
“You really want to? You’re crazy.” Her voice softened wearily. Fear was going; she sensed him as a person again, not possessed any longer. It, whatever it was, had left. For the time being, he was an ordinary man again. “It’s late and I’m exhausted,” she said. “Not here—oh, you’re so completely off base on everything. You would think this is just the place. And all this big pushing-around.” Her voice broke miserably. “It’s my fault. This is a hell of a place, Stuart Hadley. It just won’t do . . . It’s all wrong.”
“It’s okay,” he said stubbornly; a grim kind of determination had overcome him. He meant to finish what he had started. “Come on, let’s get going.”
“You damn fool. Please—oh, what the hell. I give up.” She pushed his grasping hands away. “Let me do it, at least.” Quivering with cold and unhappiness, she slid out of her leather jacket and tossed it into the backseat. “Is that what you want?”
“Fine.”
Struggling up, she rapidly unbuttoned her shirt and snatched it off. She threw it violently away and unhooked the catch of her bra. Bending forward, she pawed the straps from her shoulders and dropped the bra onto the floor.
“Now what?” she demanded. “The rest? All right!” Half sobbing, she savagely kicked her shoes off and unbuttoned the snaps of her slacks. “I have to stand up. Please, get out of the way so I can get up!”
Hadley backed awkwardly out of the car and Marsha flowed after him. The night mist swirled around her as she stood leaning against the damp side of the car, struggling out of her slacks. Her body was as he had expected: pale and firm, without excess flesh or lines. A slender, competent body, tall and graceful, almost totally hairless, breasts small and sharply pointed. Shivering, she turned to stuff her discarded clothing into the car.
“What now?” she demanded breathlessly, teeth chattering with cold. “Come on—for God’s sake, let’s get going if we’re going to!”
He eagerly followed her into the car. As his hands closed over her he felt her breasts leap and quiver; attracted by the heat of his body, her nipples rose and hardened against his throat. Under him she shuddered and squirmed, her fingernails digging into his back. Gasping and panting, she fought to pull herself up . . . Her nipples grazed his face and then she was gone, away from him. The hot, pulsing presence of her body ceased.
“Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?” she shrieked. “Aren’t you even going to take off your shoes?” In a split, tortured second she visibly changed her mind; her nipples died and the resigned openness of her body vanished. Frigidly, she closed against him; she fought him away and managed to kick herself back against the car door. She knocked the door open and tumbled backward, scrambling animal-like to her feet.
“Come back here.” Futilely, he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into the car. She collapsed over the edge of the seat, bent knees stark and bony in the faint starlight.
“It won’t work,” she snarled, eyes wild and darting, body slippery with mist. “No, I’m not going to.” She swept up her clothes and blindly began untangling them. Tears spilled down her hollow cheeks and dripped wetly onto her thighs. In her lap the bundle of clothes twisted and flapped between her plucking fingers. “We’re both crazy. It’s that goddamn booze, and it’s late and I’m dead tired.” Her voice trailed off wretchedly; for a moment she sat unmoving, resting against the seat, head down, her dark tumble of hair spilled forward, chin sunk down against her collarbone. Finally she shuddered alive and slowly resumed separating her clothes.
“I’m sorry.” Nervous and pleading, Hadley touched her bare shoulder.
“Let’s go somewhere else; a motel or something. Where we can talk and—” He broke off impotently. “Where it’ll be all right, not like this. Not out here in this godforsaken hole.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Stuart Hadley. It’s not your fault.” Again she stepped shakily from the car. “Excuse me for a minute.” As he watched apprehensively, she pulled on her long slacks and then hooked her bra into place. Presently she slid back in beside him. “While I’m dressing,” she managed to say, “will you light me a cigarette?”
He did so, and put it between her slack lips.
“Thanks.” She smiled jerkily up at him as she placed it in the dashboard ashtray and pulled her shirt around her. “It’s freezing . . . I’ll turn on the car heater.”
“The heater won’t work, will it?” he mumbled. “Without the motor running?”
“No,” she said, laughing thinly. “Of course it won’t. Well, what the hell, we’ll be going soon.” For a moment she halted her swift motions. After a pause she leaned forward and reached up to him. Her small cold hand traced itself across his face; briefly, she ran her fingers into his hair, turning her face up to him and peering unhappily at him, lips quivering, mouth close to his own. Her breath was warm and rapid against his cheek.
“I don’t understand,” he said dismally. “Why not? Because of Ellen?”
Marsha finished buttoning her shirt; she grabbed her cigarette from the ashtray and sucked on it until it glowed bright and orange. “Stuart, I should never have got mixed up with you. It’s got to stop—I’ll take you home and leave you off, and that’s that. I don’t want to see you again . . . I can’t see you again. Go back to your television shop and your family.”
“What are you talking about?” he shouted, stricken. “What is this?”
“Maybe later,” she continued, rapidly and breathlessly. “If you had got going quicker—or if you had waited awhile. But not now.” She glanced up, eyes wide, mouth twisting defiantly, agonized. “If you weren’t such a woolly-headed little boy you’d have figured it out. Anybody else would. I’m living with Ted. To be more exact, he’s living with me. It’s my apartment; all the things are mine, except for the desk. He brought that along. Maybe we’ll get married; maybe not. I don’t know, in some states you can’t.”
Hoarsely, Hadley demanded: “You mean you’re—sleeping with him?” His body, his lungs and vocal cords and throat and tongue and palate, formed the words: “You’re living with that big black nigger?”
After she slapped him he sat back against the door and stared out at the night darkness. Marsha finished dressing, tossed her cigarette into the weeds, and started up the car motor. She drove rapidly back to the highway, turned in a wide, shrieking squeal of tires toward Cedar Groves, and brutally drove the car up to seventy miles an hour.
Neither of them said anything. Finally the bleak countryside of hills and shrubbery and fields gave way; the lights of houses flickered here and there. Presently a glowing Standard gasoline station appeared beside the highway, and after that a roadhouse and a Shell station.
At a traffic light Marsha slowed. They were in Cedar Groves. A few cars came out on the highway beside them. Soon they were passing dark houses and closed-up stores.
“Here we are,” Marsha said curtly. She parked the Studebaker across the street
from Hadley’s apartment house. The motor running, she shoved the door open for him. “Good night.”
He hesitated, unwilling to get out. “I’m sorry,” he began.
“Good night.” Her voice was clipped, empty of emotion. She gazed straight ahead, one hand on the shift, her toe on the accelerator, breathing rapidly, in dry, short gasps.
“Listen,” Hadley said to her. “Stop acting this way; try to understand how I feel. If you had any sense you’d know—”
“It doesn’t matter. Go back to your wife and your television store.” The car edged forward; the open door swung back and forth.
Slowly, Hadley stepped onto the sidewalk. “You really mean it. You’re really that crazy. As far as you’re concerned, it’s over.”
For an instant the calcified mask that was the woman’s face remained intact. Then, as if split from inside, it suddenly caved in and dissolved. A thin, high-pitched wail rose up out of her, a pain so sharp that it paralyzed him. “That’s right!” she screamed in his startled face. “It’s over!” She reached to slam the door after him, tears welling up in her eyes and spurting down her cheeks. “I’m sorry; it’s nobody’s fault. I made a mistake—you made a mistake. Everybody was wrong.”
“Everybody?” Hadley demanded. He shoved quickly forward, trying to get at her, trying to force his way into her crumbling personality. “Was he wrong? Don’t sit there and lie to me; are you trying to make me believe—”
The car roared up and was gone into the darkness. The words hung on his lips, baffled and unspoken. There was nobody to ask; he was alone. He could shout the question out at the top of his lungs: it made no difference. For a time he stood on the sidewalk, looking helplessly after the car. Then he turned and crossed the street to his apartment, fumbling automatically for his key.
As he got his wallet out, the stiff blue edge of the Society card grazed his hand. He pulled it out, stood holding it, and then tore it furiously apart. The bits fluttered down onto the pavement; a gust of night wind picked them up and whisked them away.
Voices from the Street Page 24