Boulevard

by Jim Grimsley

  “She can’t stop. She can’t control herself.” Millie sipped the water.

  A knock on the door again. Millie froze.

  Before Newell could move, the door swung open and Louise stood there. She reacted palpably to the sight of Millie. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re talking,” Newell said. “She came in my room and we’re talking.”

  “Come on downstairs with me, Millie, you have work to do.”

  “Louise, you can’t come in my room like this without my permission.”

  “I knocked.”

  “But I didn’t say, come in.”

  They squared off at each other. “So you’re telling me you want me to go?”

  “I’m telling you that Millie is welcome here just like you are, when I say you can come in.”

  She stood there for a moment, head hanging, looking at the floor.

  Mark appeared behind her on the gallery.

  “I should go.” Louise, embarrassed, fled down the gallery.

  Hurried steps, tip-tap tip-tap, Louise descended the stairs in quick tiny hops. Newell closed the door. Millie started to giggle at the table where she was sitting.

  “What’s going on?” Mark asked.

  “Millie came in here to get away from Louise, and Louise followed her.”

  “She’s gone crazy,” Millie gestured at Mark with her hands. “She worries me all the time like that.”

  “Does she try to force herself on you?” Mark asked.

  “Does she what?”

  “Try to. You know.”

  “Try to lick you and touch you and stuff,” Newell explained.

  “Oh. Sure. I used to let her, but I don’t want her to do that anymore.” She blinked at the two of them. She had taken her sandal off, was cleaning under her toenails with a match.

  “So she tries to force you to do it.”

  “She tries to get me to want to. But I don’t.”

  “You need to tell your father,” Mark said.

  “What?”

  “Your father can make her stop. He can tell her to stop.”

  “But then I have to tell him what I was doing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Unless I lie. I could lie.”

  Newell stepped behind Mark, nearly touched him. The grace of Mark’s shoulders in a gray wool sweater.

  “You probably shouldn’t do that.”

  “I could say Louise has been asking me to do stuff but I never have. Done it.”

  “But what if Louise tells him something different.”

  Millie laughed. She was on her feet now. “What’s she going to do, tell him she had sex with me? I don’t think so.”

  She was finding her shoes, sliding them on her feet, pulling on the sweater, beige skin, a nice enough face, a soft round chin, heavy lashes over dark brown eyes. Her breasts were bigger than had appeared when she was sitting, full under the tight dress.

  “Listen, thanks,” she was pulling at the back of one sandal, plump feet bulging over the leather. “Thanks for letting me come in here and stuff.”

  “Sure,” Newell said.

  She showed no more reluctance to face Louise, leaving as soon as she had pulled her cardigan down over her dress. She closed the door with a quiet, emphatic click.

  Newell locked the door and turned to Mark, who was sitting on the bed. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “She should tell her father.”

  “Her father works for Louise.”

  Mark had to think about that. Newell went to the bathroom and pissed and brushed his teeth and watched Mark on the thin chenille bedspread.

  “Are you angry?” Mark asked.

  “No,” Newell answered, though the question irritated him. He went to the door, opened it, walked onto the back gallery and stood looking over the courtyard. Forlorn in the damp chill, on the southern wall climbing roses were still blooming, pink blossoms tattered. Louise and Millie had disappeared, but he could hear their voices. Newell went inside again and closed the door.

  “Are they in the courtyard?”

  “No. They’re in the apartment. I can hear them fighting.”

  “That’s sad,” Mark said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Mark flushed and lay back on the bed.

  “Answer me. What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back.”

  “You never give me a break, Newell.”

  “You’re the one who broke up with me, Mark. You’re the one who told me we weren’t compatible socially.”

  “You never let me explain what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant. I didn’t go to college. And you’re all educated.”

  “Look,” Mark said, sighing, “Leigh wanted me to come invite you to her Halloween party, that’s all. Okay? We can go together if you want to.”

  Downstairs in the courtyard the two women had come to stand at the plantain tree, and Louise was listening as Millie began to sing, not in melody but in complaint. Louise stood listening with her shoulders sloped, feeling, as she had been feeling for weeks now, slightly sick to her stomach, which was at the same time knotted with anguish that she could no longer face. Millie’s face flushed that horrible scarlet-blue color, her voice a shriek, “You sick old hag, what did you want to ruin my life for, why are you treating me like I belong to you? I don’t belong to anybody!” More at the same volume and pitch, so that after a few sentences Louise could stop listening, though still repulsed by the corded stretched ligaments at the base of Millie’s throat, the pretty skin all creased and flushed with blood, those shapely shoulders tensed with her passion and her hands clenched to fists. Nothing more to hear, only Millie screaming again, and Louise turned and walked into the house, surprised herself at this movement, since she rarely walked away from Millie, or even turned away from her. It had become, for a while, her greatest joy, to have Millie in her sight.

  The rags of a Halloween costume littered the kitchen. Millie had torn the witch’s dress into so many separate pieces, Louise wondered if she would ever be able to put the dress together again. She began to gather them together in case Millie should come back inside to start the fight anew.

  “You’re a goddamn sick old cow,” Millie shrieked in the courtyard. “You’ve ruined my life.” She broke into tears that appeared theatrical and false. The moment slowed to a crawl for Louise. In turning to leave Millie alone in the courtyard, in realizing she no longer trusted Millie’s behavior to be real, Louise understood Millie no longer mattered. She could no longer care for Millie. Quietly stacking the pieces of the dress, the torn sleeves, the rags that had been a skirt, Louise felt herself becoming herself again, regaining the piece of herself that she had given over to this girl.

  This was what Louise saw: Millie standing in the courtyard as rain began to fall, the water streaking through Millie’s hair, causing it to collapse against her face, to cling to her cheeks, on which was the most delicious fine, white fuzz that Louise had loved to lick, and the rain coming out of nowhere as it was apt to do even in October, sticking Millie’s dress to her plump lower belly, her small breasts, her thighs so round and big at the top. But now as Millie stood in the courtyard sobbing, the rain streaking her body, causing that lovely ripening shape to emerge, now watching, Louise felt miniscule. Such a feeling of ash and waste inside, as if Millie had run through her like a bonfire.

  Millie kept screaming the same thing in the rain, “You sad sick cow, you sad sick cow, you wait till I tell my dad,” and turning and running and stopping to slip off her sandals, loose at the back, so she could run in the rain, nearly falling in the mud of the courtyard then splashing away as Louise watched from the door, while upstairs, on the balcony, coming out of Newell’s room was that boyfriend of his, the blond with the biceps, stepping onto the back gallery with the rain pouring over the gutters now, coming down so hard his image wavered behind the rain, but for a moment Louise and the blond looked at each other.

  Millie was soaked through, run
ning in the street, the feeling in her belly a bursting sensation, a knot of solid substance. She would tell this time, she would. She had torn up the dress for good this time, she had ruined the costume and Halloween, and now she would ruin Louise. Millie ran in the rain seeing the black dress come to pieces in her hands, feeling the force of the argument that had passed through her. She had pushed Louise so far now. She had torn up the pictures Louise had taken of their secret weekend in Gulfport, ripped them up shrieking the words she had wanted to say all along, that she had hated spending those two days with Louise, hated walking on the beach with an old wrinkled woman, belly sagging, thighs shaking as she walked. Lately, Millie had hated every moment she spent with Louise. But that would all change today when she found her dad, when she finally opened her mouth. Yes, she would tell, and Louise would pay, for whatever crime this was. Louise should have known better. Look what she had done to poor Millie, who had never meant to. Who was not one of those. Louise would have to pay for this, whatever it was, that had made Millie hate her.

  Henry Carlton passed Millie on his way through the gate. A pale girl running in the rain, her dress so thin she looked naked, a sight that made no impression on Henry at all. He had been married for a while, when he was eighteen and knew no better, and his wife was seventeen and moist and ripe like that. He turned to watch the girl splash away in the rain, then opened the iron gate and walked down the passageway to the courtyard. Hallelujah it’s raining in his head, a snatch of the disco song, it’s raining, Hallelujah it’s raining men.

  By now he had washed away any trace of Eugenie, whom he had called Genie, had washed every molecule of her touch from his skin through countless evenings along the waterfront, in the back rooms of the Bourbon Pub or TT’s West, or like last evening when he spent all night in the baths on Frenchmen Street. He liked the dingy rooms, the low light, the multitude of body types, nobody perfect with their clothes off except, of course, the ones who were always perfect, the flawless ones, the flawless faces, a god walking down the corridor, powerful buttocks moving as he walks, nodding from side to side to his worshipers, drinking the desire like nectar, his only food. The perfect one in the baths last night had been Mark, Newell’s boyfriend, or, rather, his ex-boyfriend, and so this morning Henry had gotten out of bed early with the anticipation of this visit, Henry rushing to Newell with the news that Mark had turned out to be exactly the kind of slut Henry had predicted, throwing up his legs for everybody in the place and in particular with this one hairy man who was bigger than him, who was all over him.

  Climbing from the loggia to the gallery, Henry was still humming when what should he see or rather whom should he see, coming out of Newell’s room.

  Mark, without the hairy brute beside him, Mark all by himself with his clothes on, come crawling back to Newell, wouldn’t you know? After a night like that, on his hands and knees on the floor in that tiny room in the baths, with that man at his backside, these hams of buttocks pumping away at poor Mark who was all twisted around, tongue out of his mouth trying to get a look at what was happening, trying to be the camera of his own porn movie, and Henry at the door making sure he took in the whole scene.

  “Well, good morning,” Henry called, and waved, making sure to flail the hand a bit, knowing it got on Mark’s nerves.

  “Hey, Henry,” Newell said, “look who showed up and is just leaving.”

  Mark flushed, in the middle of saying something, only now seeing Henry, and the part that galled Henry was, it was clear Mark hadn’t seen Henry at all last night, didn’t remember him at all. “I’ll call you later,” Mark called out.

  Newell stepped to his doorway again, hand on the knob, motioning Henry inside. “Do whatever you want.”

  “I’ll call. I really will.”

  Newell shrugged, looked at him a moment, and Henry was trying to maneuver to see Newell’s face, to see if there was any affection in it, any weakness that Mark could possibly exploit; but Newell turned away in closing the door and so Henry never saw.

  “I can’t believe that son of a bitch,” Newell said.

  “What does he want?”

  “Dumps me flat on my ass and then wants me to go to a party. With those stupid friends of his.”

  Henry sat on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed, ankle tucked under his knee, a posture that made him feel safe. “Maybe he wants to get back with you.”

  “Please. I can’t stand him.”

  “He’s really cute.”

  Newell walked to the front gallery with a glass of water, stood sipping it. Standing in front of a brown potted plant, completely dead. Newell looked down at it and poured the remains of the glass into it.

  Coming back inside, he said, “He’s not cute enough.”

  “They were following him all over the baths last night.”

  “He was at the baths?”

  “Oh, yes, honey, he was the biggest whore there. He gave out more sugar last night than Belle Watling.”

  Newell gave out one snort of a breath, in contempt. “That’s fine, I don’t care where he goes.”

  “What kind of party does he want you to go to?”

  “A Halloween party. With some friend of his.”

  Henry curled around the bedpost, leaning over, feeling the thickness at his midsection. “If it was that friend he was with last night, you better go.”

  “Henry, I already told you I don’t care that he was there.”

  “This good-looking hairy man with a dick like a donkey.”

  “The friend is a woman,” Newell said. “The party. This rich woman that he knows. I don’t know why he wants me there.”

  “But you’re going, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Henry stood. “You want to go to the tea dance today?”

  “I have to work.” He looked at the clock beside the bed. “Right now, as a matter of fact.”

  Henry walked with him. They had become comfortable over the past weeks, settled into a relationship as French Quarter sidekicks. Henry felt he himself was being very mature. He had enjoyed the drama between Newell and Mark as a spectator, noting that sucking Newell’s cock appeared to be a fairly short-term proposition, whereas sidekick status was more durable. He liked Newell a lot, because of his face. Newell always appeared to have something on his mind. With an ordinary cute person, Henry never wondered much about what the guy was thinking; with Newell, Henry wondered all the time.

  No wonder Mark would come crawling back like this. For Henry, it was almost as delicious as if it were happening to him.

  He decided to go to the bookstore and get some quarters from Newell, prowl the booths there for a while. Since the new booths had opened, a lot of men were going there instead of patronizing the other movie houses. This afternoon the bookstore was full, people lined at the register when Henry followed Newell inside, Newell heading to the office to talk to that old flabby man who smoked cigarettes all the time. Glaring at Henry already was the world’s ugliest transsexual, Miss Sophia, and her outfit for the night was a one-piece pants suit with flare bottoms, one of those bright, flowered sixties fabrics nobody would touch anymore, along with a pair of white vinyl boots that zipped on the side.

  Henry stood in the line for the quarters, bought two whole rolls, figuring to watch the new Falcon movie a couple of times and see who showed up in there, but on the way to the booths he checked the marquee, the display of what was playing where, with Newell’s descriptions of each movie printed on index cards in black fine-tip marker. “Hot action where this painter’s model shows off himself and then the painter gets turned on, Roger is so fantastic!!!,” “First the blond goes down on Hawk and then they get into the back of the Jeep, Hawk is just like this guy I knew in high school on the football team!!!” and finally, “Bruno visits his next door neighbor who is Roger!!!! and they go at it right on the patio!!!! Incredible!!!!!” Judging by the number of exclamation points, Bruno’s was definitely the movie to see.

  Henry was
proud to patronize the bookstore as Newell’s friend because this had become, in that ephemeral way of fashion, a good place to prowl between drinks at Travis’s and dances at the Parade, the kind of place Henry was drawn to without any premeditation. Newell was someone to whom Henry could talk, publicly, in an intimate and friendly way, and Newell had become a star here, so that to be in his company, to be favored with his attention, was a mark of increased status, like being the pal of a bartender at Lafitte’s.

  Standing beside the marquee, Henry hooted across the counter, “Newell, this sign looks just fabulous,” as Newell was checking out the day cashier, another young queen and pretty cute, too, Henry thought. He would have to be introduced.

  “That movie with Bruno is great,” Newell said. “I watch it every night after we close.”

  “He is so big, he scares me,” said the day cashier, glancing at Henry, this dishwater blond with almond-shaped eyes and a spray of moles over both cheeks. “Honestly, honey. A man can be too big.”

  “Henry does not agree with that, do you, Henry?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “And that Roger,” said Dishwater. “Honey, if he came after me with that thing, I would have to scream.”

  “So would I,” said Henry. “With pure appreciation.”

  He went through the curtains into the twilight of the booths exactly on the beat, a perfect exit. He had a view of himself that was like theater, as if he were on stage and in the audience as well, and at the same time he was the play-by-play announcer, the critic, and the judge who awarded the prizes. As, at this moment, narrating to himself, He swept aside the curtains and walked into the dark space. He listened to the sounds from all around. He had an uncanny awareness, walking forward, looking for the door with the gold number seven on it, somebody already inside but who? He looks inside. He moves with such grace. There are two men inside, comparing erections, one of them is holding a quarter in his hand, the other is holding his penis, rubbing it, like Bruno on the movie screen, and the two look at him and at once he understands, he has great perception, this is not the pair to interrupt, so he backs away with a glance at the pair in the room, a glance that says to them, I know you want to be alone with your change and your erections, I’ll just find someone who’s alone, like the man heading into the door marked with the gold number five, the black-and-white movie that is supposedly Chuck Connors the Rifleman doing a jerk-off scene for the camera, a sad, desperate film that Henry has seen, an attractor for the solitary. A lonely man this one must be, and not half bad to look at, judging from that glimpse of his retreating backside, so Henry followed and their eyes met in the booth as the man reached into his pocket and jingled coins.