“Helen,” I blurted out like a schoolboy, “will you sleep with me tonight?” I felt like I had staked my life on the turn of a card.
“Why, Harry! What a thing to say.” Her eyes didn’t twinkle, that is impossible, but they came close to it. Very close. “Where else did you think I was going if I didn’t go home with you?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“You didn’t have to ask me like that. I thought there was an understanding between us, that it was understood.”
“I don’t like to take people for granted.”
“In that case then, I’ll tell you. I’m going home with you.”
“I hope we’re compatible,” I said. “Then everything will be perfect.”
“We are. I know it.”
“I’m pretty much of a failure in life, Helen. Does it matter to you?”
“No. Nothing matters to me.” Her voice had a resigned quality and yet it was quietly confident. There was a tragic look in her brown eyes, but her mouth was smiling. It was the smile of a little girl who knows a secret and isn’t going to tell it. I held her hand in mine. It was a tiny, almost pudgy hand, soft and warm and trusting. We finished our drinks.
“Do you want another?” I asked her.
“Not really. After I go to the potty I want you to take me home.” I helped her out of the booth. It wasn’t easy for her to hold her feet, and she had had more to drink than I’d had. I watched her affectionately as she picked her way across the dimly lighted room. She was everything I ever wanted in a woman.
When she returned to the table I took the twenty she gave me and paid for the drinks. We walked to the mouth of the alley and I hailed a taxi. I gave my address to the driver and we settled back on the seat. I took Helen in my arms and kissed her.
“It makes me dizzy,” she said. “Roll the windows down.”
I had to laugh, but I rolled the windows down. The night air was cold and it was a long ride to my neighborhood. By the time we reached the roominghouse I knew she would be all right. I lit two cigarettes, passed one to Helen. She took one deep drag, tossed it out the window.
“I’m a little nervous, Harry.”
“Why?”
“It’s been a long time. Years, in fact.”
“It doesn’t change.”
“Please don’t say that! Be gentle with me, Harry.”
“How could I be otherwise? You’re just a little girl.”
“I trust you, Harry.”
The taxi pulled up in front of my roominghouse and we got out. We climbed the stairs quietly and walked down the long, dark hall to my room. There was only a single 40-watt bulb above the bathroom door to light the entire length of the hall. I unlocked my door and guided Helen inside. It took me a while to find the dangling string to the overhead light in the ceiling. Finding it at last, I flooded the room with light. I pulled the shade down and Helen looked the shabby room over with an amused smile.
“You’re a good housekeeper,” she said.
“Today anyway. I must have expected company,” I said nervously.
Slowly, we started to undress. The more clothes we took off, the slower we got.
“Hadn’t you better turn the light off?” Helen asked, timidly.
“No,” I said firmly, “I don’t want it that way.”
We didn’t hesitate any longer. Both of us undressed hurriedly. Helen crawled to the center of the bed, rolled over on her back and put her hands behind her head. She kept her eyes on the ceiling. Her breasts were small and the slenderness of her hips made her legs look longer than they were. Her skin was pale, almost like living mother-of-pearl, except for the flush that lay on her face like a delicately tinted rose. I stood in the center of the room and I could have watched her forever. I pulled the light cord and got into bed.
At first I just held her hot body against mine, she was trembling so hard. I covered her face with soft little kisses, her throat, her breasts. When my lips touched the tiny nipples of her breasts she sighed and relaxed somewhat. Her body still trembled, but it wasn’t from fear. As soon as the nipples hardened I kissed her roughly on the mouth and she whimpered, dug her fingernails into my shoulders. She bit my lower lip with her sharp little teeth and I felt the blood spurt into my mouth.
“Now, Harry! Now!” she murmured softly.
It was even better than I’d thought it would be.
FOUR
Nude Model
WHEN I awoke the next morning Helen was curled up beside me. Her face was flushed with sleep and her nice hair curled all over her head. If it hadn’t been for the single strand of pure silver hair she wouldn’t have looked more than thirteen years old. I kissed her on the mouth and she opened her eyes. She sat up and stretched luxuriously, immediately awake, like a cat.
“I’ve never slept better in my entire life,” she said.
“I’ll fix some coffee. Then while you’re in the bathroom, I’d better go down the hall and tell Mrs. McQuade you’re here.”
“Who is she?”
“The landlady. You’ll meet her later on.”
“Oh. What’re you going to tell her?”
“I’ll tell her we’re married. We had a long, trial separation and now we’ve decided to try it again. It’s a pretty thin story, but it’ll hold.”
“I feel married to you, Harry.”
“For all practical purposes, we are married.”
I got out of bed, crossed to the dresser, and tossed a clean, white shirt to Helen. She put it on and the shirt tail came to her knees. After she rolled up the sleeves she left the room. I put on my slacks and a T-shirt, fixed the coffee and lighted the gas burner under it, walked down the hall and knocked on Mrs. McQuade’s door.
“Good morning, Mrs. McQuade,” I said, when she opened the door.
“You’re not going to clean your room again?” she asked with mock surprise in her voice.
“No.” I laughed. “Two days in a row would be overdoing it. I just wanted to tell you my wife was back.”
“I didn’t even know you were married!” She raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, yes! I’ve been married a good many years. We were separated, but we’ve decided to try it again. I’ll bring Helen down after a while. I want you to meet her.”
“I’m very happy for you, Mr. Jordan.”
“I think it’ll work this time.”
“Would you like a larger room?” she asked eagerly. “The front upstairs room is vacant, and if you want me to—”
“No, thanks,” I said quickly, “we’ll be all right where we are.”
I knew Mrs. McQuade didn’t believe me, but a woman running a roominghouse doesn’t get surprised at anything. She didn’t mention it right then, but by the end of the week I could expect an increase in rent. That is the way those things go.
The coffee was ready and when Helen returned I finished my cup quickly and poured one for her.
“We’ve only got one cup,” I said apologetically.
“We’ll have to get another one.”
After I shaved, and both of us were dressed, we finished the pot of coffee, taking turns with the cup. Helen borrowed my comb, painted her dark lipstick on with a tiny brush, and she was ready for the street.
“Don’t you even use powder?” I asked her curiously.
“Uh uh. Just lipstick.”
“We’d better go down and get your suitcase.”
“I’m ready.”
Mrs. McQuade and Miss Foxhall, a retired schoolteacher, were standing by the front door when we came down the hall. Mrs. McQuade had a broom in her hand, and Miss Foxhall held an armful of books; she was either going to or returning from the neighborhood branch public library. They both eyed Helen curiously, Mrs. McQuade with a smile, Miss Foxhall with hostility. I introduced Helen to the two older women. Mrs. McQuade wiped her hands on her apron and shook Helen’s hand. Miss Foxhall snorted audibly, pushed roughly between us and hurried up the stairs without a word. I noticed that the top book in th
e stack she carried was Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott.
“You’re a very pretty girl, Mrs. Jordan,” Mrs. McQuade said sincerely. All three of us pretended to ignore the rudeness of Miss Foxhall.
We walked down the block to Big Mike’s, Helen holding my arm. The sun was shining and despite a slight persisting hangover I was a proud and happy man. Everyone who passed stared at Helen, and to know that she was mine made me straighten my back and hold my head erect. We entered Mike’s and sat down at the bar. Big Mike joined us at once.
“You’re on time today, Harry.” He smiled.
“Mike, I want you to meet my wife. Helen Jordan, Big Mike.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Jordan? This calls for one on the house. Now what’ll it be?”
“Since it’s on the house, Mike,” Helen smiled, “I’ll have a double bourbon and water.”
“Double gin and tonic for me,” I added.
Mike set up our drinks, drew a short beer for himself, and we raised our glasses in salute. He returned to his work table where he was slicing oranges, sticking toothpicks into cherries, and preparing generally for the noon-hour rush period. It was quite early to be drinking and Helen and I were the only people sitting at the bar. Rodney, the crippled newsboy, was eating breakfast in one of the booths along the wall. He waved to me with his fork and I winked at him.
After we finished our drinks we caught the cable car to the hotel on Powell Street and picked up Helen’s suitcase. It only took a minute and we were able to catch the same car back, after it was ready to climb the hill again and turned on the Market Street turnaround. The round trip took more than an hour.
“I’m disgustingly sober,” Helen said, as we stood on the curb, waiting for the light to change.
“What do you want to do? I’ll give you two choices. We can drink in Big Mike’s or we can get a bottle and go back to the room.”
“Let’s get a bottle, by all means.”
At Mr. Watson’s delicatessen I bought a fifth of gin, a fifth of whiskey and a cardboard carrier of six small bottles of soda. To nibble on, in case we happened to get hungry, I added a box of cheese crackers to the stack. We returned to our room and I removed my jacket and shirt. Helen took off her suit and hung it carefully in the closet. While I fixed the drinks Helen explored the room, digging into everything. She pulled out all of the dresser drawers, then examined the accumulation of junk above the sink. It was pleasant to watch her walking around the room in her slip. She discovered my box of oil paints on the shelf, brought it to the table and opened it.
“Do you paint, Harry?”
“At one time I did. That’s the first time that box has been opened in three years.” I handed her a drink. “There isn’t any ice.”
“All ice does is take up room. Why don’t you paint any more?”
I looked into the opened paint box. The caps were tightly screwed on all of the tubes and most of the colors were there, all except yellow ochre and zinc white. I fingered the brushes, ran a finger over the edges of the bristles. They were in good shape, still usable, and there was a full package of charcoal sticks.
“I discovered I couldn’t paint, that’s why. It took me a long time to accept it, but after I found out I gave it up.”
“Who told you you couldn’t paint?”
“Did you ever do any painting?”
“Some. I graduated from Mills College, where they taught us something about everything. I even learned how to shoot a bow and arrow.”
“I’ll tell you how it is about painting, Helen, the way it was with me. It was a love affair. I used painting as a substitute for love. All painters do; it’s their nature. When you’re painting, the pain in your stomach drives you on to a climax of pure feeling, and if you’re any good the feeling is transmitted to the canvas. In color, in form, in line and they blend together in a perfect design that delights your eye and makes your heart beat a little faster. That’s what painting meant to me, and then it turned into an unsuccessful love affair, and we broke it off. I’m over it now, as much as I’ll ever be, and certainly the world of art hasn’t suffered.”
“Who told you to give it up? Some critic?”
“Nobody had to tell me. I found it out for myself, the hard way. Before the war I went to the Art Institute in Chicago for two years, and after the war I took advantage of the GI Bill and studied another year in Los Angeles.”
“Wouldn’t anybody buy your work? Was that it?”
“No, that isn’t it. I never could finish anything I started. I’d get an idea, block it out, start on it, and then when I’d get about halfway through I’d discover the idea was terrible. And I couldn’t finish a picture when I knew it wasn’t going to be any good. I taught for a while, but that wasn’t any good either.”
Helen wasn’t looking at me. She had walked to the window and appeared to be studying the littered backyard next door with great interest. I knew exactly what she had on her mind. The Great American Tradition: You can do anything you think you can do! All Americans believe in it. What a joke that is! Can a jockey last ten rounds with Rocky Marciano? Can Marciano ride in the Kentucky Derby? Can a poet make his living by writing poetry? The entire premise was so false it was stupid to contemplate. Helen finished her drink, turned around, and set the empty glass on the table.
“Harry,” she said seriously, “I want you to do something for me.”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
“No, not just like that. I want you to hear what it is first.” “It sounds serious.”
“It is. I want you to paint my portrait.”
“I don’t think I could do it.” I shrugged, looked into my empty glass. “It’s been more than three years since I tried to paint anything, and portraits are hard. To do a good one, anyway, and if I were to paint you, I’d want it to be perfect. It would have to be, and I’m not capable of it.”
“I want you to paint it anyway.”
“How about a sketch? If you want a picture of yourself, I can draw a charcoal likeness in five minutes.”
“No. I want you to paint an honest-to-God oil painting of me.”
“You really want me to; this isn’t just a whim?”
“I really want you to.” Her face was as deadly serious as her voice.
I thought it over and it made me feel a little sick to my stomach. The mere thought of painting again made me tremble. It was like asking a pilot to take an airplane up again after a bad crash; a crash that has left him horribly disfigured and frightened. Helen meant well. She wanted me to prove to myself that I was wrong . . . that I could do anything I really wanted to do. That is, as long as she was there to help me along by her inspiration and encouragement. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to please her.
“It takes time to paint a portrait,” I said.
“We’ve got the time. We’ve got forever.”
“Give me some money then.”
“How much do you need?”
“I don’t know. I’ll need a canvas, an easel, linseed oil, turpentine, I don’t know what all. I’ll have to look around when I get to the art store.”
“I’m going with you.” She began to dress.
Once again, we made the long trip downtown by cable car. We went to an art store on Polk Street and I picked out a cheap metal easel, in addition to the regular supplies, and a large canvas, thirty by thirty-four inches. As long as I had decided to paint Helen’s portrait, I was going to do it right. We left the store, both of us loaded down with bundles and I searched the streets for a taxi. Helen didn’t want to return home immediately.
“You’re doing something for me,” she said, “and I want to do something for you. Before we go home I’m going to buy you a new pair of pants and a new sport coat.”
“You can’t do it, Helen,” I protested. “We’ve spent too much already.”
She had her way, but I didn’t let her spend too much money on my new clothes. I insisted on buying a pair of gray corduroy trousers, and a dark blue cord
uroy jacket at the nearest Army and Navy surplus store. These were cheap clothes, but they satisfied Helen’s desire to do something nice for me. I certainly needed them. Wearing my new clothes in the taxi, on the way home, and looking at all of the new art supplies piled on the floor, gave me a warm feeling inside and a pleasant tingling of anticipation.
The minute we entered our room I removed my new jacket and set up the easel. While I opened the paints and arranged the materials on a straight backed chair next to the easel, Helen fixed fresh drinks. She held up her glass and posed, a haughty expression on her face.
“Look, Harry. Woman of Distinction.” We both laughed. “Do you want me to pose like this?”
The pose I wanted Helen to take wasn’t difficult. The hard part was to paint her in the way I wanted to express my feelings for her. I wanted to capture the mother-of-pearl of her body, the secret of her smile, the strand of silver in her hair, the jet, arched brows, the tragedy in her brown, gold-flecked eyes. I wasn’t capable of it; I knew that in advance. I placed two pillows on the floor, close to the bed, so she could lean back against the bed to support her back. The light from the window would fall across her body and create sharp and difficult shadows. The hard way, like always, I took the hard way.
“Take off your clothes, Helen, and sit down on the pillows.”
After Helen had removed her clothes and settled herself comfortably I rearranged her arms, her right hand in her lap, her left arm stretched full length on the bed. Her legs were straight out, with the right ankle crossed over the other. The similarity between Helen and the woman in the Olympia almost, took my breath away with the awesomeness of it.
“Is that comfortable?” I asked her.
“It feels all right. How long do you want me to stay like this?”
“Just remember it, that’s all. When I tell you to pose, get into it, otherwise, sit any way you like. As I told you, this is going to take a long time. Drink your drink, talk, or smile that smile of yours. Okay?”
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