Husband. The word sounds strange still, almost foreign to me like that very foreign bridegroom just emerging from the chapel, his new wife hugely pregnant. She looks a child herself, barely seventeen. I feel scared for her, scared for me and Norah. New lives mean pain and labour, blood and sweat. I turn away. I’ll go and find that lady in the shop. She was kind – plump and motherly, called me “Carole honey” as if she’d known me all her life, sold marriage like ice cream, as something sweet and nourishing.
“Come on Norah. Let’s go and see the dress.”
The dress is there, but not the lady; only her assistant, a brittle supercilious girl who says Martha’s gone to lunch and can she help? I shake my head, feeling stupidly upset. Martha seemed the only stable thing in a day of avalanche. I cheer myself by paying homage to the dress again. Norah seems quite awed by it – and its price. I tour the shop with her. She keeps stopping at the rings.
“I love the matching ones, don’t you? His and hers. That book said rings mean union – two people pledged to one another, completing one another.” We did complete each other on that rug, he joined to me, joined everywhere: fingers linked, tongues entwined, skin sweating into skin. I dart back to the book, read out just three lines to Norah, in the hope they’ll change her mind.
“Listen, Norah, rings are a royal symbol. You see, in lots of different countries a bride is seen as queen – queen for the day, at least. That’s why she wears a train and has ladies-in-waiting to hold it up for her. Well, bridesmaids, anyway.” I catch her eye. “See how important bridesmaids are? You’ve got to be my bridesmaid. You won’t be holding up my train, alas – not at that price. But you can hold my ciggies, if you like, and a Gold Rush marble ashtray.” I’m trying to make her laugh again. Every time I feel good, her misery reproaches me.
The salesgirl is watching us, hawk-eyed. Are we going to buy the book? A ring, perhaps? An outfit? She strides purposefully towards us, hard-sell smile in place. “Is your mother looking for a dress? We’ve got some very nice two-pieces.”
“She’s … not my mother.” I stare down at the floor and Norah’s lace-ups – scuffed at the toes, worn down at the backs. My mother crams her feet into three-inch heels, wears fishnet tights at forty. No – Norah’s not my mother, but we’ve got to stay together. I’m certain of that now. She’ll never have a daughter or a husband. Which is why I won’t desert her. I shan’t beg or plead with Reuben; I’ll simply tell him, straight. He understands conviction.
Norah has moved to the far end of the shop and is spelling out the words on a Certificate of Marriage in the shape of a huge slot machine which is hanging on the wall. It’s written in a curly purple script and framed in gold, with a frieze of dice and playing cards. I start reading over her shoulder. “These partners in wedlock have agreed that their marriage will be based on honesty, faithfulness and devotion. As husband and wife, they will enjoy the pleasure of sharing the warmth of each other’s touch, the joy of each other’s smile and the comfort of each other’s nearness …”
I was ready to scoff, but the words are really beautiful. I read them out again, aloud, as Norah’s getting stuck. My voice is drowned by the chiming of a clock.
“Good God! Is that the time? I’m meeting Reuben in just two hours and I haven’t done a single thing he asked me yet – not even seen the guy who takes the bookings. Come on, Norah – quick!”
The guy greets me with a victory sign. Yeah, the couple cancelled – or at least the woman did; yeah, he’s put us in instead; yeah, the stroke of midnight. I stutter out my thanks. I’m beginning to understand what Reuben means by destiny. This was meant. It must have been. Even the rabbi is available, which means a proper Jewish wedding. I’ll be joined to that great family, the greatest people in the world, so Reuben said, who survived all persecution, produced sons like Christ, Freud, Einstein, Moses, Marx, and a lot of other names I’d never heard of.
I check my watch. Ten past two. Less than ten hours to midnight and our marriage. I’ll never do everything in time, especially now that Norah’s coming with us, which means new plans, another airline ticket, maybe complications – not to mention that damned show. I’m meeting Reuben at four o’ clock at the Marriage Licence Bureau. He said he’d come and find me in the queue. You even have to queue to get a marriage licence, especially on New Year’s Eve which is the busiest day for weddings out of the entire three hundred and sixty-five (except for St Valentine’s, when apparently the whole place goes beserk).
I’ll just have to take a chance and trust Norah with some errands, the simplest ones like shopping. At least they’ll distract her, stop her agonising, and Reuben will have proof that she’s some use. I steer her from the office, start explaining what I want. What Reuben wants, rather, since it was him who made the list. My money, though, he’s using – part of my wet tee shirt prize. It still hurts a bit to have lost it quite so fast. This is just a fraction of it. He’s got all the rest.
Norah takes it warily and I make a little joke about not sending it to God-men. She doesn’t smile. In fact, I’ve never seen her quite so limp and wretched.
“How about a pee first?” I suggest. She’s like a child in some ways, has to be reminded to relieve herself and not to lose the purse.
I take her to the restroom door, hold it open for her. “I’ll wait out here, love. Don’t be long.”
There’s a tiny courtyard just outside, a square of sun and shadow with a wrought-iron bench. I lie full length along it, face up to the sun. I had no sleep at all last night and the night before I took those sleeping pills. I feel rather strange and dizzy now, hung over from my cocktail of Mogadon, excitement, and white rum. I long to sleep, or at least sink down and do nothing for a while, try to take in all that’s happened, stop it exploding in my head. But there are things to do – things to do for Reuben, errands to run, promises to keep. He’d despise me if I simply nodded off. I’ve got to try and train myself to manage with less sleep, follow his example, ignore petty things like hunger and exhaustion. Thank God I’m seeing him at four. I need him like a pep-pill to revive me and recharge me.
I close my eyes, the sun scarlet on my lids, scarlet like the hot red lights at Ritzy’s. I’m on that stage again. I’ve won. They judge the winners not by writing names down or even by a show of hands, but simply by the volume of applause. A jet zooms over, providing the applause. Except the plane has droned away now, while the applause goes on and on. On and on. I’m a winner. I’m a star. Alexis and the rest have come back on the stage for the finalé, invite me to join in. Cheryl lends me her scented body oil, whispers what to do with it. I’m naked save for all the lights, their fierce glare tigering my skin; the scent of musk, spicy and exotic as I start rubbing in the oil, stroking it across my breasts, up and down my thighs, until my whole body is shimmering and glistening. Men are mobbing me, rushing up to press dollar bills against my sticky shining flesh, rubbing in the oil themselves. And suddenly it’s Reuben’s hands I feel. He’s there, at last. He wants me. Now. Won’t wait.
I don’t remember how I put my clothes on, or how many clothes I bothered with, but I know I was still sticky underneath – and hot: hot with sweat, hot for him, hot in the cold clean purging night, which scoured away the fug and fume of Ritzy’s as we left the club entwined, our two cigarettes red pointers in the dark and a new thin-smiling moon starting its new life with ours, and the silence velvet-deep after all the raucous music and …
He’s stopped. He’s kissing me. Wrong word again. It isn’t just a kiss. His lips, tongue, teeth and soul are in my mouth. And my mouth is opening deeper than it ever has before. He’s given me a new mouth, wider, wilder, more grown-up.
At last, we stumble on, his arm around my shoulders, his taste still on my lips. My mouth feels bruised and stretched. He stops again, leans over, kisses it, just a brush of lips this time, as if to heal and salve it. The slice of moon is suddenly outside now, outside Reuben’s window, looking in. We’re standing in his room together – dull green wal
ls, grey rug. He lies down on the rug, pulls me down beside him, between the piles of books. Slowly, he undresses me. No rush. His hands need time to praise each part of me. My skin is still sticky from the oil. I can smell the tang of musk again, mingling with his own smell, some faint aftershave, overlaid with smoke. He still has all his clothes on. He keeps them on, kneels over me, starts licking off the oil. His tongue goes everywhere, starting at my top end – soft across my eyelids, coiling in my ears, down a little across my neck and throat; then shoulders, armpits, the inside of each elbow; down further, tracing crooked circles round my navel. All my parts are merging so that I’m not ears or throat or navel any more, but only one sensation, one crescendoing excitement as his mouth goes lower still.
His strong hands push my legs apart and suddenly his tongue is right inside me, pushing up, circling round and round, soft and rough at once. It’s wonderful, exquisite. He stops a moment. I yelp with disappointment, but he’s only moved his tongue to somewhere still more private – forcing, shocking into it, giving me the wildest strangest feelings.
“No,” I gasp, frightened that we’ve gone too far, that he shouldn’t lick me there – not there. My own body contradicts me. It’s shuddering and moaning in time with his wild tongue. Go on, it says. Go on.
He does, until I’m frantic with the feelings, know I’m almost coming. I try to hold it back. It somehow still feels wrong. Wrong and wonderful. His tongue won’t let me stop, continues probing and insisting until I’m yelling, coming, yelling – coming twice, three times.
He stops, kneels up, face dripping with me, slimy. He doesn’t speak, just watches as I bite my fingers, thresh from side to side. Then, slowly, I calm down a bit, still breathing hard, still sticky-hot; lie back in a haze of musk and triumph. For the first time in my life, my whole body has been recognised and worshipped; no inch of it left out, no part rejected as dirty or too private. He’s still kneeling there, in front of me, as if in homage to his queen. Queen for the day. I don’t need any ring or crown to prove it, only his daring rough-tipped tongue.
He’s naked now himself, though I don’t remember him undressing. No fumbling zips or clumsy buckles. He makes a pillow with his clothes, slides back down, me on top of him. His shirt looks very white against the dark hair on his body. Dark hair everywhere – on his toes, his thumbs, his bottom, even on his balls. I kiss his balls. He asks me to. I’m nervous, never done it, but he guides my head down, tells me to be careful with my teeth. His balls are cool, cooler than the rest of him, feel strange and rather lumpy in my mouth. Then he turns me round again, slips his fingers between my lips, makes me suck them, one by one, right down to the knuckles; then slowly up again, the right hand, then the left. He lies upside down on top of me. He’s big now, very big, too big for my mouth. I gag.
“Breathe,” he whispers. “Take a deep breath in.”
I breathe, relax. His own breathing deepens to a gasp. I’m frightened that he’ll come. I know you’re meant to swallow it and I’m scared I won’t or can’t. He doesn’t come, just eases out, sits up. It’s as if he’s teasing me, refusing actually to fuck me until I’m on my knees and begging.
“Reuben, Reuben, please …”
Oh, God! At last. It’s wonderful. He’s taking it so slowly, still tantalising, pulling back, coming almost out, then inching in again. I shut my eyes, want nothing to distract me. A police car sirens past, drowning out my cries. He comes just as it passes, comes just after I do, but still stays stiff inside me. Then he takes my hands, holds them very tight, braceleting the wrists, runs his teeth just across the fingertips, and …
No, that was later, wasn’t it, much later, when his knees and elbows were rubbed raw by the floor, and my own back and neck were aching, and we stopped a while and talked and stroked and talked again, and I felt Woman there beside him – Eve, Venus, Israel – and knew I was important, and I kissed his knees and elbows very very gently like he’d taught me, and bit by bit, the darkness in the square of window faded, from smoky blue, to grey, to dirty white, and suddenly the sun came up and there were hot gold fingers touching up my body and scarlet on my lids and …
My eyes drift open. Yes, the sun is very bright, but it’s Norah, though, not Reuben, shaking her wet hands. I ease up very slowly. My neck and back are aching from the bench.
“There wasn’t any towel,” she says. “Or soap.”
Chapter Seventeen
It’s cool in the cathedral. Very quiet. No one here at all. The stained-glass windows shut the sun out. I still feel very hot, though. Hot and frightened. Carole said I’ve got to do some shopping, but I’ll have to have a rest first. There’s a banging in my head and my chest feels very tight.
Carole’s getting married. She can’t get married. Not so soon. People get engaged first. Sometimes they get engaged for years and years. Nurse Willis got engaged seven years ago and she hasn’t married yet. She’s saving up. You need a lot of money to get married. Carole hasn’t any.
I sit down on a bench. My legs keep trembling still. Carole’s getting married. Not in a real church, but in a shop. This is a real church, high, with strong stone walls. Those wedding chapels are only paste and cardboard. Everything costs money there, even things like organs and a choir. Sister Agnes played the organ at St Joseph’s. She didn’t charge for it. Carole can’t get married in a cardboard church. She can’t get married anywhere. She hasn’t got a dress.
I take her purse out, squeeze it. That’s Reuben’s money. If Carole marries, she’ll have to change her name. I don’t like Reuben’s surname. I can’t pronounce it, can’t remember it. Joseph is a nice name. So is Carole. If I want to stay with Carole, I’ll have to go to Israel.
There are bombs in Israel, bombs and wars. You see it on the television, all the time, even over here. Carole may get killed. I may get killed myself. I wouldn’t mind. It’s peaceful when you die. When Doris Clayton died, the vicar said that a funeral was your wedding with the Lord. That’s why the corpse is dressed in white and you have hymns and flowers and those little rolls with chicken paste inside. Carole said the same. She said white was for death, and orange blossom wreaths for funerals. She read it in that book.
I’d like to buy the book for her, buy the dress as well. The dress was beautiful. It cost four hundred dollars. I never knew a dress could cost so much. If I had four hundred dollars, I’d buy it straight away. She’d shout then, with excitement, whirl me round and round. I like it when she does that, even though it hurts my back. She hugged me in the bathroom just this morning. No one else has ever hugged me. Ever. Or squeezed my hand. She won’t hug me when she’s married. She’ll be ashamed of me.
I fumble for the purse again, count out Reuben’s money. I’m very bad at counting, so I do it twice. The first time it’s fifty-seven dollars. The second time it’s only fifty-three, so I start again a third time. Now it’s fifty-five.
That’s a lot of money, the most I’ve ever seen in just one purse. But it’s not enough to buy the dress. I couldn’t even buy a ring, not the ones she liked. Matching rings – his and hers. I’d like to buy a set for me and Carole. We’d be joined for ever then.
I walk down to the altar, to the crib. St Joseph is still staring at the floor. He doesn’t wear a ring. He isn’t Mary’s husband, not her real one. And he isn’t Jesus’s father. I think he’s often lonely.
Carole said St Joseph was a Jew. I don’t believe it. She said he lived in Israel. I think Reuben made that up, just to make us move there. Our Lady’s not a Jew. Jews don’t have blue eyes. This Mary’s got her eyes closed, but they’re always blue in England. Blue like Carole’s. Carole’s not a Jew. A quarter doesn’t count. Miss O’ Toole said Jews were very wicked, put Jesus on the cross.
I think I’ll light a candle. The girls with parents lit them at St Joseph’s. They cost a penny each, so you needed parents. If you lit one, God heard your prayer immediately, because the smoke went up to heaven and He smelt it. These ones don’t have smoke, or even flames. You just p
ut your money in, and they light up like a lamp.
I used to like the flames. The way they always moved, the shadows on the floor. The wax made funny shapes as it dripped down on the stand. The shapes had faces sometimes, and watched you while you knelt there. God was watching too. If a flame started flickering, that meant He was angry and wasn’t going to give you what you’d asked. And if the flame went out, you’d die. These ones can’t go out, which is why they cost so much – a dollar, not a penny.
I put my dollar in and the red light flashes on. You have to say your prayer then. It’s like a wish at birthdays when you shut your eyes. I pray and wish together. I can see the dress if I shut my eyes. It has little sprigs of flowers all over the white skirt. Orange blossom. Which means you’ll have children and be happy. I’d like Carole to be happy. She says she’s happy now, but she isn’t, I can tell.
I don’t think you’re allowed to pray for money. Not four hundred dollars. You have to make money for yourself. Carole said that yesterday when she bought us our ice cream. She said you need money to make money.
I’ve got money, Reuben’s money, fifty-seven dollars. I get it out again, kneel down by the candles, wipe my face. I’m feeling very faint. Miss Barratt in the library said gambling is a sin. I count the money one last time. It comes to fifty-eight now, yet I’ve already spent a dollar. Perhaps I’m lucky.
That man who sat beside me in the restaurant said luck is a Great Lady and if she calls you, you must follow, give her everything. He didn’t think gambling was a sin. And the man on television gambles all the time, night and day and night again. He has a special programme where you learn. They wouldn’t let you learn if it was wrong. I think Miss Barratt meant a sin in England. They have different sins in England.
Sin City Page 30