by Ed Lacy
“Well—okay, Marshal, only I don't drink much and... God yes, I've been cooped up for a lot of dreary weeks. Let's go.”
I hailed a cab and as we stepped in she said, “Let's get rid of these goddamn boxes of soap.”
“Just a couple of ingrates,” I said, as we left the boxes on the curb.
I told the cabbie to cruise around and he said, “Have a heart, Mac, not on a rainy New Year's Eve. That real soap in them boxes?”
I nodded and he got out and picked up the boxes, said, “The wife can use this. Made up your minds yet?”
I asked Elma if she was hungry and she said yes, so I told the cabbie to drive to a steak house on 33d Street. I grinned at Elma, “God bless America—we're rich.”
“Yes, the 500-to-l shot came in and the hell with the other 499 losers. Marshal, you amaze me: a character who reads the Almanac like it was a novel should be... a dull, mechanical sort. And you're just the opposite.”
“I was reading it because I was bored with myself. How did you know that George Moore line?”
She shrugged. “Stayed in my mind. First because I thought the fruitless years would be a good theme for a song lyric. Then, because it's so true. Our values are all based on comparison, and if you go along on a pretty even level, you never will know great passion, great love or great sorrow.”
“Yeah, but isn't that learning it the hard way?”
“Lately I've found you don't learn anything the easy way. Like tonight, because both of us are down on our luck, the money we have seems like a million dollars to us. A rich slob wouldn't be excited about winning a...”
The cabbie double-parked, said, “Here ya are.”
The meter said we owed him 70 cents, and when I gave him the fifty-dollar bill, he said, “Mac, you must have been celebrating since yesterday. I ain't got change for no green this long.”
“I'll see if I can get change in the restaurant,” I said, embarrassed. “Don't have anything smaller.”
Elma took a dollar out of her bag, handed it to him. As we went into the restaurant, I said, “I'll pay you, soon as I change....”
“Stop it, Marsh, stop acting like we're still poor people. We're a pair of the most highly paid people in the world— over two thousand dollars for less than ten minutes work,” she said, teasing me.
It was about nine-thirty and the place was pretty empty. We took a corner booth and ordered cocktails and two thick steaks with all the trimmings. Now that the excitement was over—or just beginning—I looked at Elma more closely. Her blue suit, the gray blouse, the cloth coat trimmed with some sort of cheap fur—all seemed well kept; the way a person with only a few clothes takes care of her things.
Her face was far from pretty, in the classical sense, but then what the hell is classical beauty? Her features might even be called sloppy, the odd slanted eyes, and the contrasting overlarge mouth. But the soft lines were interesting, and whatever makes for warmth and intelligence in a face was there—lots of it.
“Okay,” she said, “I stared at you, so it's your turn.”
“You have an exciting face.”
“You just say that because I have money.”
“As a sculptor, I say you have a wonderful face.”
“Tell me about your work. I don't know a thing about statues. There you see, I'm sure there's more to sculpting than 'statues.'”
“Statues is good enough. I go in for what they call objective realism. See, I'm crazy for Rodin's works, and strictly against non-objective shapery that...”
“Good Lord, what's that?”
“All this so-called extreme modernism—that's usually only understood by the artist himself. I'm striving for art that can be understood at once, don't go for this stuff about you-got-to-educate-the-people before they can enjoy your work. In one of Malvina Hoffman's books on art she quotes a Paul Valery who wrote:
It depends on him who passes by
Whether I'm a tomb or a treasure,
Whether I speak or keep silent.
This rests with you,
Friend, do not enter without desire.
“Well, I see it this way....”
“I like that,” Elma said. “Sometimes a poem really gets under your skin. This does.”
“And the same for art. If the average person can't tell if your work is a treasure or a tomb, then it's your fault. Before the war I was a half-ass artist, an advertising man. I went in for this symbolism, made art something mystic—and in reality only because I myself was confused. But over in Paris I met this drunken old French sculptor, and he started me on Rodin. Rodin was an honest joker—in everything he did. Know what he...”
As the waiter brought our steaks, Elma said, “Honesty is the key to all things. Why I'm here with you, even back in the radio studio when you were snotty, it was a snotty kind of honesty. Say, does that make sense?”
I nodded. “Everything about you makes sense. That's what I see in your face, realness... honesty. And it can't be merely skin deep. Why in 1914 when Rodin heard about the war breaking, he said, 'Oh civilization—the civilization of man! It's a bad coat of paint that comes off when it rains.' See what I mean, he was honest in all his thoughts— art was life to him. Why next to da Vinci, Rodin was one of the greatest all-around men the world has ever...”
I talked and talked, even talked my steak cold. I rambled on and on as if to make up for all the months of loneliness, of not talking. I made a jerk of myself, but I had to talk myself out to her. I even told Elma about working like a dog all the previous summer to save a few bucks to last me for the winter... and how cockeyed things went.
“What was supposed to happen after the winter?” she asked, pushing her plate away with a sigh.
“First, I had to see if I had any ability. This was my first attempt at sculpting full time. If I can do it, I want to make small works, nothing more than a foot high, so they'll be within anybody's pocketbook range Not that size alone determines price, but for Christsakes, where could a family living in two or three rooms put a six-foot figure, even if they got it as a gift? I'll make small objects of beauty, capture the realism of nature and life in my clay, solid, yet living-in movement. I figure there will be a market among people who never had a chance before to buy anything except an insipid cupid doll, or a gaudy figurine, or one of those crummy brass horses. But I didn't get started, ran out of dough.”
“Now what, little artist?”
I laughed, in love with her mouth every time she talked. “Now? I been living on seven bucks a week, spent all my time trying to keep warm, something in my belly. I'd walk up and down the beach after a storm, picking up fish that had been washed ashore, waiting for me all nice and frozen....”
“Nature's deep freeze.”
“Yeah. Telling you this so you'll understand what a big deal winning this money is to me. It's a miracle, a fantastic gift. Now... my God! With twelve hundred bucks.... Oh man, I'll really give it a try. I'm going back to Sandyhook, get me a winter house... one with heat and light, hot water, buy a... Hey, I'm gassing too much, and all about boring me. Let's start over—where shall we go tonight?”
“I don't know. I can't drink much, these three cocktails are past my limit. And I certainly can't eat any more... so... what?”
“Taking in a midnight show would be a sad way of spending New Year's Eve. Know a few parties, but...” I didn't want to take Elma to any party, listen to the attempts at being oh-so-clever, the small talk... sharing her with all the people. It was hard to believe I had her alone... and we were going so fast... so fast.
“I have a party we could go to,” she said. “Except I haven't seen the people for months and... I don't feel up to that.”
“Tough spot, lousy with dough and no place to go. Sometimes I keep thinking this must be a dream, that I'll wake up. Elma, it's all too good—the crazy way we got the money, and all that money. And there's you—you're a little unbelievable.”
“I hope that's a compliment.”
“Come on,
Elma, we're way past the coy stage. I've never seen anybody as beautiful as you are.” And I kept thinking, Slow down, you've only known her a few hours, slow down... don't spoil this, you can't spoil this!
“Now who's being coy? You're pretty too. Not just the big shoulders, but the rugged bitterness in your face. Listen to me, and to you.... I'm not even ordinary-pretty.”
“Stop it, stop fishing for compliments because I'm the guy to give them to you. Beauty is an individual thing and to me—you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.”
She studied me for a moment—those exciting slant eyes —said, “Marsh, I think you actually mean that.”
“I do.”
“Well it's the nicest... God, the waiter's bringing us more drinks. And who ordered the strawberry shortcake?”
“We did.”
“Don't think I can put it down. One thing we'll have to do is take a long walk—work some of this food off. I'm wearing a new garter belt and it's killing my... Why are you looking at me that way? I say something wrong?”
“Wrong? No. What do you see on my face?”
“I don't know exactly. Sort of a pained expression, or... What is it?”
“Elma, we've been moving along at a fast pace these few hours we've known each other and...” I stopped. I didn't want to talk out of turn, ruin things, yet when she said garter belt I had such a vivid picture of long slim legs in sheer stockings, the flash of her bare thighs and round hips... and I wanted her so much I had to stop talking, or come right out and ask her... and we couldn't be going that fast.
I tried to cover up by gulping a cocktail, mumbling, “Come on, take a drink.”
“I'm high now. Marsh, what's happened, you look so strained, so...?”
“Elma, stop it.”
She giggled. “But what...?”
The giggle tore things. I said slowly, “All right. When you said garter belt, I pictured you... Elma, I want you!”
Then the words came bursting out, stumbling over my tongue. “Don't get sore, we're just going fast, awful fast. I'm not slipping you a line, the old one-two or... I didn't want to spoil things. I'm sorry.”
Her face seemed a mask I couldn't understand as she said, “Why should you be sorry? It's no crime to tell somebody you want them, only...”
“Only what?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Well we are racing along and... Are you sure it's me you want, or is it the fact you haven't seen a girl in months?”
“Elma, I said this was a little unbelievable, maybe fantastic, but from the first second I saw you, your wonderful mouth, I've wanted to kiss you so very much that I... Why I had to tell you back in the studio to stop smiling, you were tearing me up. Guess I sound like a walking cliche, but this isn't any quickie deal with me. Maybe it doesn't make sense, and don't ask how I know, but I know. I'm not a kid, I've been married and divorced and... What I'm trying to say is: May sound like tripe, but I know I never want to lose you. I say that and mean it—and we've only known each other a few hundred minutes and... Okay, I've ruined things. Tell me I'm crazy, get up and walk out.”
“Do you really think I'd get up and... and slap you?”
“No. I don't know what to think, except I'm talking too damn much, to cover up my eagerness, my brashness. Hell of it is, I'm a shy joker. Really.”
“So am I. But I hate all this stupid, silly fencing between a man and a woman. If they're going to be... real friends, I suppose it's better to start with sex than have it as the climax, the end-all, make it more important than it is in a relationship.”
“Darling, I'm talking like a kid, but honestly I don't do this every night in the week, or think of you as a pushover.”
She held a slim finger against my lips. “Don't say that. Neither of us is a pushover. God, how I hate those words—pushover, a lay, a piece, a boff... those horrible, horrible, ugly man-words! Always trying to make sex a dirty, unhealthy thing, a sensational mess.”
I tried to kiss her finger but she pulled it away. I didn't know what to say. I only knew I'd never wanted any woman as much as I wanted her... and I'd fouled up everything.
She smiled at me, said, “Don't look so troubled, Marsh. I'd like to go to bed with you... and I don't do this every night in the week, either. And I...”
“Elma!”
“And I don't think we have to worry about any overnight relationship, be afraid. We'll see what works out. In a way, we're starting with much in common... both of us a little lost, and I've been lonely for a long time, too. Ever since my husband....”
“Instead of talking about him, let's get out of here.”
Changing the fifty-buck bill, we left a big tip. Once outside, I took Elma in my arms and her lips were as wonderful as I knew they would be. She had an odd little smell to her that left me excited... this was better than the other jackpot! This was the greatest thing that ever happened to...
Some dumb bastard blew a horn in our ears and we jumped and I let go of her, said, “I couldn't wait.”
“Neither could I. Where shall we go?”
“Have to be a hotel.”
“Walls and bars do not a prison make, nor does hotel furniture make a... Don't say it.”
“Elma... darling, let's go—fast!”
It was still drizzling and we tried a few of the big hotels and they were full. I said, “I might call a friend and get her apartment for awhile, but that... Hope you don't mind if we go to one of the smaller hotels. They look like dives and probably are, but...”
“Marsh, let's get out of the rain.”
I tried to stop a cab, then we walked down Broadway and on one of the side streets we stopped at one of the old hotels, now looking a little crummy and run down. We got a room with a bath and I registered as Mr. and Mrs. Marshal Jameson of Sandyhook. I started to give the clerk a story about being in town for the night, to explain our lack of bags, but he looked bored so I gave it up.
The room wasn't bad, large, and the furniture solid and old and homy, and only a faint smell of insecticide. Elma still had her roses and she put them in the water-pitcher on the dresser, said, “Take the edge off the frowziness.” Taking off her coat, she held up her pocketbook, asked, “Where shall we put our money? I keep mine under the pillow.”
“Good a place as any,” I said, and placed my dozen 100-dollar bills under one of the pillows, on top of hers, as though it was something I did every night. She went to the bathroom and when she came out, I went in and washed up, and as I came out, Elma was waiting for me at the door. “Marsh, this is about the best way of starting a new year, isn't it?”
I covered her face with kisses and then we began undressing each other, and her hands were two delightful, racing, living things.
Pulling my T-shirt off, she patted my guts, said softly, “Ah, you're lean and hard—the way I thought you'd be.”
When I unhooked her bra, her breasts were surprisingly large and heavy, and when I kissed the hard red nipples I began to cry. I don't know why—it was all so perfect. She finished removing her things as I stood there and sobbed.
When she was nude, I let my hands run over her body, said through my tears, “Darling, I can't help it, you're so beautiful... like a dream.”
She laughed, low laughter, her voice a warm breeze.
“Too many couch dreams these days—the highest compliment a man can pay a woman... I think.”
“Elma, Elma, you look so... so...”
“Don't say 'innocent,'“ she whispered, those lush lips moving against my cheek and ear. “Man only says that because he thinks he's about to dirty up a woman, to...”
I crushed her to me, her skin a delightfully cool smoothness. She said, “Oh darling... easy... easy.”
The racket in the streets woke us at midnight. We kissed and dutifully wished each other a happy, happy New Year. I was truly at peace with the world: Elma beside me, money under my pillow.... I was fully enjoying that most intimate and delicious of all pr
ivate little worlds—lovers in bed.
I awoke later and in the dim light I saw her staring up at the ceiling, her eyes wet. I touched her breasts, whispered, “Elma, I... didn't use.... Have to be more careful from now on.”
“You don't have to worry,” she said gently. “Your wet-dream girl comes complete—I'm four months pregnant.”
For a minute the whole room was dead with shocked silence, then Elma began to cry—sullen, fierce, whispered sobs that hit me like dull punches.
I tried to kiss away her tears, tasting the bitter salt. I kept repeating, “Please, honey, stop crying... stop crying. It doesn't matter...”