79 Park Avenue

by Harold Robbins

  “But you never—”

  “Shut up,” she said softly, pressing her fingers to his lips. “Yuh talk too much. You never tried to kiss me. I was wonderin’ if there was somethin’ the matter with you.”

  He smiled. It was as if his whole face lit up. He bent his face to her. “Maybe it’s just as well,” he said. “I got that much more to make up for.”

  The street was quiet when they reached her house. The last winds of March were beating faintly at them as they stepped into the vestibule. She closed the door quietly and looked up into his face.

  He stared down at her. His eyes were serious, and he spoke in a whisper. “I love yuh, Marja. Yuh know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “I loved yuh since that day in the elevator, but I never thought you could see me. Ross has so much. I got nothin’.”

  “I never asked for anything,” she said.

  “I know,” he answered. “But you can get anything you want. Every guy you meet is crazy for yuh.”

  She smiled slowly. “I know,” she said confidently. “But I don’t care about them. They’re all jerks. They all think they can get something out of me, but I ain’t givin’.”

  He grinned teasingly. “I’m a jerk, too?”

  “You’re the biggest of them all,” she taunted gently. “Except me. I go for you.”

  He pulled her toward him. She came willingly into his arms. Her lips and mouth were warm and open. Her tongue flashed fires into his mouth. He caught his breath sharply, then closed his eyes, slipping into the vortex of heat.

  She drew back suddenly, a puzzled look in her eyes. “Mike, yuh make me crazy.”

  “Good.” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand it. Nobody ever made me feel like that.”

  He pulled her to him again. “That’ll teach yuh not to mess around with me, gal,” he laughed. He kissed her throat, “Now you really got a feller.”

  Chapter Twenty

  PETER SAT AT the window in the darkness. He looked out into the street. Marja should have been home an hour ago. She wasn’t working late tonight. He knew that.

  He craned his neck out the window. There were two people walking slowly up the block. They passed a street light. One was Marja.

  That boy was with her. Mike. They were walking with their arms around each other’s waists. A twinge of jealousy ran through him. Marja was a woman now. The last few months had made many changes in her. She was sure of herself. It was that job.

  He had heard many stories about the girls who worked in dance halls. They were a wild lot. He remembered some that he had known before he married. They were no better than whores, most of them.

  Erotic thoughts crowded into his mind. He felt warm. It wasn’t right. He had seen Marja before any of them. She had no right to treat him the way she did. Walking around the house that way. Half undressed. She knew that got him excited.

  He felt the beads of sweat break out on his forehead. He reeled drunkenly into the dark kitchen and opened the icebox. There was no more beer. He stood there cursing silently. Then he remembered the bottle of Slivovitz in the closet.

  He took the bottle down and pulled out the cork. He held the bottle to his mouth, feeling the fiery liquor burn its way down his throat and hit his stomach. Its heat radiated through him. He felt strong and capable now.

  Holding the bottle carefully, he walked back into the parlour and looked out the window. They weren’t in sight. He listened carefully for Marja’s footsteps on the stairs. There was no sound.

  He waited almost ten minutes. He took another drink from the bottle. She wasn’t fooling him. He knew what she was doing downstairs. His thoughts infuriated him. The teasing little bitch. Everybody got their share except him. She laughed at him.

  He had a brilliant idea. Softly he walked back through the apartment and out the kitchen door. He crept down the stairway silently to the first landing and peered through the banister to the ground floor.

  He could see them standing in the corner of the hall. Marja’s arms were around the boy’s neck, and they were kissing. The boy’s back hid Marja from Peter’s gaze, but he knew what they were doing. He could tell from the way they were standing.

  A sound of muffled laughter came to his ears, and Marja stepped back from the boy. He could see her face now. Her lips seemed puffed and swollen in the dim yellow light. She was smiling.

  “Tomorrow?” he heard Mike ask.

  Marja laughed happily. “Tomorrow, for sure.” She turned toward the stairway.

  Peter scrambled quickly up the stairs to the apartment. He waited at the kitchen door until he could hear her footsteps. Then he hurried through the dark apartment to the parlour.

  He sat down in the chair in the corner from which he could watch the kitchen in the mirror on the wall. A wild anger was bursting inside him. There was a tightness in his belly. He held the bottle to his lips. Some of the liquor ran down his chin.

  The kitchen door opened, and light from the hall showed Marja standing there. He heard her voice.

  “Peter?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Peter, are you asleep?”

  Cautiously he held his breath. Let the bitch think he was asleep. He didn’t have to tell her what he was doing.

  She came into the kitchen and walked through the darkness to the door of her room. A moment later the soft light from the lamp on her dresser came from the room.

  He watched carefully. She thought he was asleep, for she didn’t close her door. He saw her cross the room and begin to take off her dress. A faint sound of her humming came to his ears. The little whore sounded actually happy for a change.

  She was in her underwear now. She looked up. He held his breath, wondering whether she suspected he was watching her. But apparently that wasn’t what was on her mind. She came out of the bedroom and crossed the kitchen to the sink, out of his sight. The sound of pans being lifted from the washtub came to his ears, then the noise of water running softly.

  She came back into sight, still humming softly. She unfastened her brassiere as she went into her room. He could see her rubbing her back where the red welt from the straps marked her flesh. She went into a corner of the room near her closet and he couldn’t see her.

  He lifted the bottle to his lips and took another swift, cautious drink, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He could feel the sudden pounding of his heart. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up again.

  She was coming through the doorway, a kimona hanging loosely around her. It flashed open as she moved; she was naked beneath it. She crossed to the washtub, and he heard her fiddling with the faucet. Suddenly he understood. She was going to take a bath.

  Usually she waited until he had gone out, but she must believe he was asleep. He grinned to himself. She wasn’t so smart. He was much smarter than she.

  She crossed the room and went out into the hall, leaving the door half open behind her. He got out of his chair swiftly and moved into the kitchen on silent feet. He listened carefully at the door for a moment. He heard the hall toilet noise and looked around swiftly. There wasn’t time for him to get back to the parlour. He ducked into her room and hid behind the open door.

  She sat back in the wash-basin that served for a tub and let the warm water press against her skin. Someday she would have a real bathtub in a real bathroom. She was tired of bathing in the kitchen and going out into the hall to the toilet. But right now the water felt good. Luxuriously she spread the soap lather all over her.

  She closed her eyes and thought of Mike. He was wonderful. It was funny how things worked out. The way he made her feel when he kissed her—it was like the way it happened in books. Warm and exciting inside. There was such a new longing that for a moment when they kissed she could hardly stand, her legs felt so weak.

  The water began to cool and she opened her eyes. It was late, time she got to bed. She rinsed off the soap and climbed out of the basin. She pulled the towel fr
om the back of the chair and rubbed herself dry. She could feel her skin glowing and warm. She wrapped the towel around her and went back to her room.

  She went right to her closet and hung up her kimona. She pulled her nightgown from her hanger and started to cross to the bed, dropping her towel on the back of a chair. She had begun to raise the gown over her head when an instinct made her look up.

  Her heart constricted in her bosom and the sudden pain of fear knifed through her body. Peter was standing in the corner. Her arms dropped and she held the gown in front of her.

  He took a step toward her, grinning foolishly. “Marja,” he said, his hands reaching for her.

  She dodged away from him beneath the crib. The fear congealed into an icy anger. “Get out!” she snarled.

  He stood there weaving slightly. The sweat stood out on his forehead, his eyes were glazed. His tongue ran over his lips.

  “Get out!” she yelled. “Yuh no-good drunken bum!”

  “Marja,” he mumbled. “Why are you all the time mad at me? I like you.” He stepped around the crib toward her.

  She moved away from him cautiously. “Yuh stink,” she said. “Get out!”

  The baby woke and suddenly began to cry. Instinctively her eyes turned to the crib. Peter moved swiftly and caught her hand before she was aware of it. He pulled her to him and tried to kiss her.

  She twisted in his grip, turning her face away from him. Her nails slashed at his face. “Lemme go! Yuh son of a bitch!”

  His hand was caught in the gown she held before her. Her hands were raking at his face. With a cry of pain he pulled back, the tearing sound of the gown coming to his ears. He still held her by one wildly waving hand. With his other hand, he reached up to his face. It came away sticky with blood. He stared at it stupidly.

  She looked up at him, her chest heaving. “Now will yuh get out?” she gasped.

  He shook his head to clear it. “You bitch!” he yelled. “You not goin’ to tease me no more! I’ll show yuh!”

  He raised his hand and hit her across the face. She spun away from him, half falling to the floor. He followed her slowly, his eyes fixed on her face.

  There was no fear in her eyes, only an all-consuming hatred. She pulled her legs up under her. Suddenly she sprang, diving past him for the bed, her hand reaching for the knife under the mattress.

  He caught her by the hair, snapping her head back so that she lay in a half-arc on the edge of the bed. She saw his hand coming toward her face. She tried to twist away from the blow. A sharp light exploded in her brain and she fell forward, trying to keep tears of pain from coming to her eyes.

  She came awake slowly. Sensation returned to her body and, with it, pain. Her body felt as if a thousand tiny needles were sticking into her. She turned her head cautiously.

  The light was still on in the room and she was alone. Gradually memory came back to her. She sat up in the bed, a cry of pain escaping her lips.

  She saw Peter’s clothing lying on the floor near the bed. Nausea swept through her, and she ran into the kitchen. The pain hit her stomach in wave after wave as she retched into the sink. At last it was gone and a cold chill came over her.

  Quickly she turned the hot water on in the basin and climbed into it. Desperately she scrubbed at her skin with the soap, but the grime she felt wasn’t on the surface. It was deep inside her where she could never get it out.

  But the warm water stilled some of the pain, and at last she got out of the basin. She walked dripping into her room and took a towel from the closet. Slowly she dried herself, then carefully began to dress.

  In front of the mirror she carefully applied lipstick and combed back her hair. Her face stared back at her, dull and impassive. Only her eyes were still alive. They were green and filled with hate.

  She went to her bed and straightened it. The pillowcase was bloodstained; she found a fresh one. She pulled the blanket tight and tucked it in.

  A faint sound came from the crib. She looked into it. The baby was wet. Quickly she changed his diaper, and filling a small bottle with water, placed it near his lips. Then she walked back to the bed and took the knife from under the mattress.

  Dully she walked through the apartment to Peter’s room. She opened the door silently and looked in. He lay in a hulking shadow across his bed. She pulled the light chain over her head. Light flooded into the room. Peter didn’t move.

  He lay on his back, breathing heavily, the blanket clutched around him.

  She placed the knife close to his face. “Peter, wake up,” she said quietly.

  He lay silent. A snore escaped his mouth.

  Her hand swiped viciously across his face. “Wake up!” Her lips drew back over her teeth in a snarl.

  His eyes opened almost immediately. For a moment he lay absolutely still. Then he saw the knife, and terror sprang into his eyes. His voice caught in his throat. “What are you doing, Marja?”

  “I’ve come to keep my promise, Peter.” Her voice was very tight and very low. “Remember what I said?”

  He stared up at her, afraid to move. “You’re crazy!” he gasped.

  “No crazier than you.” She smiled. The knife swiped viciously across his face.

  The flesh parted like a ripe melon bursting in the sun. A pool of blood rushed in to fill the wound from his cheek to his jaw-bone. He screamed agonisingly and leaped from the bed toward the door, the blanket trailing on the floor behind him.

  He ran through the apartment into the hallway, still screaming. Through the open door he could see her walking slowly after him. He began to run down the stairs. He tripped in the blanket and fell the few steps to the next landing.

  She stood at the head of the stairway, looking down at him. He was still screaming. She closed her eyes. It was not long since her mother had been lying there. She turned and went back into the apartment.

  She closed the door behind her and walked over to the sink. She turned on the water and washed the knife carefully. Then she placed it on the table and sat down in a chair facing the door. It was the same chair her mother had always sat in while waiting for her to come home.

  Her eyes were burning. She was tired, very tired. Her eyelids closed.

  There was a heavy knock at the door. She opened her eyes. There was a hint of tears in them. “Come in,” she said quietly.

  That was how she was when the police came into the room.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “BUT THERE MUST have been a reason for you to do such a thing, Marja,” the woman insisted.

  Marja looked at the Welfare worker. She shook her head stubbornly. She didn’t speak.

  “You don’t want to be sent to a reform school, do you?” the woman persisted.

  Marja shrugged her shoulders. “No matter what I say, I won’t be let loose. They’re gonna put me away, no matter what.”

  “But there’s a big difference between a correctional institution and a state home,” the woman explained.

  Marja’s eyes were wide. “Not to me. One Is as bad as the other.”

  The woman heaved a sigh. “Don’t you want to be with your little brother any more?”

  Marja looked at her swiftly. “Would they let me stay with him if I talk? I can work and keep him.”

  The woman shook her head regretfully, “No, they couldn’t do that. You’re too young. But—”

  “Then it doesn’t make any difference, does it?” Marja asked.

  The woman didn’t answer.

  Marja got to her feet. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get it over with.”

  The courtroom was almost empty. Only a few spectators sat in the rows near the railing. She glanced idly at them as she passed. They looked up at her curiously but impersonally. She meant nothing to them.

  A hand reached out and brushed her arm as she walked by. “Hello, Marja.”

  She looked up, startled.

  It was Mike. There was a friendly, reassuring smile on his lips. “I tried to see yuh,” he whispered quickly, �
��but they wouldn’t let me.”

  Her face settled into a dull, impassive mask. There was no use telling him she had given orders that she didn’t want to see anyone. She continued walking.

  The Welfare woman was just behind her. “That’s a nice-looking boy,” she said in a friendly voice. “Your boy friend?”

  Marja’s eyes were blank. “I don’t know who he is. I never saw him before in my life.”

  The judge was a tired, bored-looking old man. He peered down at Marja. “You are charged with attacking your step-father with a knife, young woman.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Is Mr. Ritchik here?” he asked, turning to the clerk.

  The clerk called: “Mr. Ritchik.”

  Peter came forward from the back of the court. His face was still covered with a big white bandage. Marja looked at him. It was as if he were a stranger. The five weeks since she had seen him had been a lifetime.

  “Mr. Ritchik,” the judge asked, “will you tell us what happened?”

  Peter cleared his throat nervously. “She’s no good, Your Honour. A tramp. She wouldn’t listen to nobody. She worked at the dance hall and never came home nights. When she did, it was late. That night I spoke to her about coming in decent hours like other girls. When I went to sleep, she sneaked into my room and cut me.”

  Marja had to smile. If it weren’t for her mother’s memory she would tell them what had really happened. But Katti was entitled to that much peace.

  It was over in a little while. She stood in front of the desk while the judge looked down over his spectacles at her.

  “Marja,” he said, “we are sending you to the Rose Geyer Correctional Home for Girls until you are eighteen. It is my hope that you will put your time there to good use and learn a trade and a Christian way of life.”

  She looked up at him blankly.

  “Any questions?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He rapped his gavel on the desk and got to his feet. Everybody in the court stood as he walked pompously from the bench. The door closed behind him, and the Welfare woman turned to her.