Unashamed, The

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Unashamed, The Page 7

by March Hastings


  She glanced up to where he stood leaning against the wall. "What do you do besides look after the coal pile?" she said. "It must be a lonely life."

  He laid his pipe on the shelf beside the stove. "Don't do much of anything," he said. "Once in a while, I take a night in town. Mostly I just sit and smoke." He paused reflectively. "Is pretty lonely, though. Don't often have a lady in for coffee."

  Catching the peculiar light in his eyes, she was sorry she had asked. She felt him peering at her and kept herself busy with the cup, drinking slowly and staring ahead of her at nothing. The pounding inside her head began again.

  She knew she would not get out of the shack as easily as she had walked in.

  Realizing that she was trapped, she cursed herself for having gotten into such a position.

  Her stomach sopped up the sooty coffee and gradually began to settle. In a minute she would calmly get up, thank him for his cups of coffee, walk demurely toward the door —and run.

  Then she heard it, the first patter of rain on the shack's tin roof.

  Rain falling faster and a rumble of thunder from across the river.

  Rain, pouring, clattering like pebbles against the roof. He reached over casually, pulled the door closed, and latched it.

  She jumped up abruptly, spilling coffee onto her slacks. "I can't stay here," she said. She heard the tremor of fear in her voice.

  He cocked his head and listened. "Rainin' hard," he said.

  "I can hear," she answered sharply. She started toward the doorway.

  He moved easily and leaned his shoulders against the door. She was aware for the first time of the bulging muscles of his neck and arms. He kept his hands behind him and, except for his eyes, he seemed perfectly at ease.

  "A shower," he said. His voice was soothing. "It's only a shower."

  Carolyn took a deep breath and dragged up all the strength she could find. Then, without further hesitation, she stepped forward, her hand outstretched to open the door.

  He didn't move.

  She opened her mouth and began to scream. He hit her sharply across the mouth with the back of his hand.

  She staggered backwards onto the bunk. Her head banged into the wall.

  He followed her, his face contorted, his eyes bright sparks of life in the grimy face. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. He stood over her with his monkey arms limp at his sides. "Never hurt anybody."

  She touched her tongue to her lower lip and tasted blood. Afraid to scream again or even to move, she pressed against the wall, half expecting him to kill her.

  He put out his hand and gently, tenderly began to stroke her hair. "Soft," he said. “So soft." He let the short strands slip between his fingers.

  She forced herself not to draw away and concentrated on his eyes. Those bright, blazing eyes. Black and shining, like pieces of coal.

  His hands moved to her shoulders and he leaned slowly toward her, pushing her down to the bunk.

  She saw the tiny reflection of herself in his black, shining eyes. Growing larger.

  "I won't hurt you," he whispered. "I just want to touch you. That's all. Just want to touch you."

  Her back met the mattress and she let herself go, knowing there was no escape.

  Gently he unbuttoned her shirt and slid a hand in to fondle her breasts. Bracing himself on one knee, he bent over her, his eyes coming still closer, his breathing shallow as he caressed her.

  The rain beat down steadily on the roof. It was smelly and stifling in the tiny room. He pressed closer, undressing her slowly, running his hands lightly over her body. Touching her, touching her...

  She twisted her head to one side, suffocating and gasping for air.

  He lowered himself on top of her, spreading his body over her like a blanket. Rubbing against her, grinding her into the bed. His rough trousers scraped the soft flesh of her thighs.

  "I won't hurt you," he whispered hoarsely. "I won't hurt you."

  She closed her eyes. The ugly little man and his smelly sheets became a blur and there was only the pain ripping through her.

  Her back arched. She bit hard on her split lower lip, holding back the scream tearing up from her throat.

  She heard the breath go out of him and he was a dead weight on top of her.

  He rolled away from her then and lay on his back. She got up painfully and for a moment, stood looking down at him, sick with revulsion and loathing. His black eyes stared stupidly at the ceiling, the lights in them gone. A trickle of saliva dried on his chin.

  Quietly, she dressed and left the shack. When she reached the pier, she lowered her head and ran through the rain.

  Stumbling, falling on the slippery streets, she ran until she was out of breath. Collapsing against the fender of a car, she leaned over the gutter and threw up. Her guts heaved as though she would turn inside out, but she felt no relief.

  Sobbing and gasping for breath, she sank slowly down to the curb. She sat with her head between her knees, her feet slipping in the puke.

  Soaked through, wretched, she wanted to die.

  She sat there for a long time, too numb to think, too miserable to move. Rivulets of rain trickled off her hair and ran down the back of her neck. A man and a woman stopped and peered down at her curiously, then went on down the street. She heard the swoosh of their shoes in the puddles, the whine of tires on the slippery road. But the sounds meant nothing, nor did the rain.

  She got up slowly, leaning heavily against the fender of the car. She did not know where she was nor remember how she came to be there. Gradually, she realized that she was afraid. That she was afraid and she had to move.

  She started walking, without destination, but sensing that she had to get away. Away from…

  From the river. From the barge. As the memory crashed in on her, she began again to run.

  CHAPTER 8

  Walter opened the door and blinked at her sleepily. He peered at her swollen lip and drenched clothing. Then, without saying a word, he took her hand and brought her inside.

  He led her into the livingroom and went to get her a bathrobe. She stood where he left her, waiting, as though unable to move by herself.

  He came back and draped the robe around her shoulders. Taking her elbow, he steered her along the hall to the bathroom. "You'd better take a shower," he said. "You're a mess." He closed the lid on the toilet and sat her down.

  "I'll bring you some ice for that lip."

  For a while she just sat there, staring back at her reflection in the mirror behind the door, hardly recognizing the face as her own. Her hair was plastered flat to her head, trickles of water running from it over her forehead and nose, leaving gray streaks in the smudges of coal dust. Her eyes were swollen from crying, the lower lip poked out bulbously. She looked like a sad clown in black face.

  When she tried to get up, her legs wouldn't hold her. She slumped back against the toilet, feeling useless, soggy, depleted.

  Walter knocked and, when she didn't answer, opened the door and came in. He held out ice cubes wrapped in a clean kitchen towel. She looked at the package but made no attempt to take it.

  "Here," he said. "Put your head back."

  She tried to obey but couldn't move.

  He propped her chin on his fist and held her head while he applied the ice.

  All of a sudden, she was full of life. "Hey!" she yelled. "That hurts!" She frowned at him.

  Walter grinned and removed the ice pack. "Well, at least I know you're alive. I was beginning to wonder." He handed her the towel. "You do it," he said. "It won't hurt as much that way."

  Held lightly against the wound, the ice felt good. She sensed the cold spreading through her lip and down her chin, numbing them like a shot of novocain. Yet when she took the ice away, pain again flamed through her face and her teeth ached. She put it back quickly, pushing her lip out with her tongue.

  Walter poked about in the medicine cabinet until he found a cotton swab and a small bottle of yellowish liquid. Then he took th
e ice pack away from her and set it in the sink. He held her chin while he cleansed the wound, dabbing gently with the swab.

  She smelled camphor and wrinkled her nose with disgust. "What is it?"

  "My grandmother swore by this stuff," he answered easily. "It'll cure anything." He snapped the stick in two and tossed it into the basket under the sink. He looked at her and smiled. "There. That ought to do it. Now, a shower."

  He helped her up. She leaned heavily against his arm, feeling faint and shaky.

  He steadied her with one hand and reached for the top button on her shirt.

  Suddenly she was filled with rage. She did not remember that this was Walter, whom she trusted, and that he was trying to take care of her. She saw only the hand, reaching to open her shirt, reaching to fondle, reaching to touch her. Saw only the ugly little man coming toward her, pressing her down, down.

  She beat wildly at his arms with her fists, her eyes closed, kicking, screaming at him hysterically.

  He did not try to stop her, just waited patiently until she had exhausted herself.

  She looked up at him then and began to cry. "Oh, Walter!" she sobbed. "Walter, I'm sorry."

  He put his arms around her and held her gently with her head against his shoulder. "It's all right," he murmured.

  "Everything's going to be all right." He stroked her hair tenderly.

  When she stopped shaking and sobbing in his arms, she looked up at him and smiled wanly. "Thank you," she whispered. "I needed you."

  She let him take off her shirt and slacks. He stood back and looked at her clinically, at her bruised thighs and the dirt on her body.

  "I'll tell you later," she said. "Now, get out and let me get washed."

  She stood in the shower and soaped herself lavishly, letting the hot water stream over her aching body. Everywhere she touched, she was sore. The muscles in her arms ached, barely able to lift the weight of the cloth. Yet she scrubbed vigorously, almost brutally, washing away the memory and the filth.

  She felt soiled to the core of her being and no matter how she scrubbed, she could not flush away the shame.

  Though she knew it was foolish, she felt as though she had been contaminated for life. Who would want her now, after he had touched her? Surely Angie would have no use for her. She hardly felt that anyone could.

  How ridiculous. It was not the first time a woman had been mistreated by a man. Almost every day the newspapers carried stories very much like her own. Nobody condemned the women. Not if they had any sense. It was the men who got in trouble.

  What she really had to remember was that not all men were like the one she had encountered. Some would be gentle, some would care. Try as she might, she could not really convince herself. It had been her first experience with a man and it had been hideous.

  Women were never like that. Women were more sensitive. Even without love, they were not crude. The girl in the denim shirt had not been truly interested in her. Still, she had been clean and decent and, if Carolyn had let her, she would have been kind.

  No matter how she tried to rationalize, she knew the experience with the man would leave a permanent scar in her memory. Whatever else happened to her, even if she died a lonely old maid, she would never put herself in such a position again.

  Only one thought would she cling to, she did not want a man, any man, to touch her. Ever.

  She stood on the white mat and rubbed briskly dry with a big Turkish towel.

  From the kitchen she heard sounds of Walter making coffee, whistling, rattling cups into saucers. And she smiled around her puffy lip, glad for Walter and comforted to have him near. He was always there when she needed him, always happy to listen, asking few questions, doing what had to be done. She remembered how tenderly he had undressed her. Somehow it had been different with Walter. It didn't bother her that he was a man and he had touched her.

  She stepped out of the bathroom swaddled in Walter's bathrobe, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Coming into the kitchen behind him, she leaned against the refrigerator and watched him pour coffee into flat white cups.

  He looked at her closely, inspecting her pink, shiny face and the hair curling in whisps around her ears. Abruptly, he nodded. "You look like you again," he said. "But how do you feel?"

  She smiled ruefully. "Like me. Almost, anyway." She rubbed one hand along her thigh. "I'm still a little stiff."

  He took a bottle out of the cupboard and poured half a shot into one cup. "Brandy," he said. "Fix you right up." He picked up both cups and started out of the kitchen. "Come on."

  She did not bother to tell him that she would be happy never to drink again as long as she lived. Instead, she followed him into the living room and sat down on the big, overstuffed couch.

  She loved the furniture in Walter's apartment. He was the only person she knew who had ignored the advent of foam rubber. The shabby old couch was soft and deep. She put her feet up and stretched out with her head on the armrest, sinking into the cushions, feeling the soreness already beginning to ease from her body.

  Walter set the cups on the glass-topped coffeetable and stood looking down at her. "If you turn over," he said, "I'll rub your back."

  He sat down beside her and put one hand on her shoulder. She felt herself drawing away. The movement was involuntary. She knew it was foolish and that only minutes before she had not minded his touch. Yet now she felt uneasy and it was an effort to lie still.

  He paid no attention to her nervousness. His strong hands gently kneaded the muscles down the back of her neck and across her shoulders. He put one hand inside the collar of the robe and worked his fingers along the spine, down to the waist.

  In minutes Carolyn was completely relaxed, wondering why she had shied away. It was ridiculous ever to think of Walter as just a man. He would never hurt her. He never had.

  It occurred to her that Walter had never tried to approach her as a lover. She wondered how she might respond now if he did. His hands were gentle, he would be kind. Yet she was not sure that even he could make her forget. Maybe no one ever could.

  She felt his fingers warm against her flesh, touching her lightly now, circling, soothing her. There was nothing in his touch but the tenderness of a friend. In her heart, she thanked him for that. She needed him that way, especially now.

  She sighed contentedly. "That's wonderful, Walter. I feel much better." She turned on her back to look at him. "Why aren't all men like you?"

  He shrugged. "Are all women like you?"

  He handed her the cup with the brandy and made a sign for her to drink it. The steaming mixture burned all the way down to her stomach, but almost immediately her nerves began to settle. She felt drowsy, pleasantly relaxed. She lay back against the cushions, as content as a cat in the sun.

  Walter sat beside her, massaging her bare feet and her calves. "You've got a nasty bruise on this ankle," he said, tracing around the bone with a fingertip.

  "I've got some worse than that," she answered, "but I won't show you where."

  Despite herself, she could not bear the feel of his touch on her legs, moving up toward her thighs. It was too much like the memory of the man on the barge.

  When he reached her knee, she put out her hand to stop him. "That's enough, Walter. I'll be asleep in a minute if you keep it up."

  "What's wrong with that?" he said. "I gather you haven't been to bed yet."

  She raised both eyebrows and the laugh lines crinkled around her eyes. "I suppose that's all in the way you look at it," she said.

  "What?" He was frowning.

  "Oh, nothing," she said quickly. "I just thought I was being funny."

  She sat back in the corner of the couch and tucked her knees under her chin. She knew he was waiting for her to explain and she felt, since she had come to him for help, that he had a right to know all that had happened. Still, she hesitated. She was ashamed of her behavior, of her appearance. In all the years of their friendship, she had never disappointed Walter. She did not want to sta
rt now. But she had to tell him something.

  "Walter…" she began. She stopped abruptly.

  He peered at her expectantly.

  She took another sip of the coffee.

  "Well?"

  She looked at his worried eyes and smiled. "Don't look so serious," she said. "You'll scare me.”

  He laughed, but not easily.

  She glanced away from him. She let her attention focus on one big toe and thoughtfully rubbed the nail with her thumb. "I hate to admit it," she began again, "but you were right about Angie. We're through."

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For your sake. I know how you felt about her."

  She nodded. "I still do, I guess. In a way," she added. "But there's no reason for anybody to be sorry. I'm not, really. It's been coming on for months." She sighed. "I've never been able to make Angie happy. Sometimes I don't think anybody could."

  Walter had an almost complacent look on his face. "Um hmm," he said. "I know."

  She saw his expression and frowned uneasily. "What do you know?"

  "Oh, nothing specific, really. Just that your little friend Angie has some peculiar ideas about life, that's all." He did not look at her as he spoke. "I had a feeling something like this," he gestured at her bathrobed figure, "might happen."

  For a moment she simply sat there and stared at him. Then she said, "Walter, I think you must have forgotten to tell me something."

  He shook his head, still not meeting her glance. "I didn't forget."

  "Well?" she insisted.

  "Well, just remember that you asked for it," he said. He leaned back now and met her gaze levelly. "As you remember, when Angie first moved in with you, I took her out alone a couple of times, trying to make friends. I thought it would be easier for all of us that way."

 

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