But she had not come here to commiserate with Jimmy. She had come for information, perhaps for bad news. And she had a feeling that her sympathy for the man would be short-lived.
She leaned forward and took a cigarette out of the pack lying open on the table. She held it, unlit, between her fingers.
She looked up at Jimmy. "Did you go to my apartment for Angie's clothes?" she asked quietly.
He glanced at her warily. "Why?"
"Somebody did," she said. "Was it you?"
He shrugged. "She sent me," he said. "Damn stuffs in the closet." He indicated a curtained, coffin-sized projection from the wall. "When I got back here, she was gone. No note. Nothing."
"You'll get used to it," Carolyn said. "She does it quite often."
He looked at her oddly for a moment, his eyes narrowed. She knew that his confidence in the girl had already been badly shaken. She couldn't tell if he had admitted it to himself, but even so, he didn't intend to let her know it.
"She'll get over it," he said and his tone was confident. The bedsprings groaned under his weight. He put his feet up and crossed his arms behind his head. "After we're married."
Carolyn did not bother with a rebuttal. "That's your problem," she said. "I didn't come here to talk about Angie, anyhow. All I want to know is, what happened to Bridgit?"
"Who the hell is Bridgit?" He was staring at the ceiling, his face in shadows.
She could not see the expression on his face but she had the feeling that he was afraid to meet her glance.
"Bridgit's the cat," she said patiently. "My cat. She was in the apartment when I left. She's not there now. Where is she, Jimmy?"
He turned toward her now and she knew instinctively that he would lie. The falseness of his concern was as obvious as the "tilt" on a pin ball machine. She waited calmly for him to speak.
"It ran out when I opened the door," he said. "I tried to catch it but I couldn't even get close." He shook his head. "I don't know what happened to it."
Carolyn snapped the cigarette between her fingers. "Have you ever had a cat, Jimmy?"
He looked at her strangely. "No. Why?"
She nodded. "I thought so," she said. "You don't seem the type. Angie doesn't like them either. Cats are interesting creatures. They develop peculiar habits. Mine, for instance, always hides in the hall closet when a stranger comes to the door. And she always knows when it's a stranger."
She watched Jimmy begin to understand and saw a flush creeping up his face, his eyelids squinting half closed. She kept her voice steady, almost conversational. "If anybody except me tries to get her out of there, she puts up quite a fight." She paused to let it sink in. "I imagine she scratched you?"
He stared at her for a long time. Then he sat up slowly and held his arms into the light. The undersides were streaked with scratches. "About twenty times," he said. "I threw her against the wall." He stopped and when she said nothing, went on. "I had to, dammit. She was after my eyes."
He sat for a long time with his face in his hands. She watched him, but she had nothing to say.
Finally he finished. "Her neck broke, I guess. Anyway..." He shook his head.
"What did you do with her?" she asked quietly.
"The incinerator. In the hall."
Carolyn sighed. She felt very tired, more tired-than she had ever been in her life. And she felt sorry for Jimmy. She couldn't really blame him for the cat and she knew he was genuinely ashamed. She couldn't even blame Angie, though it had been the girl's fault that Jimmy had gone to the apartment. The guilt was entirely her own. If she had been strong enough to get rid of Angie a long time ago, this would never have happened.
"Well, at least Angie will be glad," she muttered. "She never did get along with Bridgit."
"What about Angie?" he said. "She doesn't know what happened. She was gone..."
"She will," Carolyn said.
She saw a spark of interest light his dark eyes. "Then you know where she is," he said.
"Not at the moment. But if she's not here, she's probably at my place now. Where else would she go?"
She waited but he did not answer. He seemed distracted and confused. "Well?"
He shrugged. "Probably."
She stood up and brushed crumbs of tobacco off her skirt. "Well, put on some clothes," she said.
"What for?"
"I want you to come with me," she said, "and bring Angie back here." She started toward the door. "I can't be bothered anymore. It's your turn."
CHAPTER 14
Angie swung open the door and greeted them both warmly. She did not appear in the least surprised at seeing them together. She told them to sit while she made tea.
True to form, Angie had taken over the apartment as though she had never left it. The livingroom was in order, the furniture back where it belonged and the debris carted off. She wore her favorite apron and, Carolyn noticed, the pink satin mules. As she bustled about making tea, she hummed the same song she always hummed in the kitchen and she sounded perfectly contented.
Carolyn sat limply on the edge of the couch, facing Jimmy, but not daring to meet his glance. Once, sneaking a peek at him, she saw his puzzled frown and averted eyes and knew he was as self-conscious as she. They had come racing uptown, prepared to take Angie by storm—and Angie had refused to be taken.
Carolyn felt like a fool, sitting like a guest in her own apartment, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for Angie to boil a pot of water. She knew she ought to get up and kick her out the front door. Yet, considering the picture she and Jimmy must make, she had to admit a grudging admiration for the ease with which Angie had cut them both down to size.
As though trained in the Queen's drawing room, Angie made a ritual out of serving them tea and slices of hot buttered toast. She took a cup for herself and sat down beside Carolyn on the couch.
It was truly a farce, the way they posed there: Jimmy and Carolyn avoiding each other's eyes, Angie smiling expectantly at them both.
Carolyn gave up first.
Taking a deep breath, she faced Angie squarely. "You might as well know right now," she said, "that Jimmy's here to take you home."
"Oh?" Angie murmured, Her eyebrows went up. "I thought this was my home."
"It was once," Carolyn answered the silky tone. "You're the one who spoiled that, Angie. Not me."
"You mean because of last night? Oh, Carol, you knew I'd come back."
Carolyn smiled. "I hoped you wouldn't this time."
Jimmy looked from one to the other of them curiously, listening, not yet grasping what he heard.
Carolyn glanced at him, knowing that Angie would say too much for her own good, yet aware that she could not prevent her from doing so. She felt sorry for him still, realizing he was too involved with Angie to give her up and would be too revolted to keep her. He couldn't cope with Angie any better than she had.
Angie, apparently, neither knew nor cared how he might respond. She focused all of her charm and warmth on Carolyn, ignoring Jimmy completely. Leaning close, she crossed her hands on Carolyn's knee and peered into her eyes. "Must we fight?" she cooed. "It's such a waste of time."
"No, we mustn't," Carolyn said. "In fact, we won't. Just drink your tea and..." she flicked her fingers toward the door, "...scram."
Angie tilted her head and pursed her lips. "Don't you know that I can't. Every time I try to leave you, I bounce right back."
Carolyn laughed. Angie was playing right into her hands. "I know," she said. "Just like a rubber ball. Bounce, bounce, all over the city. Central Park, Thirty Eighth Street, calls to Walter." She watched the fire creep into Angie's cheeks. "And now, here you are, many moons later, expecting me to believe you've been waiting here for hours."
She shook her head slowly. "No, no, no, Angie. It just won't do."
Suddenly Angie turned on Jimmy. "You're a fool," she said. "Why did you tell her?"
He looked like he wished she hadn't remembered he was there. But he did not try to contradict her.
"He didn't tell me anything," Carolyn said. "I followed you when you ran out of here. I was stupid enough to believe you might... well, hurt yourself. Maybe it's too bad you didn't." She paused, then, frowning, went on. "But I really thought you had had enough this time. Why did you come back, Angie?"
Angie put everything she had into one last pitch. "Because I love you," she whispered.
It was almost convincing. Jimmy, at least, took it to heart. He got up and stalked away to the window, his back to them, his hands clenching on the sill. Both of them ignored him.
"I love you," Angie repeated.
Carolyn shook herself loose from the spell. She had heard it so often before. "It's such an empty word," she murmured, "the way you say it. I don't suppose you ever meant it." She peered into Angie's eyes. "Why did you really come back?"
Angie lowered her glance. "I remembered about Bridgit. The way she hides in the closet."
"Hid," Carolyn corrected.
"Hid. I told Jimmy not to forget my shoes, on the floor in there. When I remembered, I came back here right away.
I was afraid you might make trouble for Jimmy if anything happened to that cat. But I was too late. He was gone and so was Bridgit."
"Down the incinerator, if you care," Carolyn said.
Angie shuddered. "I knew you'd blame me," she said.
Carolyn shook her head. "You're wrong, Angie. I don't blame you. I know it's my fault that Bridgit's dead and you're still alive. I should have disposed of you a long time ago."
"Carol!"
"Yeah," Jimmy chimed in, stepping away from the window. "That's pretty rough."
Carolyn raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she said. "Well, if you really think so, I'll apologize. To you. As far as Angie's concerned, I'm sure she understands what I mean." She turned to face the girl. "Don't you, Angie?"
Angie looked at her for a long moment. Then, without another word to Carolyn, she stood up and crossed to stand beside Jimmy. "Let's go home," she said.
Carolyn heard the defeat in Angie's tone and knew that she had finally won. Angie had tried every trick but one: this time, she had not tried to seduce her. She knew it wasn't because of Jimmy. Angie had no qualms about such things. It was because Angie understood that her body no longer held the answer and she did not have the courage to face a second rejection.
"Go on," Carolyn said, looking at Jimmy. "Take her home. She's all yours. At least until she gets bored."
Jimmy glanced down at the girl, leaning so close, yet hardly aware of him. He looked like he wanted to cry.
Resignedly, he put his arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the door.
Carolyn watched them leave, aware of the sloppy way Angie walked in the slippers, the way his arm hung loosely around her. They would make each other wretched, those two. It didn't matter about Angie, she would be wretched no matter whom she was with. But Jimmy didn't know what he was getting into. Maybe he'd be lucky. Maybe he'd destroy her before she ruined him.
Wearily, Carolyn collected the tea things and carried them out to the kitchen. Full cups, already cold. Soggy toast that Bridgit would have loved. Loved? Yes, Bridgit had been capable of that. And probably Jimmy. She believed she was, too.
She ran water into the sink and soaped the sponge. It was good, having the house to herself for a moment. But only for a moment. There was too much of life outside to lock herself up the way she had been... before Angie.
Before Angie. It was easy to say that now, it no longer hurt. At least not much. There would always be a little ache for the old loves behind the joy of the new, a little loneliness for the bits of herself she had already given away. Yet, in having given, she had grown rather than been depleted. She had more of a self to offer. To a man. To a woman.
To someone who would love her in return.
She picked up Bridgit's plate and scrubbed it. Then she dried it and set it carefully on the shelf.
~ ~ ~
AFTERWORD
A new revolution was underway at the start of the 1940s in America—a paperback revolution that would change the way publishers would produce and distribute books and how people would purchase and read them.
In 1939 a new publishing company—Pocket Books—stormed onto the scene with the publication of its first paperbound book. These books were cheaply produced and, with a price of twenty-five cents on their light cardboard covers, affordable for the average American.
Prior to the introduction of the mass-market paperback, as it would come to be known, the literary landscape in America was quite different than what it is today. Reading was primarily a leisure-time pursuit of the wealthy and educated. Hardcover books were expensive and hard to find, so purchasing books was a luxury only the rich living in major metropolitan areas could afford. There simply weren’t many bookstores across the country, and only gift shops and stationary stores carried a few popular novels at a time.
The Pocket Books were priced to sell, however, and sell is what they did… in numbers never before seen. Availability also had a great effect on sales, in large part due to a bold and innovative distribution model that made Pocket Books available in drugstores, newsstands, bus and train stations, and cigar shops. The American public could not get enough of them, and before long the publishing industry began to take notice of Pocket Book’s astonishing success.
Traditional publishers, salivating at the opportunity to cash in on the phenomenal success of the new paperback revolution, soon launched their own paperback ventures. Pocket Books was joined by Avon in 1941, Popular Library in 1942, and Dell in 1943. The popular genres reflected the tastes of Americans during World War II—mysteries, thrillers, and “hardboiled detective” stories were all the rage.
Like many of the early paperback publishers, Dell relied on previously published material for its early books, releasing “complete and unabridged” reprints under different titles by established authors. Within a couple of years it was focused exclusively on mysteries, identifiable by the Dell logo on the cover—a small keyhole with an eye looking through it. Many of the Dell mysteries also featured a colored map on the back cover representing the various locations pertaining to the story’s crime. These “mapback” editions became extremely popular and by 1945, Dell was publishing four new books a month.
The new paperback industry was faced with some difficult challenges during World War II. In particular, the War Board’s Paper Limitation order placed serious restrictions and rations on the use of paper. Publishers began to worry whether they would have enough paper to satisfy both the civilian and military appetite for paperbacks. Manpower shortages and transportation difficulties were also proving to be difficult challenges. In response, some publishers—
Pocket Books, for instance—reduced their publication schedules and reset their books in smaller type thereby reducing the number of pages per book. Others simply rejected longer books in favor of shorter ones.
In the end, World War II proved to be a boon to the emerging paperback industry. During the war, a landmark agreement was reached with the government in which paperbound books would be produced at a very low price for distribution to service men and women overseas. These books—Armed Services Editions, as they were called—were often passed from one soldier or sailor to another, being read and re-read over and over again until they literally fell apart. Their stories of home helped ease the soldier’s loneliness and homesickness, and they could be easily carried in uniform pockets and read anywhere—in fox holes, barracks, transport planes, etc. Of course, once the war was over millions of veterans returned home with an insatiable appetite for reading. They were hooked, and their passion for reading these books helped launch a period of unprecedented growth in the paperback industry.
The reading tastes of these veterans were directly reflected in the popularity of certain genres at the turn of the decade. In the mid-to late 1940s, mysteries, romance, thrillers, and hardboiled detective stories seemed to sell better. In the early 1950s new genres—scien
ce fiction, westerns, gay and lesbian, juvenile delinquent and “sleaze”, for instance—gained in popularity as readers were presented with stories never before seen in print. Publishers also came to realize that sex would sell books… lots of books. In a competitive frenzy for readers, they ditched their conservative and straightforward cover images for alluring covers that frequently featured a sexy woman in some form of undress, along with a suggestive tag line that promised stories of sex and violence within the covers. Before long, books with sensational covers had completely taken over the paperback racks and cash registers. To this day, the cover art of these vintage paperback books are just as sought after as the books themselves were sixty years ago.
Science fiction titles reflected the uncertain times during which they were written. The Cold War was just beginning, the threat of nuclear annihilation was on everyone’s mind, governments in Eastern Europe were falling to Communists, and Senator Joseph McCarthy was looking for “un-American activities” everywhere in the United States. Many science fiction stories in the early days of the paperback revolution were little more than soap operas or westerns set in space—good guys taking on bad guys while rescuing damsels in distress—that were short stories taken from the pulp magazines. In 1952, however, Ballantine Books changed all that by becoming the first paperback publisher to release novel-length science fiction stories that were sophisticated, intelligent and thematically serious. In 1953, Ballantine Book No. 41 was released—Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451—and the paperback’s science fiction genre launched like a rocket heading to Venus.
The popularity of this new genre wasn’t lost on new paperback publisher, Ace Books, which became known primarily for its publication of sci-fi titles. Not content with publishing one science fiction novel at a time, Ace came up with an interesting gimmick—the double novel. Priced at thirty-five cents, the “Ace Double” featured two paperback novels bound back-to-back with the back cover appearing upside-down in the racks. The stories contained within these
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