The Loving Couple

by Patrick Dennis

  "J-just let me f-fix my face," she said uncertainly. She reached into her bag for her lipstick, but her hand shook so violently that she knew she'd be unable to manage a mouth just yet. Instead, she settled for a thorough powdering, spilling a good deal on her dress.

  "W-would you give me a cigarette, please?" she asked.

  Randy took two out of the box, put them in his mouth, lighted them and handed one to her. "Th-thank you," she said. "And why don't you pour us each a nice fresh drink?"

  "Delighted," Randy said, springing to his feet.

  This both irritated her and piqued her curiosity. At moments such as this her husband had always been too overwrought with emotion for such courtly gymnastics. Was this man simply a satyr or had he been that unmoved by her?

  Randy mixed two drinks and handed her the stronger one. "Shall we take these in the other room?" he asked, sitting down next to her.

  "No, let's just sit here for a moment," she said, relieved that her trembling had begun to subside enough so that she could repair her face and hair.

  "To us," Randy said, raising his glass.

  "Oh, shut up!"

  "What?" Randy said.

  "Nothing."

  By the time she had finished the cigarette and her drink—this last had been done in a matter of six large and unrefreshing gulps—she guessed that there was nothing else to do except to go along quietly. He led her masterfully into the bower shared by Herbert and Grace.

  If she had found Randy's living room depressing, the bedroom struck her as sordid. Not because it was, in its own way, any worse than the living room, but because of what she guessed she was expected to do in it.

  It was a small room with a busy wallpaper, a window, three doors, four mirrors and a lot of pictures frantically vying for wall space. She had never seen so much furniture in her life—a double bed, two night tables, a dresser, a chest of drawers, a desk, a chair, a dressing table, a boudoir stool, a chaise longue all in a style known as Louis the Terrible. In addition there were two overstuffed chairs that seemed to have been relegated to this room from a local funeral parlor, a blond wood table much the worse for wear, two pairs of lamps, an old magazine rack, a smoking stand, a pasteboard lingerie chest, a full-length cheval glass, a plant stand filled with dusty artificial dahlias and an old wrought-iron bridge lamp. The place smelled overpoweringly of ashtrays, perfume and moth balls.

  "Oh, listen, Randy," she began nervously, "I just can't . . ."

  He took her in his arms and silenced her with a long kiss. "I'll turn down the bed," he said.

  She couldn't quite look as he removed the long-legged French doll dressed in silver lace and rumpled orchid rayon and drew down the soiled chenille spread. Instead she went over to the window and tried to look at something more attractive.

  But there was nothing any more beautiful to be seen outside the room. The window was open and the grimy glass curtains stirred with a stagnant little breeze coming off the airshaft. Outside she could hear the nocturnal noises of the other tenants of the Rock Cornish Arms. Below her a man was brushing his teeth, spitting and gagging. Someone else was having a severe coughing fit. One radio was playing a tinny rendition of "It Might As Well Be Spring" while another extolled the virtues of a cut-rate clothing company. A cat yowled from the courtyard and a harpie's voice called out "Would you kinely turn down that radio!" There was a staccato clatter of Venetian blinds being rapidly raised or lowered.

  The sounds of an argument wafted across the airshaft.

  "G'wan, don't stan' there an' try to tell me you wasn't staring at Dolores all night!"

  "Aw fer Chris sake, Delia."

  "Don't chew Delia me. I suppose I haven' got eyes I can see yer practickly undressing every woman comes inta the room."

  "Aw fer God's sake, Baby!"

  "I suppose if I went around to evening potties practickly stark nakid, my bress hardly covered, you'd stare at me, too!"

  "Aw, fer Pete's sake, Delia!"

  She closed the window and turned back toward the room. Randy was at the door.

  "I'll just be in the bathroom for a minute," he said. "You can take off your things here." Then he was gone. She could hear the light go on and a door close. Then she heard the sound of water running.

  Dismally she surveyed the bedroom once again. The bed, now turned down, had been very badly made. One of the pillow cases was stained with grease, with black and with red. She shuddered and turned away, coming into sharp contact with the chest of drawers. (It was almost impossible to move in the room without bumping into some piece of furniture.) The top of the chest was empty except for a gritty dresser scarf, a thin film of dust and a large photograph in a rococo lucite frame. It was a sepia study of the same woman whose photograph dominated the living room. In this picture she was dressed as a shepherdess, all panniers and spit-curls with a pointed cupid's bow smirk. The photograph was signed in a florid scrawl with circular dots over the I's. It read "Always your girl—Grace des Lys—The Goose Girl'—1929."

  She turned away toward the dressing table and then the truth hit her like a bolt of lightning. But of course! Randy was living here with some woman. Why else would the dressing table be littered with jars of cleansing cream, with bobby pins, with lipsticks, and lotions and bottles of cheap scent? How perfectly obvious!

  She knew now that she wanted none of this. That she had to get out of the place immediately. And what better time than now when he was shut away in the bathroom and unable to stop her? In her panic, she opened the first door she could find. It was a closet, crowded with dresses and a disorderly row of shoes.

  She closed the closet door, snatched up her purse and tiptoed quietly from the room. Her furs, her gloves, her hat were someplace in the other room. Where had Randy put them? Out in the dark little hall she could see a crack of light from what she supposed was the bathroom door. She could hear the sound of a shoe being removed.

  Yes, she'd just get her things and go. He'd never be able to find her again.

  Through the living-room archway she saw her hat and furs sitting plumply on the dinette table. She hurried across to get them. Just as she reached them she heard the sound of a door opening and closing. She'd have to get out of here before he could stop her. She'd simply have to . . .

  The stillness was shattered by a harsh female voice calling out, "Well, that's the last time I ever go all the way to New Jersey to be insulted by Elva!"

  Randy called from the bathroom: "What did you say, darling?"

  "Is that you, Lover Boy?" the woman called. "You know what that God-damn, snotty Elva said . . ."

  Mary saw the woman before the woman saw her—she was a tall, broad-hipped creature. She was carrying a black patent leather hat-box, and wearing a balding fur cape.

  "I'll be right out, darling," Randy called from the bathroom.

  "Jesus, what a trip!" the woman said, dropping her hatbox with a clatter. "And then that stinking Elva acting so damned . . ." She turned toward the living room and the two women stared at one another for an eternal moment. Paralyzed, beyond speech, Mary recognized the stranger as the woman in the photograph. Grace Something. Yes! "Always your girl—Grace des Lys—The Goose Girl'—1929."

  Grace was the first to speak. She gaped into the living room. "What the . . . Who are you? What are you . . ."

  The bathroom door opened behind her and Randy emerged in a dressing gown.

  The woman wheeled around and caught a glimpse of Randy. Standing there as he was in a robe and sandals, his bare chest gleaming, there was only one conclusion to draw. Grace drew it.

  "Grace!" Randy breathed.

  "Yesssss," she hissed. "Grace! Grace is right, you two-timing son of a bitch!"

  Ashen, Randy tried to speak. "Grace. I can explain . . ."

  "Shut up!" she screamed. "Don't you try to explain anything to me, you dirty little moocher! Here I keep you, feed you, buy your clothes and the minute my back is turned you drag some floozie up to my apartment. Well I won't have it. Do yo
u hear? I won't have it!" Her voice had now risen to a screech.

  "Grace, sweetheart," Randy began, "I know this looks funny, but I can . . ."

  "You know good an' damn well what you can do, you no-good sneak," Grace screamed. "You can get out of my house! Tonight! Now! I'm sick of paying your bills and then having you . . ."

  "Please, Grace," Randy implored. "If you'd only . . ."

  "Shut up!" Grace bellowed.

  Randy shut up. There was little choice.

  Then Grace turned slowly toward the living room, her finger leveled theatrically. She began her tirade slowly, quietly. "As for yeu-oo . . ." Grace said haughtily.

  Mary realized that this virago was denouncing her, that she was being called names she didn't even understand, that she was being roundly insulted and wrongly accused of all kinds of crimes. But she was too horrified, too terrified even to hear the words. Seeing this horrible fury standing at the threshold of the room, the terms "Dramatic Training" and "Stage Presence" came instantly to mind. It was all such bad theater. The torrent of words kept pouring forth shrilly and viciously, but she didn't even hear them. As with Alice earlier this evening, she could only think of inconsequentials. First she wondered why everything terrible seemed to happen to her in rooms that were painted pink. Numbly, she dismissed the problem of pink as too large to cope with at the moment.

  She had concentrated on Alice's terrible hat earlier this evening, now she drank in the horror that was Grace: the swelling ankles above the scuffed pumps: the black crepe dress, too tight across the middle; the mended fabric gloves with a split seam at the accusatory index finger so that a long, reddened nail stuck out like the beak of a bird; the pathetic fur cape; the sagging throat above the myriads of fake pearls; the badly painted shrew's face; the skittish, but soiled white hat; and the hair.

  Yes, it was the hair that fascinated her most. It was black, a solid, dull, unbelievable black. It was the lifeless black of a licorice stick, the black of an old station stove, the black of a battered man's umbrella. It hung in lank, dead curls and ringlets around the woman's heavy neck, in a flirtatious and presumably softening half-bang beneath her bobbing hat.

  As the denunciation roared on Mary wondered whether Grace dyed it herself or if she made Randy dye it for her in a series of quarrelsome, pungent sessions bent over the washbasin. What on earth could they use to get human hair such a dreadful, deathly black? Shoe polish? Stove blacking? India ink? She was so curious, even in her anesthesia of misery, that she almost wanted to interrupt the great denunciation and ask. No, she thought deliriously, that would be rude. Now she really would have to collect her wits and try to listen to what this madwoman was saying. Some sort of reply might be expected.

  ". . . I found him when he was down and out. No job. Locked out of his room. Hungry even! I took care of him. I . . ." Could it be some kind of coal product, she wondered? ". . . I even bought him his shoes! When he needed money, I . . ." Maybe it wasn't really hair at all, maybe it was patent leather just fitted onto her head. ". . . I gave him all the love, all the help I could. I . . ." Or could it be one of those wigs made out of synthetics like Nylon or mohair or something like that? ". . . and what did I ask in return? Nothing! Nothing except the affection and respect you'd give to a . . ." Or maybe this Grace had dipped her head, inadvertently, into a bucket of tar. She supposed that such eccentric accidents could happen. ". . . but let me tell you, sister, I'm finished with him!" The tears began to run down Grace's face now and Mary wondered if they, too, would turn black. They did. "But you can have him. He's getting out of my place tonight and you can take him with you! Just go! Get out now! Go and leave me a-lo-o-o-one."

  Grace burst into a fit of weeping. But it wasn't a good, honest, healthy cry. She just stood there in the middle of her horrible room racked and heaving with dry, strangulated sobs.

  Oh, the poor thing, Mary thought. The poor old thing! She had originally placed Grace at around forty-five, now she felt that Grace was a good bit closer to sixty.

  Except for the sobs, the room was still. Hypnotized by the horror of what she had been through, Mary gathered up her hat and her furs. She spoke automatically, almost as though what she was saying was a little speech of thanks learned by rote and delivered to the hostess at the end of some child's birthday party. "I'm awfully sorry to have stayed so late," she blurted. "I really must be going. Thank you for the drink." She tiptoed past the weeping figure of Grace. "I'm sorry," she said again.

  "Listen," Randy said, reaching out and grasping her wrist, "wait till I get dressed. I'll drive you home. You shouldn't be out alone . . . I mean, I . . ."

  She looked him up and down disinterestedly. In the relentless light of the room Randy was a lot less attractive. Like Randy, his brocade dressing gown had undoubtedly seen better days. It was spotted and woefully frayed. Just like Randy.

  "Wait," Randy said again. "I can send for my things tomorrow. We can go to . . ."

  "How shabby you are," she said calmly. "How pathetically shabby."

  In a trance, she opened the door, went out into the corridor and rang for the elevator. She heard Randy back in the apartment saying "Grace, sweetheart. Grace, listen to me. Grace . . ." The elevator door slid open. She stepped inside. The operator closed it with a bang and that was the last she heard of Randy.

  Ten

  It wasn’t until she reached the fresh air—until she found herself standing under the tattered canopy of the Rock Cornish Arms—that reality crowded in on her.

  But when it struck it nearly knocked her flat. The terrible cheapness and slickness and glibness and phoniness of her fine Virginia gentleman. Randolph Carter Lee, pseudo Southern aristocrat, kept gentleman and professional torn cat. Inquiries invited. He was no better than a gigolo, and not honest enough to admit to being one. Greenwood House in old Virginny! That was rich! The sights, the smells, the squalor of that hideous apartment! The awful liquor. Even the thought of letting a man like that touch her made her stomach churn.

  And then Grace! Poor, ludicrous, melodramatic old Grace! Grace, who looked like nothing so much as a down-and-out old doxie, ruining her hair and her health and her husband—whoever he might be—just to keep an utter stinker like Randy.

  "But then," she said aloud, "am I any better than Grace?" Right then there appeared to be little difference save for the age, income and hair. Weren't they really cut of the same cloth—two restive married women hungry for adventure, for romance, for the flattery and cajolery that a heel like Randy—or any other young bounder so disposed—could supply.

  Of course I meant to go, she reasoned with herself. I was on my way out when—when Grace arrived. Then she became relentlessly hard with herself. But was that because of virtue or fear or just plain snobbery? Would I have given in to him if the apartment had been halfway decent—or even clean? If I hadn't been certain, all of a sudden, that it was another woman's apartment? If he'd had nice bachelor's quarters like Fletcher McKenzie?

  Then the whole ghastly day revolved in her mind: the terrible fight with her husband this morning; Alice; Fran; Fran's frightening deaf-mute charwoman; the shopping center; the luncheon; Lisa's party; dinner in Fletch's apartment; the night club; her husband out dancing with the Other Woman, just as though nothing had ever happened; Adele Hennessey and her friend Mrs. Slattery in the ladies' room; Alice again; then that session with Randy; Grace; and finally the horrid old elevator man who had grinned at her with toothless gums and said, "Guess the old cat came back and caught you mice!"

  Her stomach lurched once more and she swayed to the curb and considered getting sick between the bumpers of two cars. Embedded in the chromium were the names Oldsmobile and De Soto. Oldsmobile in front, De Soto behind. But she couldn't bring herself to it. She went back to the building and leaned against it.

  "What's that, girlie?" a man's voice said.

  She looked up and saw a man standing there. He was sinister and forbidding in the darkness.

  "I didn't say anything," she quiv
ered.

  "Listen, honey,” the man said genially, "I bet you an' me could have some fun together. How's about . . ." He touched her elbow.

  "Get away from me!" she cried. "Leave me alone!" She broke away from him and ran wildly.

  She pounded over the echoing pavements in her high heels, too frightened even to look back. She ran helplessly and hopelessly, across the wide avenue and right to the entrance of Central Park.

  A policeman stopped her.

  "I wouldn't go in there alone, lady," he said. "Not at this hour. Dangerous."

  "Oh, if you'll only help me!" she sobbed. "I just want to get away from here. To go home!"

  He looked her over casually, taking in the dress and the furs.

  "Will a taxi do?" he asked. "Or do you need subway fare?"

  "Oh, a taxi, please," she panted. "If you'd just help me to get one. I'd be so—I'd be so grateful."

  "Surest thing you know, lady," the policeman said. "You got the fare?"

  "Oh, yes. If you'd just . . .”

  He stepped to the curb and waved his white-gloved hand. A taxi-cab, garishly yellow and green and violet, twinkling with colored lights, pulled up.

  "Just take this little lady home, bud," the policeman said. He opened the door and helped her in.

  "Thank you so very . . ."

  "That's okay, lady," the officer said. "Take it easy." He slammed the door.

  "Where to, lady?" the driver asked.

  "Home, please," she sighed.

  "Sure, sister, but where's home? Noo Yawk's a big city."