Hunger and Thirst

by Richard Matheson

  “Sold.”

  He stood up and went behind her chair. He put his hands on her shoulders, and, bending over, he kissed her warm neck.

  “It was wonderful Sal,” he said, “Really.”

  She crossed her arms and put her hands on his. She patted them. “I’m so glad you liked it,” she said happily.

  Then she said, “It is like it’s our house and we were having Sunday dinner all by ourselves.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Oh, if only it were so.”

  “Maybe it will be,” he said but immediately felt a drawing back.

  “Don’t say it darling,” she said, “I love you so much. But I don’t ever want you to feel you owe it to me. Unless you feel it in your heart, just let it go.”

  Then she said, “Remind me to show you something later.”

  “All right.”

  She got up to do the dishes and he went into the livingroom. He lay down on the couch and put his hands behind his head.

  “Why don’t you turn on the radio?”

  “I don’t want to let anything in the house but you and me.”

  She didn’t answer. He wondered what she was thinking, what sort of expression there was on her face. Then the dishes started to rattle again.

  When she came in and sat down he said, “Boy, I’m half gone.”

  She stroked his hair and bent over to kiss him.

  “You read about that homosexual ring they broke up at the college?” he asked as she straightened up.

  “What made you think of that?” she asked.

  “Just looking through the paper before.”

  “Wasn’t that awful?” she said.

  “It was.”

  “I … was a little worried.”

  “What for?”

  “Well …”

  “You mean you knew some of them?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “How about Felix?” he laughed.

  She didn’t smile. Then he felt himself shudder. His laugh was strained.

  “You don’t mean me, do you?” he asked.

  “Well …” The look in her eyes. It frightened him.

  “Oh, Sally,” he scolded, “How could you?”

  “Well,” she said, flustered now, “You’re so … pretty.”

  “Pretty!” He felt amused in spite of the nervousness.

  “You are,” she said, “By … by their standards. You have a nice build and you’re … good looking.”

  “Oh Christ, Sally.”

  “You’re angry with me?”

  “No,” he said, “Amused mostly. That you should have thought that of me.

  “Well, your … your friend.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lynn,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Lynn!”

  He felt as though something were beginning to crush him. He wanted to break loose and run from the place. It seemed as if things he had been forcing down for a long time were coming into light. Ugly things.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

  “But … oh, all right.” he said moodily. Somehow he didn’t want to pursue the subject anymore. He felt like a child who hears a noise in the darkness; afraid to investigate and see what it is.

  “And you still love me?” he found himself saying, “If I were some professor’s paramour?”

  “I’d be unhappy,” she said, resting her cheek on his chest so as not to look at his eyes. “But I couldn’t stop loving you. I’d … want to help you.”

  He sighed.

  “Sally,” he said, “That I should give you that concern to add to all the rest …,” and he believed his own sincerity.

  “You’re a concern all right,” she admitted.

  Then she raised up and looked at him.

  “So you thought you were in love with a fairy,” he said, incapable of not pursuing the point.

  She tried to smile. “Are you blushing?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “I am.”

  Then, after a few minutes, she lay beside him and they fell asleep together.

  * * * *

  “Would you like to go out in back?”

  “Back yard?”

  “Mmmm. It would be cooler.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll get a blanket and you can take the radio from my bedroom window.”

  She handed him the radio after opening the screen. He put it on the spread out blanket. He turned it on as the house lights went out. She came out on the back porch and he heard the light tread of her bare feet on the wooden steps. She sat beside him. He took her in his arms and they kissed. But he kept thinking of what she said about Lynn. Even while her mouth was crushed on his and her body rubbing against him, he kept thinking of it. And wondering.

  “It’s nice out here,” she said, at last.

  “Yes.”

  They lay in each other’s arms listening to the music. He felt the flow and ebb of her warm breath on his cheek, her soft stomach resting against him.

  He began to caress her breasts. First she tried to take his hands away. Then she slid her hands around his back and pressed in. He opened a button of her dress. Not because he desired it, he realized. It was more in the nature of a challenge. A test. He just had to open her dress. Beyond that there was no plan. He didn’t know what he wanted to do or why he wanted to do it.

  Dead silence. Then, “Erick?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Opening buttons.”

  “Why?”

  “Good question.”

  His voice trembled a little. He pulled open another button. He drew the dress over her shoulder and pressed his lips into the warm flesh. She sighed and held on tightly. He opened another button, a fourth. Then, feverishly, in a second or two, he went down the front of her dress and opened them all. He forgot why he wanted to do it or if there had to be a reason at all. He just couldn’t stop.

  She didn’t say anything. Not when he pulled the dress over her shoulders. Not when he caressed her breasts through her brassiere. Not when he held her arms at her sides and slid the dress to her waist. She was docile. She pulled her fingers from the sleeves and put them around his neck again. He pressed his fingers on her warm back. He held her tightly and kissed her. She was starting to breathe heavily. She rubbed her breasts against him. His breath caught, his stomach swelled.

  Then his mind started in.

  He kissed her neck and earlobes passionately, almost desperately, trying to outdistance analysis. He felt for the catch of her brassiere. It slid to the sides. He felt her uncovered breasts swell up against him, large, firm.

  “Oh, Erick,” she murmured, “No.”

  Don’t be silly, the words started in his mind, Why the hell do you say no when you mean yes, yes, yes. Why do you …

  He cut it short, feeling unbounded rage at himself. Stop thinking, for Christ’s sake! he demanded of himself. Anxiously, he tried to recapture excitement. He pulled the brassiere off her breasts and pressed his lips to them. They were burning hot. They yielded softly under his kisses. She caught her breath and moaned softly. She dug her suddenly hard fingers into his hair and almost scratched him.

  “Oh, Erick. Darling!”

  Breathing heavily she pressed her cheek against his.

  “You’re not very nice,” she said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I wish I could stop you.”

  “You have a lovely body.”

  I’m glad you like it!! mimicked his mind.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Sally said.

  “I do.” He almost laughed.

  He kissed her throat, tightening his fingers on her soft shoulders. He ran his lips over her shoulders and down to her breasts. He rested his cheek against their large white softness.

  “Why can’t you love me?”

  “I could tell you I love you,” he said, feeling almost sick, “I could tell you to mak
e you happy. But I respect you. I think too much of you to lie just to take advantage.”

  Noble soul! sneered his mind, Cut the crap buddy. You’re just too chicken to take advantage. You’re afraid. You’re afraid of everything!

  He pressed in close and bit his lip.

  “You couldn’t get much more of an advantage,” he heard her saying. He felt her stir against him restively.

  Then she said softly,

  “Make me happy.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me you love me. For now. Tell me over and over. I don’t care if it’s a lie. Just tell me.” She gasped and pulled his lips against her breasts. “Tell me you love me!”

  He lifted his head. He felt like someone powerful, in a great position of eminence, supreme and well assured. He waited dramatically. He knew the moment in every sense, experienced her feeling.

  She had her eyes closed. He looked at her breasts in the dim light from the radio. They were very white and large, standing out firmly from her body. He bent over her mouth suddenly

  “I love you,” he said.

  He tightened his arms feeling free and powerful. He could say it and she would not hold him responsible. It was a feeling he knew he yearned for always. To have and have not.

  “I love you Sally!” He said it again, again.

  She sobbed and her arms tightened around him. Their mouths clung together. He ran his hands under her upright breasts and rubbed the flesh. She twisted and moaned. Saliva ran across his cheek. Messy love affair, said his mind, messy. He fought it off. His hand moved down impulsively and assuredly to her thigh. He felt her bare flesh, knew with a start that her dress had worked up almost to her waist. Or she’s pulled it up, idiot! his mind howled with raucous laughter, watching him fail.

  He gasped for breath and ran his hand over her leg. He felt his heart beating rapidly, thudding like maniacal fists against the wall of his chest. But his mind ticked on calmly and dispassionately. Now I’m caressing her thigh, yes sir, oh yes. Now just a little bit higher and my hand will touch the source of life, the fountainhead, the …

  She wrenched her lips away with a sob.

  “Oh Erick, please don’t!”

  “Sally, please!”

  He was utterly appalled at the husky grinding sound of his own voice. He almost fell away from her with a scream.

  She sobbed. Then she made a helpless sound. Her head fell back and her body went limp.

  “Oh, I don’t care,” she said, shaking uncontrollably, “I don’t care.”

  His stomach was drawn and tight. Now! howled his mind. He felt a wild uncontrollable heat bubbling up in his limbs which his mind could do nothing to stop. He pressed his hand down on her warm, heaving stomach. She lurched a little. His mind clicked on. He wanted to scream in rage. Well well, what are we up to, said his mind. Let me alone! Let me alone for God’s sake!

  He touched the edge of her pants. He ran his hand underneath and felt the soft flesh of her stomach under his palm. He bit his lip again. She’s too healthy, he thought, baby, baby, watch that stuff. His mind droned. Too dangerous, watch that, baby, baby, BABY!

  He clenched his teeth and sobbed out loud as his hand jerked back.

  “No,” he said, “No.” As if he were fighting, defending his rights.

  Abruptly, she began to cry helplessly, clinging to him. Cooly and calmly, he pulled part of the blanket over her. He felt the cool breeze on his body. She had no attraction for him. She was just a sobbing girl. He was apart, aloof, detached. He sympathized with her, nothing more. The heat in his body seemed to drain out into the ground like water from an emptied pitcher. Seemed to drain happily. He felt cold and colder in mind and body. The radio music droned on and on without being anything but a mass of empty sounds. He felt lifeless.

  He looked up at the stars. I’ve lost it, he told himself. I’ve lost it.

  But he didn’t care.

  After a while, she pulled away a little and drew up her dress without buttoning it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he might say if he had spilled something on her. Or stubbed her toe while dancing.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I wanted to do it. You know that.” If you do, you’re out of your mind.

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” she said.

  “I knew I shouldn’t,” he said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Is it? Really? You wouldn’t have stopped me?”

  “I would have let you do anything,” she said.

  “Sense,” he said, dully.

  She was silent, breathing heavily. She arranged her dress.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  He squinted at his watch by the radio light.

  “Ten thirty.”

  “Oh,” she said, “We’d better get up. Leo will be coming home soon.”

  She sat up and he saw the whiteness of her breasts as her dress fell open. He put his hand inside. She didn’t stop him but she didn’t shiver or seem to be affected.

  “Are you angry, Sal?”

  “No.”

  They pulled out the radio plug and carried the blanket and radio inside. When she came into the livingroom her dress was buttoned up. She smiled.

  “I’m not really angry, darling,” she said, sliding her arms around him, “I can see that you did the right thing.”

  “I hope I did the right thing.”

  “You did.”

  “I hope so.” He was conscious of the two of them standing there and talking, to his mind, arrant nonsense.

  He kissed her forehead. “I wish I’d done it,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” she said and every time she said it, it made him sicker.

  They stood silently. He looked over the walls and ceiling. Then he said, “I’d better go.”

  “All right.”

  “I bet you’re glad to get rid of me.”

  She looked up and he wasn’t sure what he saw; love or sympathy or pity or amusement or all of them together. She just shook her head. “No,” she said.

  “Maybe you think it’s a sign I do like men better than women.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t think so either,” he said, a little irritated at his own tone of self-defense.

  “Good night darling,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Thanks for the dinner,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

  He pressed her breasts as he kissed her. “I’m always yours,” she said. But he didn’t believe her.

  He stood on the cool corner and leaned against the lamp post. He felt an urge to run back and take her violently. He didn’t move. He saw a car pull up to the house and Leo jump out and kiss some boy goodnight through the window.

  He sat back in disgruntled silence on the bus. The night was ugly. It wasn’t until two days later that he found the poem in his jacket. She had probably put it there when he was asleep, he decided. It was what she had mentioned about showing him. He also guessed she was sorry he had it now. He read it so many times it filled his memory.

  Deep in the dark center of life

  You came and drew breath and lived

  Time took you and held you awhile

  Then set you free.

  Out of the dark center of life

  Somehow you came to me

  And the breath life had given me

  Stopped for a moment

  Then caught again

  In time with yours.

  * * * *

  The term was over. The streets were empty and barren. Erick walked around distractedly, with nothing to do. The summer semester didn’t start for five days.

  He went into a drug store and had a coke. Then he went in back and called Sally. He hadn’t seen her since that night, except once briefly on the campus.

  “Hello Erick,” she said, “What’s the matter?”

  “The matter?” he said, “Something have to be the matter?”

  “No. I thought we said goodbye though.”

 
; “Well …”

  “What is it?”

  He was getting angry. He hated to be the loser. But he was too lonely to hang up.

  “I … just wondered what you were doing,” he said.

  “Cleaning up. Packing.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I told you.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re staying until August,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Silence a moment.

  “Look … Erick. I’m awfully busy.”

  “I just thought I’d come out and see you.” He almost bit his tongue for saying it.

  “Oh.” She sounded pained. “Well, if you think you’d enjoy watching me run around like a chicken without a head …”

  “I’ll stay out of your way,” he said, unable to stop himself. He didn’t care what she said. He didn’t want to be alone. Being alone was the most awful thing. There were long periods of time when he could be alone, when he actually craved solitude.

  But then at times when he least expected it, at times when mental activity slowed down, the loneliness would come and he would be thrown into a panic at the thought of being alone with nothing to lose himself in, no activity to swallow up introspection.

  The front screen door was open when he got there. He let it slap into its frame as he went in. She looked out from the kitchen.

  “Hi,” he called.

  “Hello,” she said.

  She was at the sink scrubbing some white tennis shoes with a small brush.

  “Washing out a few pairs of shoes?” he said.

  “Getting the dirt off.”

  He stood by the sink and watched her strong brown fingers hold the white rubber taut while she scrubbed suds into it. Water ran slowly from the faucet dribbling onto the white enamel.

  Sally was wearing a wrinkled cotton dress. Her hair hung in damp wisps over her forehead. There was a line of sweat on her upper lip. Erick took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, irritably.

  “Blotting your perspiration,” he said.

  He sat down at the table and watched her, feeling a rising lack of ease. She said nothing. With his gaze he followed the line that ran from her right armpit to her waist, swelled out at her hip and then angled down to her calf. He looked at her well-muscled legs, her arched feet stuck into floppy white sandals. He looked up again. Her shoulders were very broad for a girl’s. She stood erect and firm.