4
JUST BEFORE the beginning of the last set, Ludlow found himself alone at one end of the bar with Malveen. It had been a slow night for her. Small-Change was now making her fifth trip, having described him to Ludlow as a one-time-a-year man. She had assured Ludlow and Malveen she would be back in fifteen minutes. “I don’t think he’ll even get one up.”
Malveen had made only two trips. She had been standing at the bar now for nearly two hours, drinking steadily. At first, she had not seemed to care that she was having a bad night. “I made my rent, my food for this week. I can even buy a new dress if I want. Hell, I ain’t about getting rich anyways.”
Ludlow had noticed that Small-Change usually got more business and had asked Hardie about it on one of their walks to Missus Scott’s. “It in her face, Ludlow. I mean, you got to think what kinda man is using whores. Malveen’s prettier, I guess. But Small-Change look like she’ll do anything. I mean, anything. She look crazy. You take one look at that face and you know when she takes you to her room and you pay your cash, something weird’ll happen to you. And ain’t that just what you looking for if you got to buy it?”
But what Hardie could see in her face, Ludlow could not find in Small-Change’s dry, bitter voice. And though both women had hugged and fondled him, only Malveen set loose his imagination. He had been thinking of her more and more, always wondering if she was serious about wanting him to visit her. He wanted to believe she was, and finally he did. He decided the next time she invited him to her place, he would risk asking her if she meant it. He was glad that Small-Change and Hardie (who was somewhere in the café trying to secure his own invitation) were not there; if Malveen turned him down, laughing at him, at least no one else would be present to ridicule him.
The set before he had tried to play especially well; it was his music that usually started Malveen. But besides saying that he sounded good, she had said nothing. He waited, silent in the chatter around him, for her to speak.
Finally she sighed and he asked her what was wrong.
“I ain’t losing my looks, is I?” She paused. “Hell! You can’t tell me.” She swallowed and banged her glass on the bar. “It just that I don’t like the scorecard: five to two. It a matter of pride. Maybe I got to get a new dress—something that shows more.” She was slurring her words; she was very nearly drunk.
Momentarily Ludlow forgot his own preoccupation. He did, after all, like her a lot and did not want her to be unhappy. “What you wearing now, Malveen?”
“It green, you know, smooth stuff. And it’s low in front.” She pulled in her voice, speaking more to herself. “Maybe it ain’t low enough or something. And it got some beads on it. It’s nice. Here, feel.” She took his hand and placed it on her stomach. The cloth was smooth. Under the material, he felt her stomach rising and falling. His thumb just grazed the bottom curve of her breasts. She let go his wrist and without really knowing it, he did not immediately remove his fingertips from her stomach. Finally, suddenly embarrassed, he pulled back his hand and held the bar tightly. He had a strange sick feeling and his ears were numb.
“I don’t know how that skinny bitch do it. A man sees me across the room and comes over. I know he looking at me. But when he gets here, she sneers at him and I end up ordering another drink and she leading him out the door.”
Ludlow thought about what Hardie had told him, but decided not to tell Malveen.
“You used to love me.” Her voice smiled. “But I bet you don’t even want me no more.”
Hardie had told him to stay calm, but against the hardness of the bar, his hand began to shake. “Yes, I do.” He had meant it to be low, relaxed, almost joking, but instead he sounded like a little boy trying to convince his friends he was courageous.
Malveen did not seem to notice. She spoke at the bar in front of her. “Sure, you do. You my steady boyfriend.”
“No, really, baby.” He hated too the way this came out. He waited for her reaction. Now she would know what he had been thinking. He would find out if she was serious.
“Why, Ludlow.” Her tone was indulgent. “You ain’t making love to me, is you?”
“What you think, baby?” He tried to imitate how Hardie would have said it, and it sounded just like an imitation, not at all real or relaxed, rather false and shrill.
Malveen began to laugh.
Ludlow’s forehead grew cold, then damp. “What other offers you had lately?” He had not realized how much he had wanted to hurt her for laughing at him. For an instant he wondered from where had come the impulse to hurt.
“I guess not many.” She took another swallow. “Besides, you don’t got to jump so salty. I was only laughing because I always figured you thought I was your mama or something.”
“You ain’t nobody’s mama.” It came out smoothly and surprised him. For an instant he was no longer nervous, frightened. Hardie had been right; when the time came Ludlow had known what to do, what to say.
The only close sound was Malveen’s breathing. She was staring at him; he could almost feel it. “All right. I’ll wait for you.” She said nothing more. Ludlow stood beside her, his left foot on the metal rail running along the base of the bar, his right foot planted firmly but his knees slightly limp, his palms sweating. He was breathing heavily.
She had accepted. He realized that he had not expected her to accept. Not only that, but he began to wonder if he had even wanted her to accept. Perhaps it would have been enough for him simply to muster the courage to ask her. But she had believed his few smooth words, though as soon as they were alone, he was certain she would know exactly what he was, what he had done. Perhaps he should have told her the truth, that he had never made love to a woman, and then asked her to be kind enough to teach him. He could still do this—and she would laugh at him so loudly, would ridicule him so ruthlessly that he would choose to go back to the Home rather than meet the people at Boone’s again. He stood beside her thinking all this, until finally Hardie came to rescue him, leading him to the safety of the bandstand.
He did not play very well. The few notes to which he paid any attention were shaky and uncertain. But Rodney said nothing to him; no one else must have noticed. While playing, he went over what it would be like, what he would do, rehearsing again an often thought dream. Finally, the set finished, Hardie, to whom he had told his plans, and who had warned him once again to stay calm no matter what happened, led him back to the bar.
“Here’s your man. Treat him right.” Hardie seemed to be teasing them. Ludlow wondered if he was jealous.
“You’re a bastard.” Malveen had continued to drink and sounded very like Small-Change. Ludlow thought about calling it all off, telling her he had been fooling, but it was too late for that now. He had to finish it. Besides, she would be different when they were alone.
Hardie told them to have a good time and left.
Ludlow waited at the bar, his cane hooked over his left arm, his instrument case in his right hand, his other hand clutching the smooth wood. “You—you ready, Malveen?”
She bumped against him; she was quite drunk. “Sure. I’m ready.” She was defiant. “Let me finish my drink. You don’t want me to lose the money I paid for it, do you?”
Ludlow put down his case on the bar, but kept his cane. “No.”
She gulped her drink, put down the glass and grabbed his arm. “Come on, honey.” For an instant he could smell only the alcohol on her breath. Then it was gone and he had picked up his case and she was half leaning on him, half leading him to the door. In the street she kissed him on the cheek. “That bitch! I bet she be jealous when she finds out you going home with me. We’ll have a good time.”
Ludlow clung to his case, wishing he had left it under the bar. Malveen’s breasts rubbed against his elbow, the smooth, slick-sounding material, then a seam on her bra and under that her skin. He staggered under her staggering weight.
They passed few people. He kept thinking, knowing it was a silly thought, that everyone they passed suspected why he was with her and was watching him.
“Oh.” Malveen stopped short after five minutes. “This is it. We almost passed it. This is it.” She led him up three wooden steps, onto a creaking porch, and stopped again. “I feel dizzy.”
“You all right?”
“Sure. Nothing’ll stop us having a good time.” The screen door gave the sound of a bullfrog. She pulled him inside; they climbed narrow steps, the center of each one worn away, perhaps by the other men who had followed her up to her bed. She stopped him on the second floor, jingled through her purse, rattled a key into the lock and opened the door, leaving him in the hall. She took two high-heeled steps and pulled the rasping light string. “Well, come on in.” She came and put her arms around his neck and, walking backwards, pulled him over the worn doorsill. Her thighs were soft. He could not embrace her because he still carried his cane and case. His face was enveloped again in the smell of alcohol. Her lips were fleshy. Hardie had told him to open his mouth; he opened his mouth. Her teeth were uneven, one being gold-covered and smoother than the others. Her body warmed his from his knees to shoulders. She pushed her thighs and stomach hard against him. He was embarrassed by what he knew she found there. “You don’t waste no time, sweetness.” She kissed him again lightly, then laughed. “Forgot to lock the door. This ain’t no public function.” She released him, closed and locked the door, then passed him, walking to the center of the room. It did not sound very large; there was no echo. The light string scraped against glass. “There. Now I can’t see neither.” She came to him, pushing against him, and kissed him. When at last she pulled away, his lips were wet, sticky with lipstick. “Undress me.”
He had extended his hand before he realized he was still carrying his cane and case. He put them on the floor, the case falling against his ankle as he straightened up and reached for her with nervous, trembling hands. He hoped she could not see them.
The firmness of her ribs and back, covered with a padding of spongy flesh, came under his hand. Finding seven buttons, he undid them, his hands still shaking. She wiggled and his hands were shocked by an expanse of bare skin, moist and cool. Her bra strap circled her back like a barrel stave, flesh bulging on either side of it.
“Well, for God’s sakes, sweetness, unhook it.”
He pulled the bra strap tight and took the prongs from the eyes. The strap left ridges, designs on her skin. She turned suddenly and her breasts tickled his palms; unblemished but design-marked skin surrounded small cold nipples. In his stomach was the same deep, hollow feeling he had experienced at the bar when he had stroked her dress. He felt as if only his hands were really alive. He could feel only his hands and the inside of his stomach growing tight. She came close again, putting her arms around him, squeezing her breasts between them, the top of her dress bunched around her waist. “It as good as you thought, ain’t it, Ludlow?”
She had asked that, he knew, because she could feel the frightened stiffness of his body, although she did not know he was frightened. She stepped away from him. “I’ll finish it.” Her shoes bumped across the wood floor. Elastic and material fluttered. “Now, I’ll do you.”
She took hold of his belt, unbuckled it and pulled his pants and undershorts over his hips, down his legs and onto the floor. He stepped out of them. For an instant a memory came from long ago, of his mother doing the same thing. He could remember nothing else, not his mother’s voice, or the feeling of her hands, just simply his clothes being pulled away.
Malveen’s hands were on his shoulders, then pushing his jacket down his arms, her fingernails catching along his shirt sleeves. She slipped off his tie, unbuttoned and took off his shirt. Her hands touched his stomach, making it pull in as if from a blow. “Come on, man, what you waiting for?”
“Nothing, baby.” He tried in vain to sound tough.
“The bed’s over here.” She pulled him across the room until he felt sheets against his knee. Then she giggled; she was still quite drunk. “You got your shoes and socks on. You planning to screw and run?”
He sat on the bed and unlaced his shoes, slipped off his socks. Under his bare buttocks the bed was unmade, rumpled, and he could not stop himself from thinking of the two other men who tonight had perhaps been sitting on that very spot.
“Come on, Ludlow.” She was behind him on the bed. “Come on, sweetness. Love me to death.”
He stretched out beside her. She had been sweating, but the sweat had dried. She was cool and sticky. She rubbed her feet against his, then forced her soft leg between his own stiff legs and upward. She kissed him and he kissed her back as Hardie had instructed. She began to moan under the kiss; it seemed unreal. He remembered Hardie or someone had told him that a girl would begin to moan, and he knew it must be time to make love to her. He rolled on top of her; she opened her legs. He was surprised how very far he could get into her. Then, before he really knew it, it was all over, faster even than his quiet, lonely moments with his thoughts and handkerchief, and he was weaker than he had ever been in his life.
Malveen, spread beneath him, was pushing at him and cursing. “You bastard! Is that all? You couldn’t even hold your hot little rod!”
He did not understand. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong! You mealymouthed mother-fucking little blind bastard! Get away from me, you fucking faggot! Get off me!”
In a tangle of sheets, he pushed himself off her and to his knees. “What’d I do, Malveen?”
“What did you do! I oughta make you pay. You didn’t do nothing. Not a damn thing. I was just getting used to you. What did you do? Get your clothes and get out of here.” The bedsprings crackled and lurched upward. The light chain pinged and something heavy and hard grazed his head and fell in front of him—his shoe. After that, kneeling on the bed, he was pelted with all his clothes, as she scurried around the room screaming at him. “Get out of here!”
Finally the barrage of clothes stopped and she dragged him off the bed, onto his feet, and pushed him across the room. The door banged open and she shoved him out into the hall, where other women giggled and whispered:
“Who that?”
“Malveen surely did tell his ass off.”
“Didn’t he pay her?”
“She called him a faggot.”
His clothes hit his legs. “Get dressed and get away from my door. I don’t want nobody to know I shamed myself.” She went back into the room. “Here’s your God damn cane.” It clattered beside him. “And take this too!” There was a heavy thud in the mound of clothes. He bent to touch it and found his instrument case. “Now get out!” The door slammed.
To a chorus of giggles, razor-sharp whispers and clicking tongues, he dressed himself, untangling each piece of clothing from the pile at his feet. By the time he put on his jacket the women were gone, having disappeared one by one behind locking doors. He was alone in the hall. Behind Malveen’s door it was quiet. He picked up his cane and case and crept down the steps, feeling as if the staircase was lined with finger-pointing women.
In the street, he asked the first person he met for directions, and started home. He had walked slowly for ten minutes before he realized his cheeks were wet with tears, not so much from shame as from anger. He vowed solemnly that nothing like that would ever happen to him again. He vowed too that one day he would return to Malveen’s room and bed, and even if he had to pay her, he would prove himself. But then he began to doubt he would ever be able to keep either vow and became so deeply discouraged he had to stop. Finally he went on, and as he neared Missus Scott’s, he was smiling. At least, he was thinking, he knew now what it was all about.
5
EIGHT HOURS LATER Ludlow, waking, first became aware of the cars and people in the street. He rolled over and placed his fingers on the face of his clock (an ordinary one
with the glass removed), felt the time at one o’clock and climbed out of bed. Near the foot of the bed he found the balled-up handkerchief he had used the night before and, angry at himself for the first time about doing this, flung it away from him. That would not be enough anymore.
He was not at all hungry and, being afraid of talking to anyone, fearing that by now everyone in the world would know what had happened with Malveen the night before, he remained in his room, sitting in the warm breeze that pushed through the window. He fingered his instrument, but during the next five hours, he did not often think of music as he hoped he would. Instead he reviewed many times what had happened, and what his life had been since he left the Home. Finally he thought he was beginning to understand it all:
Life outside the Home was exactly the same as it had been inside. The people on top of you would always try to keep you down; the people under you would always try to pull you down.
It was that simple. He had known this to be true inside the Home. His mistake had been to expect it to be different, better, outside. But it would not be better or different, ever. After he decided this, he began to feel less discouraged.
Just then, Etta-Sue Scott knocked. With his new discovery in mind, he opened the door.
“Mama say you always come down this time to eat. She worrying about you.”
“She don’t got to worry.” He was already returning to the window. “I ain’t hungry.” He knew how he wanted it to sound, angry, and was surprised when it emerged very nearly that.
There was a long silence; though he had left the door open, she remained outside the room. When finally she spoke, something had gone out of her voice—pity or condescension perhaps—and she was nervous. “You eating out tonight?”
“I ain’t eating at all tonight. I’m on a diet.” That was better still. He realized quite suddenly why he had never been able to talk this way before; he had not believed it before.
“You don’t look fat to me.” She was completely serious.
A Drop of Patience Page 4