Part 6 (1/2)
”A match, please?”
He pulled a box of wooden matches from his s.h.i.+rt pocket without thinking, scratched one on the underside of the bar, and held it to her cigarette. She leaned toward him to take the light, moving her leg slightly against his, touching him briefly before withdrawing.
Right on schedule.
He closed the matchbox and stuffed it back into his s.h.i.+rt pocket, trying to force his attention back to the drink in front of him. His fingers closed around the shot gla.s.s. But he couldn't even seem to lift it from the bar, couldn't raise the drink that might save him for that night at least.
He wanted to turn to her and snarl: Look, I'm not interested. I don't care if it's for sale or free for the taking, I'm not interested. Take your hot little body and get the h.e.l.l out. Look, I'm not interested. I don't care if it's for sale or free for the taking, I'm not interested. Take your hot little body and get the h.e.l.l out.
But he didn't even turn around. He sat still, his heavy frame motionless on the stool, waiting for what had to come next.
”You're lonesome, aren't you?”
He didn't answer. Christ, even her voice had that sugary innocence, that mixture of s.e.x and baby powder. It was funny he hadn't noticed it before, and he wished he hadn't noticed it now. It just made everything so much worse.
”You're lonesome.” It was a statement now, almost a command.
”No, I'm not.” Instantly he hated himself for answering at all. The words came from his lips almost by themselves, without him wis.h.i.+ng it at all.
”Of course you are. I can tell.” She spoke as if she were completely sure of herself, and as she talked her body moved imperceptibly closer to him, her leg inching toward his and pressing against it firmly, not withdrawing this time but remaining there, inflaming him.
His fingers squeezed the shot gla.s.s but it stayed on the bar, the rye out of his reach when he needed it so badly.
”Go away.” He meant to snap the words at her like axe-blows, but instead they dribbled almost inaudibly from his lips.
”You're lonesome and unhappy. I know.”
”Look, I'm fine. Why don't you go bother somebody else?”
She smiled. ”You don't mean that,” she said. ”You don't mean that at all. Besides, I don't want to bother anybody else, can't you see? I want to be with you.”
”Why?”
”Because you're big. I like big men.”
Sure, he thought. It was like this all the time. ”There's other big guys around.”
”Not like you. You got that sad lonesome look, like I can see it a mile away how lonesome you are. And unhappy, you know. It sticks out.”
It did; that much was true enough.
”Look,” she was saying, ”what are you fighting for, huh? You're lonesome and I'm here. You're unhappy and I can make you happy.”
When he hesitated, she explained: ”I'm good at making guys happy. You'd be surprised.”
”I'll bet you are.” Christ, why couldn't he just shut up and let her talk herself dry? No, he had to go on making small talk and feeling that hot little leg digging into his and listening to that syrupy voice dripping into his ear like maple syrup into a tin cup. He had to glance at her every second out of the corner of his eye, drinking in the softness of her. His nostrils were filled with the smell of her, a smell that was a mixture of cheap perfume and warm woman-smell, an odor that got into his bloodstream and just made everything worse than ever.
”I can make you happy.”
He didn't answer, thinking how happy she would make him if she would just leave now, right away, if the earth would only open up and swallow her or him or both of them, just so long as she would leave him alone. There wasn't much time left.
”Look.”
He turned his head involuntarily and watched her wiggle slightly in place, her body moving and rubbing against the sweater and skirt.
”It's all me,” she explained. ”Under the clothes, I mean.”
He clenched his teeth and said nothing.
”I'll make you happy,” she said again. When he didn't reply she placed her hand gently on his and repeated the four words in a half-whisper. Her hand was so small, so small and soft.
”C'mon,” she said.
He stood up and followed her out the door, the gla.s.s of rye still untouched.
She said her place wasn't far and they walked in the direction she led him, away from the center of town. He didn't say anything all the way, and she only repeated her promise to make him happy. She said it over and over as if it were a magic phrase, a charm of some sort.
His arm went around her automatically and his hand squeezed the firm flesh of her waist. There was no holding back anymore-he knew that, and he didn't try to stop his fingers from gently kneading the flesh or the other hand from reaching for hers and enveloping it possessively. This act served to bring her body right up next to his so that they b.u.mped together with every step. After a block or so her head nestled against his shoulder and remained there for the rest of the walk. The fluffy blond hair brushed against his cheek.
The cheek wasn't numb anymore.
It was cold out but he didn't notice the cold. It was windy, but he didn't feel the wind cut through the tight blue jeans and the flannel s.h.i.+rt. She had lied slightly: it was a long walk to her place, but he didn't even notice the distance.
She lived by herself in a little shack, a tossed-together affair of unpainted planks with nails knocked in crudely. Somebody had tried to get a garden growing in front but the few plants were all dead now and the weeds overran the small patch. He knew, seeing the shack, why she had fixed on the idea of him being lonely. She was so obviously alone, living off by herself and away from the rest of the world.
Inside, she closed and bolted the door and turned to him, her eyes expectant and her mouth waiting to be kissed. He closed his eyes briefly. Maybe he could open them and discover that she wasn't there at all, that he was back at the bar by himself or maybe out cold in his own cabin.
But she was still there when he opened his eyes. She was still standing close to him, her mouth puckered and her eyes vaguely puzzled.
”I'll make you happy.” She said those four words as if they were the answer to every question in the universe, and by this time he thought that perhaps they were.
There was no other answer.
He clenched his teeth again, just as he had done when she squirmed before him on the barstool. Then he drove one fist into her stomach and watched her double up in pain, the physical pain of the blow more than matched by the hurt and confusion in her eyes.
He struck her again, a harsh slap on the side of her face that sent her reeling. She started to fall and he brought his knee up, catching her on the jaw and breaking several of her teeth. He hauled her to her feet and the sweater ripped away like tissue paper.
She was right. It was all her underneath.
The next slap started her crying. The one after that knocked the wind out of her and stopped her tears for the time being. His fingers ripped at the skirt and one of his nails dug at her skin, drawing blood. She crumpled to the floor, her whole body shaking with terror and pain, and he fell upon her greedily.
The b.i.t.c.h, he thought. The stupid little b.i.t.c.h.
Couldn't she guess there was only one way to make him happy?
THE DOPE.
I'M NOT VERY BRIGHT. I've never been very smart, and even if I am four years older than Charlie, he's smarter than I am. It's been that way ever since I can remember. When we went to school, I was just one grade ahead of him. He skipped once and I flunked twice, because he's almost as much of a smart guy as I'm a dope. It used to bother the h.e.l.l out of me, but I got used to it. I've never been very smart, and even if I am four years older than Charlie, he's smarter than I am. It's been that way ever since I can remember. When we went to school, I was just one grade ahead of him. He skipped once and I flunked twice, because he's almost as much of a smart guy as I'm a dope. It used to bother the h.e.l.l out of me, but I got used to it.