The Woman Aroused Page 4

  “Why don't you play it—with money, instead of on paper?”

  “Money is only paper,” Henderson said, chuckling at his little joke. “I can't risk the money. Besides, I'd have to leave the house before noon, and you know how I love to sleep late. Now let's see what else is good tomorrow....”

  We talked about horses for a while. He was like Joe: knew the horse's mother, father, color of the jockey's hair, and everything except the number of times the jockey went to the bathroom. Joe didn't know the Preamble to the Constitution (who does?), but he could recite various details about horses for hours. Of course the horses kept him broke.

  The fancy clock near the china closet chimed once and Henderson said, “Eleven-thirty. And I was about to go to the toilet. Wonderful to be like clockwork, especially at my age. You see the silly things one can be proud of in his old age.”

  I grinned, wondering if I would be like that in another twenty-five years. I stood up. “Think I'll move on. I'll talk to Joe about a poker game, let you know.”

  In the hall I touched the envelope in my pocket, to be sure it was there, then walked down and over to the French tea room on 75th and Lexington and had some pastry and a cup of coffee.

  When I returned home, Joe and Stella were reading my Times over some beer. They looked quite domestic. “No bottle?” Joe asked as I came in.

  “Sorry, I don't seem to be a man of distinction or influence.”

  “Too bad, I was feeling ripe for a shot,” Joe said.

  We sat around and I was waiting for them to leave, but Joe kept talking: small talk about some horribly clever things he'd heard in a bar, a couple of old dirty jokes, plus comments about a murder headline. Stella had Slob stretched across her lap, stroking his neck; both of them looking rather contented. After jabbering for what seemed like hours, Joe suddenly jumped to his feet in what I'm sure he thought was the “executive manner,” he actually practiced that sort of thing, said, “I'll get a bottle—afternoon is dying on us. I know a bartender... downtown... may take me an hour.” He turned to Stella. “You wait here, doll.”

  “I haven't any place to go,” she said, yawning. She had quite a few gold fillings, and her teeth looked old.

  “Okay, everybody stays pat till poppa returns,” Joe said, putting on his coat. When his back was to Stella, he winked at me.

  When he left Stella said, “A big kid, lot of noise and wind.”

  “One way of looking at him,” I said.

  She was sprawled on a big leather chair Flo had bought in a second-hand store on 53rd Street for twenty dollars, and paid three hundred to have repaired and recovered. I had an idea it wouldn't take much coaxing to get Stella back in the bedroom, but I wasn't up to that. And with seven grand in my pocket I certainly wasn't fooling with any strays. She kept staring at me, an amused smile on her sensual lips. I asked if she wanted more beer and she said she did. When I bent over her to pick up her glass, she said, “George—you don't mind if I call you George?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You're handsome. Not really pretty but... well, distinctive. Yes, you're tall and lean and your face is long and thin, and that gray at the edge of your hair. You know, you look like a writer.”

  I laughed and brought two glasses of beer. This was a great day for writers, it seemed, and the afternoon wasn't going to be too dull after all.

  “What do you write about? I mean, are you working on a book?” she asked after a sip of beer. “Big mouth said you're the editor of the magazine his company puts out.”

  “That's about all I write,” I said, surprised at Joe's carelessness. I got out a few copies of the Sun I had about and gave them to her. We went in for a lot of good photography—full-page pictures that not only gave the mag a touch of class and beauty, but also took up a good deal of space.

  She glanced through the magazines quickly. “They're beautiful. Ever sell anything to the movies? I work for Warners—merely a typist. Five days a week I pound a damn typewriter and go to sleep early. Some week-ends I go on a merry-go-round, let off steam.”

  “I haven't published much, the magazine keeps me on my toes,” I lied. “Had a few stories in the pulps, a yarn in Story magazine.”

  “You must be good,” Stella said, impressed. The only time I ever actually struck Flo was when she reminded me during one of our spats that my published yarns had been ghosted. I never could decide if they were—the ideas and rough had been mine, but why bother with polishing when you could get a rewrite done for a few dollars? At the time I actually had been busy covering a convention, or at least that was my excuse.

  Stella said, “Why don't you write a book, something with a young psychiatrist and a big-busted gal—sure sale to the movies. Big upstairs like me,” she added, without smiling.

  I let that invitation pass. “I have been outlining a novel, working on it for several years. A fantasy—we awake one day to find all the alcohol in the world has turned to water.”

  “You're ribbing me.”

  “I'm serious. You can see the dramatic complications; first the effect on industry and medicine... that's the secondary theme. Real idea is to show how much we drug our lives with liquor, what happens when that disappears.”

  She finished her beer. “You a Prohibitionist?”

  “Me? I'm almost a lush. It's a big idea—I have a whole file full of notes.” And I really had. All my book ideas were big, so big I never started writing them.

  She thought about it for a moment. “That would be something, a Lost Weekend in reverse. What happens?”

  “I don't know, exactly. Some sort of mass suicide, world revolution, I suppose. Then after a few weeks with everybody taking a forced cure, the world settles down—and k's a much better world. Such a thing would be more effective than the atomic bomb.”—

  “And all from a lousy shot of whiskey?”

  “Alcohol is our number one escape valve, only once you get in the habit of escaping, it no longer becomes an escape, it becomes a chain,” I said, wondering why I was making all this polite talk.

  She was silent for a while, stroking Slob. Every now and then when she bent over to scratch his head, I could see the rise of her heavy breasts, and from the way she had her legs, a good deal of long plump thigh was visible. Of course she knew all that. What she didn't know was I could see the brief line where her panties ended on her thigh through her dress, and that was getting me excited. Not too excited—in my own way, as the famous line goes, I was faithful to Flo. It was sort of an unwritten law between us, mostly because we were too set in our ways, and too lazy, to become involved with anybody else.

  Stella said, “George, I like you. I don't know what you think of me, coming here like this with Joe, but I...”

  “I'm most understanding... and a little hungry,” I cut in, not wanting to hear the story of her life. “Ham and eggs interest you?”

  She nodded, held out her hand. I got up pulled her to her feet. Slob tumbled to the floor, landing on his back. For a cat his reflexes were lousy. He stretched and walked off with stiff dignity.

  As we walked into the kitchen Stella squeezed my hand, said, “Thanks.”

  I didn't quite get that, but I squeezed her hand back. As I opened the ice-box, she said, “Here, let me do that.”

  She made ham and eggs and coffee, moving about the little kitchen with easy efficiency. We ate and smoked a few cigarettes without much talk, then she washed the dishes and I dried.

  Back in the living room I sat on the couch and she stared at me oddly, and for a second I thought she was going to cry. “What's the matter?”

  “Matter?” she repeated, her voice full of forced cheerfulness. “Nothing is the matter. Wonderful little domestic scene we just had.” She went over to the radio, opened it, said, “Oh God, a Capehart! How do you work this?”

  “What do you want to hear—radio or records?” I asked, going over before she threw things out of whack.

  “Records—jazz.”

  I put on a f
ew Ellingtons, and some Artie Shaw and Stan Kenton. Stella held out her arms. I hesitated for a split second, thinking of the money in my pocket, then we danced. At first she leaned her weight all over me, but when she forgot the rub-down, gave in to the rhythm, she wasn't too awkward or slow for a big woman.

  When the record changed we stopped and she was puffing a little. “Say, I thought I was a good dancer, but you're something.”

  “Used to make my living at it,” I said, pleased at the lie.

  “Well now,” she said, looking at me with new respect. I still had my arms around her and I felt bad, acting the tease, but Stella had troubles and I spent my life avoiding other people's problems.

  We finished the records and I kicked the rugs back into place. She fell into a chair, sighed, “I'm pooped.” There were dark blotches of sweat on her dress under her armpits, and I could feel the sweat running down my back, but I wasn't taking off my coat. Even then, at the very start, the money was beginning to be a liability... but nothing like it damn soon became.

  Stella looked at me through half-closed eyes, said, “I feel tired and so wonderfully sleepy.”

  “Why don't you lie down, get some sleep?” I said, aware of how comical and silly it all sounded.

  She got up and walked to the bedroom door, turned and gave me a puzzled look, or maybe it was a hurt look, then stretched out on the bed. I wondered if she had removed her shoes.

  It was nearly two and Joe wasn't back. I considered whether he was dumping Stella on me, and what I should do, although giving a girl to another guy, no matter what she looked like, was strictly not in keeping with Joe's conception of the SOP of “romance.”

  I put on more records, tuned them down low. I could hear her snoring softly in the bedroom and I had to fight to keep dozing off myself. I wanted Joe to return and take Stella, let roe change the linen and get some sleep.

  Joe would return.

  Joe, the big I am, proud as punch he was a “department head.” Joe, who could get on a tearful drunk telling about his wife who died in childbirth, or about his boy who was now completing three years of occupation duty in Germany. When Sky Oil had a small building over on East 38th Street, Joe was a slum kid roaming the streets there. According to him, he once chased a ball into the lobby of the building only to have a guard boot him out. I usually heard this story every time he hit a horse and went on a good binge. He swore then, if you could believe him, that he would become a part of the company. When he left high-school he took a job in the mailroom, “worked his way up” to head of the maintenance department, which meant he was a sort of glorified janitor in charge of the company's offices, and the two small buildings and tanks we had in the Bronx. According to Joe, he never forgot the guard and finally had him fired, though of course the guard didn't remember him. The fellow was a year away from the two-bit pension the company handed out, so Joe, in a fit of righteous forgiveness, rehired him and became the old man's savior.

  He was paid seventy-five per week, spent about a hundred, and was fairly amusing with his great lies and big talk, his absolute worship of his job and complete satisfaction with his own “success,” his tremendous energy and ego, his great vulgarity. But he also had certain loyal, earthy qualities I envied—in my snobbish way. He actually burst into tears—cold sober—when we wrote him up as the “executive of the month,” an apple-polishing job I did every month in the Sun.

  And in my own way I was nearly as content with my job as was Joe. I had a good deal—I suppose “racket” might be a better word. I put out a neat, slick little mag every month—very dull of course—but it was the sort of thing stockholders could read with ease and not become disturbed, one way or the other. There were always a lot of pictures, an easy-on-the-eyes format, and we were constantly patting somebody on the back. Editing a house organ is horribly frustrating work if you take the job seriously, or kid yourself that it is keeping you from that “serious writing.” Happily, I had no need to fool myself... I knew I'd never get around to any real writing. My salary was peanuts for the type of company we had and the rag we published, but I played that smart—using our budget mostly to get good photographers and artists, to “pretty up” the book. With my oh-so-correct address and cool manner—as if I was doing Sky Oil a terrific favor by editing their magazine, plus a conscientious assistant editor named Harvey Harris who did most of the writing—we came out once a month and nobody worked very hard. Harvey and I had a perfect understanding. He was an eager beaver who only wanted to be left alone, do his work. We wrote speeches for the big shots now and then, carried fairly intelligent and educational articles on oil and selling, never forgot the stockholders, and in general were... “mild” would describe the Sun best. In return for his hard work, I let Harvey have the out-of-town trips, which he enjoyed, and since both he and our stenographer were writing like mad, trying to get a break in the slicks, our office always had a hum of activity. All in all, it was about as good as any job can be.

  I listened to the radio for a while, gave Slob chopped kidneys for lunch, and it was a few minutes after three. I was bored and considering whether I should wake Stella and take her home, or lock the door, put the money in the panel, and go to bed with her. I kept thinking of Flo and how ludicrous my explanations would seem if she should return and find Stella in the bedroom. I decided to wait till four, then take Stella home. I sat around, reading some old copies of Dance magazine. When the bell rang and I opened the door, Joe came breezing in, held up his wrist watch, said, “Only ten to four. Not bad time, hey kid?” He threw his overcoat on the couch, started opening a package. “Where's the doll?”

  “In the bedroom, sleeping.”

  “Puts down some fine stuff, doesn't she?” he said, as I knew he would.

  “Stop it. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Tell you in a minute. Hey doll, come see what poppa's got!” Joe yelled. Stella came out of the bedroom looking bleary-eyed. Joe put an arm around her, slapped her loudly on the backside and she said sharply, “Damn it, cut that out.”

  “Wait till you sec what I got,” he said, tearing open the package. He held up the biggest bottle of whiskey I ever saw. “This is a half a gallon.”

  “Never saw that before,” Stella said, yawning. She started for the bathroom but Joe stopped her, said proudly, “Read this—name of the store.” He pointed to a little blue sticker on the back of the bottle.

  She said, “Washington, D.C.... For Christsake!”

  “That's me,” Joe said happily. “Took a cab out to the airport, grabbed a plane to Washington. Got the bottle from a barkeep I know down there. What the hell, all I have to do is show the airline my travel card—charge it to the company as an inspection trip.”

  “Big shot,” Stella said, impressed. “Now let me go to the John, I'm too big to wet myself.”

  Joe and I went to the kitchen for ice and ginger ale. I asked, “You actually fly to Washington and back?”

  “Sure, had to get a bottle,” Joe said, a little too casually. He was so very pleased with himself. “Raining down there. Listen, well have a couple drinks, then I'll take Stella home—if she doesn't live in Brooklyn. Then we call for the kid's aunt and uncle, take them out to King of the Sea for a shell dinner...”

  “We?”

  “Come along, I got to take them out, and the simple bastards drive me crazy. We'll ditch 'em right after we eat. Okay, pal?”

  We sat around and Joe told a couple of jokes he claimed to have heard on the plane—every place he went he seemed to hear dirty jokes, old and stupid ones. Stella didn't say much, went to work on the bottle, she was trying to get tight again. She seemed a bit bored with us. But when Joe took her home, she gave me a big smile as we shook hands, squeezed my hand.

  I could do much worse than Stella.

  I straightened up the house a little, was changing my shirt, when I heard a cab stop. Joe came in, said, “That was luck, only lived on 83rd and Columbus. Not bad, may give her another tumble some day. Come on, the
cab's waiting.”

  Joe lived in a renovated railroad flat on 55th Street and Second Avenue. His sister and brother-in-laws, whose names I never did get straight, were a couple of fat hicks, with plain faces that looked pretty blank and suspicious. Joe gave me a big introduction as though I was the head of Sky Oil, and pointed to a framed copy of the article I had written about him. It hung on the wall beneath a heavy, gold-framed picture of his dead wife: a pert, pretty, young woman, with a pug nose and big, interesting eyes.

  Joe went to the bathroom to run an electric razor over his face, and the aunt who had a sloppy bosom—even for a woman her age—said to me, “We must seem so stupid to you, Mr. Jackson—making a mistake of a whole month. My! So silly, but we were just sure Walt was coming home today.”

  I didn't say anything as to whether she was or wasn't stupid, and after waiting, for me to make some remark, she added, “Walt is such a little fellow to be in the army.”