69 Barrow Street

Chapter nine

For a sickening moment Susan thought she had committed murder. Stella went limp all at once and collapsed upon her in a tired heap. Her breasts pressed against Susan’s stomach and her head lay at a crazy angle on Susan’s breast. She didn’t seem to be breathing.

Susan felt for a pulse and found one. Then she noticed that the older woman was breathing, slowly and weakly but steadily. She waited for a moment to make sure that the breathing would continue; then she slipped out from under Stella’s naked body and hurried into the front room.

She dressed quickly, not caring how she looked. She let herself out of the apartment and closed the door behind her, taking the stairs two at a time until she reached her own door. Once on the way her dress bunched up and she almost fell, but she managed to keep on going until she was back in her own room. She locked the door behind her and sat down heavily in the chair, barely able to breathe.

It was almost impossible for her to calm herself down. The full reality of what had taken place was just beginning to hit her head on and she didn’t think she could take it. First she had been willing to offer herself to Stella. Then she didn’t respond. Then she refused to participate, and finally the other woman was on the point of raping her, so wrapped up in what she was doing that it became necessary to knock her on the head and race out of the room like a frightened virgin running from a sex maniac.

Well, when you came right down to it, that’s about what it had been — a frightened virgin running from a sex maniac. She herself was certainly a virgin, and there was no question about Stella’s mental normalcy.

But for Christ’s sake how had it all happened?

She stood up and walked to her door to make sure it was locked. For good measure she used the chain lock as well so that she would be able to see who was there before opening the door. But she was still tense, still tied up in knots inside. Relaxation was out of the question.

She picked up a magazine and leafed through it. It didn’t interest her in the least. She took off her dress and hung it up in the closet, then took off her underclothes and put them in her laundry bag. She was physically clean but felt dirty and took two showers in a vain attempt to wash the taste of Stella James from her skin.

After the shower she got in bed and tried to follow the lead story in the magazine. She read the same page over and over and finally gave up. It was no use.

Instead she thought about Ralph. It was obvious to her that as long as she loved him she could never enjoy sex with anybody else. As this fact sank in she began to realize just how deep her attachment to him was. With the various women she had loved she had been faithful, but she still was able to respond to other girls even if she never indulged in an overt act of infidelity. But with Ralph the thought of sexual contact with anybody else became suddenly unthinkable. She had had dramatic proof downstairs, when a desirable woman had proved totally incapable of arousing her.

This was good, she thought.

Good — because it meant that her love for Ralph was a very genuine thing. And she wanted real love, love that could last.

But not entirely good. Because the thought of intercourse was still terrifying to her, still a thing that sent her into shivers. Maybe it was something she would get over, maybe she could learn to be normal, but—

Suddenly she had a tremendous desire to see the portrait Ralph was painting of her. Maybe just a peek—

She got out of bed and walked to the easel. It was covered with a cloth, and it would be very, very easy to lift the cloth and see what he had done. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt anything; he would never find out and it wouldn’t make any difference in the world.

No. No, when he wanted her to see it he would tell her. If he trusted her not to look at it, the least thing she could do would be to respect that trust. Firmly she forced herself to return to bed. She turned out the lights and snuggled beneath the sheet.

But it was hours before she finally fell asleep.

Ralph spent the next morning at the museum again. It was a good escape for him and one that he had used often in the first year or so in New York. But this morning he was just using it to kill time. It was better than a movie, and it was even cheaper. After a breakfast of eggs and coffee at a greasy spoon on Sixth Avenue he didn’t have much money left.

He spent his last cent on lunch. That, he decided too late, was a hell of a stupid thing to do. It was a healthy walk back to the Village and the subway would have been infinitely more sensible. But the lunch — a plate of chili at a chili house on 47th Street that gave you a decent meal for well under a buck — was worth it.

And the walk, when you stopped to think about it, wasn’t such a bad idea at all. It was another time-killer, a good way to waste part of the afternoon before drifting up to see Susan for the next step in the disappointment routine. Hell, why bother to see her at all? He could walk east and then downtown and wind up on Skid Row and not have to worry about women anymore. All he’d worry about would be where he’d get the money for the next drink, and to hell with the world and Stella James and Susan Rivers.

And to hell with Ralph Lambert.

He pulled himself together and started walking south on Sixth Avenue. He walked slowly, not in any particular hurry to get any particular place. It was a nice day — sunny but not too hot, the humidity lower than usual for New York, the air relatively clean. Hell, it was a great day. But it would probably turn out to be a son of a bitch. They always did, time after goddamn time.

Sixth Avenue is a good street for a walk. At 42nd Street behind the public library is Bryant Park, with trees and benches and a drinking fountain. Then clear down to 14th Street the avenue is lined with small stores and restaurants and bars. It’s a grand old street, with lots of places to look at and enough things going on to keep a person interested.

Then, from 14th Street on downtown is the Village, and no matter how much Ralph despised the Village some of the time it was never boring. He kept on walking, taking his time, stopping to watch workmen with steam shovels sweating to lay the foundation for a new office building, just a small Village office building for dentists and doctors but an office building nevertheless. He watched kids playing ball on 12th Street and he watched a pair of men making their way into one of the myriad of gay bars.

He took his time. He relaxed.

It was almost four o’clock by the time he reached Susan’s apartment.

After he knocked she opened the door partway, then relaxed visibly when she saw that it was him. She undid the chain and opened the door the rest of the way and led him inside.

“You’re a little late,” she said.

“I was uptown. It took me awhile to walk back.”

“Why didn’t you take a train?”

He explained to her.

“That’s ridiculous,” she told him. “Why, you should have left yourself enough money for the subway. You could have taken the train straight home and I would have fixed you something to eat.”

“It’s all right. The exercise didn’t hurt me.”

“Exercise? A two-mile walk in this heat?”

“It’s not that hot.”

She shrugged. “Well, maybe it’ll be cooler after I get my clothes off.”

She undressed very quickly, very simply, not bothering to leave the room while she did so. Right away he knew that it was going to be bad this time. He didn’t feel toward her in the coldly impersonal, sexless way an artist is supposed to feel toward a model. He couldn’t see her body simply as a work of art, simply as a body to be painted. He saw her as a woman he wanted, a woman he craved, a woman he needed more than he needed anything else in the world.

She sat down in the chair and assumed the standard pose at once — feet apart, face unsmiling, her hands covering her pubic area. Breathing slightly faster than usual he mixed paints on his palette and took his brush in his hand. He uncovered the canvas and looked at it; it was almost completed, almost finished. Just another session or two and he would be done.

Tentatively he touched the brush to the canvas. He painted very slowly, so tense that he knew he would only ruin the painting if he went any faster. He worked very carefully, very precisely.

After ten minutes he couldn’t take it any longer. Every time he looked at her — her face, her legs, her breasts, the provocative position of her hands — his mind was on anything but painting. He felt himself getting weak in the knees and his hand was no longer at all steady. Once the brush slipped slightly and he cursed under his breath. He was able to rectify the slip with next to no trouble, but he was afraid the next one would be worse.

“Let’s take a break,” he suggested.

“I’m not tired.”

He grinned. “I am.”

She followed him into the kitchenette and they sat down together at the tiny kitchen table. He could feel the nearness of her, smell the clean fresh smell of her nakedness. He lit a cigarette and forced himself to look away from her, but his eyes came back to her in a second.

“Ralph—”

“What is it, darling?” The darling spilled from his lips automatically. If it bothered her she gave no indication of it.

“When can I see the picture?”

He considered. Probably there was no harm in showing it to her now. All that remained were a few strokes here and a few more there. And she had been patient enough for a hell of a long time.

“C’mon,” he said. “You might as well have a look at it.”

He took her by the hand and they walked back to the easel. Her hand was very small in his, very small and soft. He could smell the natural perfume of her body, could feel the softness of her as their bodies touched.

When she stood behind the easel with him, it was as though he himself was seeing the painting for the first time. Only then did he realize how good it was, how much better it was than anything he had ever done before. Every line had a purpose, every tone and shading was just right.

And it was her. That was the important thing, the thing that had to be right. It was her on the canvas, with every detail perfect from the smile on her face to the curves of her legs.

For a long time she didn’t say a word. He still held her hand in his and she stood without moving, her eyes concentrating entirely on the picture.

Then, still without moving or turning her head, she asked: “Is that the way I look to you, Ralph?”

“Yes.”

They were silent again. She still didn’t move.

Then: “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I didn’t realize I was that… beautiful.”

“At least that beautiful. More beautiful, perhaps — but that’s as good as I can do with paint on canvas.”

She still did not avert her eyes from the canvas, and when she spoke it was in a soft monotone.

“I almost looked at it last night, Ralph. I wanted to.”

“How come you didn’t?”

“Because you told me not to.”

“I would never have known.”

She hesitated. “I’m glad I didn’t,” she said.

“How come?”

“This way we looked at it together. And it’s nicer that way.”

This time she moved. She turned her head toward him and there was a half-smile on her lips. He looked down into her eyes and all he could think of was how much he was in love with her, how much he wanted her, how desperately he needed her.

He put one arm around her. She didn’t draw away from him.

He lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss started off gentle and simple and still she didn’t resist him. Then he started to draw her in closer so that her nude body pressed up against him. His tongue stroked her closed lips tenderly.

And, suddenly, she pulled away from him and hid her face in her hands.

“Susan!”

She walked away from him, shaking her head from side to side. He followed her and she sat down finally on the bed and made room for him to sit down next to her. After he did so he started to put an arm around her but she waved him away.

“Ralph,” she said. “Darling, I have something to tell you and I want you to listen to me until I’m finished. All right?”

“Sure.”

“I love you, Ralph.”

He closed his eyes, sure that he knew what was coming. It would be the same song and dance they had gone through yesterday, the same I-love-you-but-nothing-can-come-of-it business she had spouted last afternoon.

“Go ahead.”

“Please, Ralph — I don’t want you to interrupt me at all. I’m not sure just how to word this and I don’t want to louse it up.”

When she paused he took his cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook one loose. He put it between his lips and scratched a match, bringing the flame up to the cigarette. Her fingers touched his and she asked him for a cigarette without words, and he gave her one just as silently and lit it for her.

“Ralph, darling, every time I’m with you I love you a little more. And every time I’m with you and realize how much I love you, well, I begin to want you just that much more. But basically I’m still a very scared and frightened little kid.”

He expelled a mouthful of smoke in a thin line and watched it break up into a shapeless cloud and drift lazily toward the ceiling.

“I’m afraid of a lot of things, Ralph. I’m afraid of you, for example.”

One hand clenched into a fist. He could feel the tension in his jaw muscles, tried to relax and found it impossible. The fingers of his right hand tightened on the cigarette and he looked down helplessly as the slim cylinder of paper and tobacco was crushed between his fingers. Grains of tobacco spilled to the floor and he ground out the glowing tip of the cigarette with his heel.

“But, darling, every day I’m a little less afraid of you. Every day I relax more. I… I think I’m going to be able to get there, Ralph. I think I’m going to be able to love you… all the way.”

He stared at her. For a moment he thought he had heard wrong.

“Yes, darling. This fear is a very strong thing, the biggest thing in my life so far. It’s what drove me to women in the first place and it’s the thing that has kept me from you so far. But I’m beginning to get over it. I knew this yesterday after you left and I’m beginning to know it more and more. Every minute I spend with you makes me more aware of how much you mean to me, how much I love you. Every time I—”

“Susan—”

“Let me finish, darling.”

He stopped in mid-sentence.

“Every time I see you I can go a little bit farther, Ralph. But this fear of mine — it’s a hell of a deep-seated thing. It’s probably something so deep inside of me that the only way to find out the cause of it would be to see a psychiatrist, and even that would take years and might not work out after all. But I think it’ll work out, if we give it time.

“You can’t rush me, Ralph. If you rush me I’ll just stay afraid and… and it won’t do either of us any good. I love you tremendously but it’s going to take time for us to work all this out and… and I want it to work out darling. I want it more than I ever wanted anything in the world.”

They were both silent for several minutes. He turned slightly and saw that tears were beginning to form in the corners of her eyes, and very gently he said: “Of course it will work, Susan. Of course it will.”

And then, without touching her or trying to kiss her, be talked to her. He told her how much he loved her, how much he needed her. He told her everything he had told her the day before and more because he loved her now far more than he had then, and because he knew now that he would love her more and more for the rest of their lives. He would never stop loving her, and he knew this, and he told her so.

Then, finally, he stood up.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’d better go now.”

“Why?”

“I’d just better leave.”

“Don’t you want to finish the picture?”

“Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Light’s not right.”

“The light’s still good.”

He shrugged.

“Tell me, Ralph.”

He hesitated. How in the world could he explain it to her?

“Ralph—”

He said, slowly: “Susan, men are… different from women. When you want somebody badly enough it gets into your blood and you… you can’t think of anything else. Halfway things aren’t enough. I mean — well, you have to make love or you can’t think or concentrate or do much of anything.”

Neither of them said anything. He stood there, fully clothed, and she sat naked on the bed. They looked at each other and it was minutes before either of them spoke a word.

Then she said: “Maybe I can help you, Ralph.”

“What do you mean?”

She turned away from him. “Ralph, you’ve got to promise not to… do anything. I don’t want you to touch me or kiss me or anything of the sort. Will you do that for me?”

“It’ll be tough,” he admitted.

“Will you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Then take off your clothes.”

He wasn’t sure what was happening but he didn’t want to argue. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it free from his trousers and slipped out of it. Then he took off his pants and put them with the shirt on a chair.

“All your clothes, Ralph.”

He untied his shoelaces and took off his shoes and socks. Then he removed his underwear and stood before her completely naked.

“Now… lie down on the bed.”

He did as he was told.

She sat down on the bed and leaned over him, her eyes probing deep into his. She smiled.

“See how much better I’m getting,” she said. “This would have terrified me a day ago.”

He smiled back at her.

“Remember,” she said. “Don’t touch me or say anything or kiss me. Don’t… don’t do anything at all.”

He nodded.

Then she lowered herself to him and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft and cool and she kissed him again, more firmly this time.

Her lips found his mouth and she kissed him a third time. It was all he could do to keep from wrapping his arms around her and kissing her hard, but somehow or other he managed to restrain himself. When her tongue slipped between his lips and tasted the inside of his mouth he wanted to return the kiss, to meet her tongue with his own. But he held himself back.

Her mouth moved to his throat. As she laid a string of little kisses up and down his neck her hands moved to his arms and her fingers kneaded his biceps muscles gently, tenderly. She kept kissing him, driving him out of his mind with hunger and love for her. He didn’t think he could stand it any longer.

Her mouth moved lower and she began kissing him on the chest. Her tongue found his nipples and she kissed and licked each of them in turn, tugging on them almost as though he were a woman. He had trouble controlling his breathing and his heart was pounding like a pneumatic hammer.

“Ralph,” she breathed. “I love you.”

Her mouth moved lower. She bathed his stomach with her warm tongue until his arms were rigid at his side with his fists clenched tighter than vises. He wanted to grab her, wanted to act on all the sexual passion that had been building up within him.

Her hands found his thighs and resumed the gentle kneading motion they had used on his upper arms. He writhed and twisted on the bed and began making small involuntary sounds in his throat. Her tongue flicked against the inside of his thigh like a snake and made him gasp for breath.

She didn’t stop. She worked him into a frenzy, driving him wild with her lips and tongue until he was ready to scream for her to stop, to do anything but not to drive him insane this way.

Her tongue was busy again on the inside of his thighs. He raised his head to look at her, to say something to her, and as if on cue she looked up at him and stared into his eyes.

He returned her stare. In her eyes he saw all the love and passion and hunger in the world. Her lips parted and there was a deep, searching, penetrating stare in her eyes.

And at that instant he knew.

Maria ached.

That, she decided, was the only way to describe it. Why, she hurt all over! Her little bottom was all sore where Mummy spanked her and the rest of her body hurt in a million spots from the belt Mummy had used on her.

Maria hurt.

It wasn’t fair, she decided. She had been bad, although she couldn’t remember just what it was that had been so bad. But it didn’t really matter. She was always being bad and her Mummy was always punishing her.

But did her Mummy have to hurt her so very much? It was really terrible. The spanking was bad enough, but it was nothing compared to the belt. The belt whooshing through the air, and she would lie there on the bed waiting for it and not knowing where it would hit, and then it would land and hurt her so terribly.

It just wasn’t fair.

But she took her punishment like a good little girl. Yes, no matter how bad she was she would always take her punishment and be good about it. Why, sometimes she didn’t even wait for her Mummy to call her but went straight in to her Mummy and told her that he had been bad.

Those times she was telling lies, of course. Why, there were times when she told her Mummy that she made mud pies just to make her Mummy mad so she would get her punishment. But that all evened it out, because by telling such bad lies she was being bad and deserved the punishment she got.

But Mummy was so mean—

The spankings were all right, she decided magnanimously. The spankings were okay, and even the whipping with the belt was all right even if it hurt so much she couldn’t stand it.

But the burning—

That, she told herself firmly, was not right at all.

She fingered her breasts gingerly one at a time. Why, that wasn’t right at all. That was a horribly nasty way to punish a girl. Now why in the world would Mummy do that, taking a cigarette and lighting it and holding the tip to each of Maria’s nipples? Why, it was a perfectly horrid thing to do!

And it still hurt. Goodness knew how long it would hurt, because Mummy really held the cigarette there a long time and she only seemed to enjoy it even more when poor Maria squirmed and howled and tried to get away.

What a horrid thing to do!

That made Mummy a bad Mummy. But that didn’t make any sense, because how could a Bad Little Girl have a Bad Mummy?

It didn’t make any sense at all.

And she loved her Mummy.

But she also hated her Mummy.

It was all very confusing.