Carla

Chapter Eleven

It was all over. She knew this the next day, knew it the moment she woke up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and headed for the shower. It was over and she would never sleep with Charles again, and it was over despite the perfection of their lovemaking, despite even the final beauty of yesterday afternoon.

It was a time to be sad. But, strangely, she felt no sadness. Outside of a vague emptiness and a sense of finality she felt nothing at all.

It seemed wrong. She told herself she ought to be properly grief-stricken, but there was no grief present whatsoever. And she realized that this was due to the fact that she and Charles had never really loved each other. She had needed Charles, needed him as surely as she needed a cup of black coffee in the morning, but in the final analysis he was no more irreplaceable than that cup of coffee. In fact, the coffee was undoubtedly a good deal more habit-forming.

But she couldn’t eliminate the lump that came to her throat when she went downstairs and saw Lizzie for the first time that day. The mental picture of the girl in bed with Charles was too much for her despite the fact that she and Charles had broken up. It put Lizzie in a new light and transformed the mistress-servant relationship into one of two rivals for a man’s love. It was not easy to see Lizzie in that light.

“Do you remember Mr. Butler?” she asked hesitantly.

“Mr. Butler?”

“Mr. Macon brought him to dinner a while back,” Carla prompted, marveling at the girl’s poise.

“Oh, yes. I remember him.”

“I wonder if he’ll be around again.” Carla realized suddenly that she was on shaky ground. If she let Lizzie know that she knew about her affair with Charles, the girl would realize that Carla had been playing around too.

“He seemed like a nice man,” Lizzie said easily. And Carla let the conversation die right there.

The day passed quickly. Carla relaxed for the first time in weeks and listened to records in the living-room, almost dozing off as she let herself become absorbed by the music. It was so peaceful with nothing to do but curl up in a chair and nothing to worry about, nothing at all. She knew that more problems would come to her when the physical need for a man returned but she was willing to wait until then before worrying about it. One record finished and another dropped into position on the turn-table, and so the afternoon went.

The doorbell jolted her out of her reverie. At first she thought it was a part of the music, but the second ring brought her back into the everyday world. With a sigh she got to her feet. Lizzie was upstairs, so she had to answer the door herself. She padded into the hallway in her stocking feet and opened the door.

It was Danny Rand.

He was inside the door before she could collect herself. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought I told you never to come here again.”

“I know.”

“Then—”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I called you a dozen times but you wouldn’t talk to me. There didn’t seem much point in calling up any more. So I closed up the station and came over.”

“Well, you can just hop in your car and go back and re-open the station,” she said sourly. “I haven’t the slightest interest in seeing you.”

“You don’t?”

“Definitely not.”

“That’s too bad, because you’re going to see me. Dammit, Carla, I’m in love with you!”

She closed her eyes with a sigh and permitted her shoulders to slump. “Please,” she said. “Can’t you take no for an answer?”

“I’m afraid not.” His lips tightened.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to. Because I’m not in love with you, Mr. Rand.” She used his last name purposely to stifle any familiarity between them, and she noticed how he winced at the words.

“I love you.”

She stepped back into the living-room and he followed her. “Just what do you want?” she asked. “Another grease-room scene?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

He swallowed. “I want to marry you, Carla. I want you to divorce that broken-down husband of yours and marry me. I know he’s no husband to you, for God’s sake. You can’t possibly love him.”

“As a matter of fact, I do love him. He’s a wonderful man, good in a way you couldn’t possibly understand. And how come you know so much about my life?”

“It’s natural enough,” he said thinly. “When you think about a woman all day and dream about her all night, you can’t help trying to learn a little about her.”

The words sounded corny, but there was something about the intensity of his speech and the expression on his face that kept her from laughing. She searched for a reply, and then the full humour of the situation struck her. Less than 24 hours ago she had been in this man’s position, trying to talk Charles into marrying her!

This time she couldn’t restrain her laughter. She backed away from Danny, her whole body shaking with laughter and her eyes filling with tears.

“You... want me to marry you!”

“What’s so damned funny?”

“You fool. Oh, you idiot! A starving, grimy gas-pump jockey and you want me to marry you!”

His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “I’m not a bum,” he said. “I’m not a rich punk like your husband, but I’m no bum. And when I’m finished working I can wash myself as clean as anybody else. Cleaner than some, because with me the dirt’s all on the outside. I don’t get filthy on the inside like some people do.”

She went on laughing.

“And I’m not just a poor slob with a job,” he went on. “I’m saving my money to buy the station from the company, and when I do that I’ll start making some dough of my own. A guy like me can wind up with a whole string of stations if he plays his cards right.”

Finally she managed to control her laughter. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, Mr. Rand. Now you can listen to me for a few minutes.

“I don’t know how much you managed to find out about me, Bright Eyes, but I didn’t grow up on Nottingham Terrace in case you didn’t figure that out for yourself. I grew up in a cold-water walk-up on the East Side and I had to work my tail off to get out of there. I read the right books and learned how to speak decent English and finally managed to hook the right guy. It’s not so easy to marry rich, in case you never thought of it that way.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. Believe me, it was work — but I wound up on Nottingham Terrace and that made the whole thing worthwhile. And now you come along with your stupid little dreams about cornering the market on gas stations and you expect me to run off with you. What kind of a fool do you think I am?”

“There are some things more important than money.”

She started laughing again. “There are? I don’t know any — not off-hand.”

“There’s love.”

“Love? You think that’s so important?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Well, I don’t. Besides, you don’t actually think I’m in love with you, do you?”

“I know you are,” he said. “Even if you’re not smart enough to realize it yet.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Go on; this is getting interesting. What makes you think so?”

“The... time.”

“What time?” she demanded, although she knew what he meant.

“The time at the gas station,” he said with difficulty.

Carla clasped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, no! You really make a lot out of that, don’t you? You sound as though you think it was my first time with a man.”

“I know it wasn’t.”

“For God’s sake, you act as if it was your first time! Why in hell don’t you grow up and go back to your gas pumps?”

“It meant something,” he said savagely. “It was messy but at the same time it was beautiful, and you know damn well it meant something.”

“It might have meant something to you—”

“But it meant nothing to you?” His voice seemed to dare her to answer the question affirmatively.

“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing. It couldn’t have meant less.”

“You’re lying.”

“It meant nothing,” she repeated.

“You’ve got to be lying,” he insisted. “I could feel it, Carla.”

“Look,” she said, her voice as cold as ice. “Get this straight, Mr. Rand.

“You were no more and no less than a slightly animated candle.”

He took a step toward her and she saw his hands tighten into fists. The tendons in his forearms looked like bands of steel. She stepped back involuntarily. She hadn’t wanted to talk to him that way, hadn’t wished to hurt him, but there didn’t seem any other way to get rid of him. Now that the words were out of her mouth she found herself regretting them.

“You bitch!” His voice was high-pitched and unnaturally taut.

“Wait—”

Before she could say more, his fist lashed out and sank into her soft stomach. She doubled up in pain and let out a moan which was cut short when his other fist caught her full in the face. Salty blood washed over her tongue and the tears came to her eyes.

“You little tramp,” he was saying, but she could barely hear his voice through the wall of pain that was rapidly engulfing her. She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and drew her thighs together in an effort to protect herself, but she was helpless before the violence of his assault.

She felt herself being forced back into the sofa. Rough, strong hands ripped her clothing to shreds and hurt her wherever they touched her. He was in a frenzy now and he seemed to be driven by some supernatural force. Nothing could stop him.

“Bitch!” he snarled. “You talk like a whore and you act like a whore, so that’s just the way I’m going to treat you.”

He punched her in the stomach again and she sprawled on the sofa as limp as a bunch of seaweed. The whole room spun before her eyes. The phonograph was still playing insanely in the background, but the fantastic pain made it all but inaudible.

She felt weak and powerless before him. She lay inert on the sofa while his eyes examined her minutely. The fixed stare was as painful as his fists and knees had been just moments ago.

When he took her, his fingers dug into the sore flesh of her breast and she felt like a virgin being deflowered. He raped her coldly and systematically, hurting her as much as he possibly could, and her screaming echoed hollowly in her ears.