Carla

Chapter Eight

Carla banged down the phone in disgust. The air in the telephone booth was stuffy and clouded with smoke from her cigarette, but she didn’t have the strength to get up and leave. She took a final puff of the cigarette and dropped it to the floor, grinding it out viciously with her heel.

Damn, she thought. Damn, damn, damn!

She was in a drugstore just a few blocks from her home. Ronald had said good-bye to her, too wrapped up in his work to even ask where she was going or when she would be coming back. After hurrying to a phone, she had called Charles at once. His voice over the phone relaxed her at last, but when she proposed a meeting his words set her on edge.

“I’ll be busy this evening,” he had said. “I thought we agreed on afternoons?”

“But I have to see you.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” And then there had been an odd aura of finality in the click of the receiver in her ear.

She called back immediately and listened to the phone ringing over and over. After two dozen rings she gave up, resigned to the fact that he had left for the evening. But where had he gone? And why couldn’t he give her the evening when she needed him so much? It wasn’t fair.

She started to light another cigarette, then decided against it and rammed the cigarette back into the pack, dropping the pack into her purse and snapping the catch on the black alligator purse with the same touch of finality that she had noted in the click of the receiver. She was angry. She was angry in an illogical way, angry about Danny’s visit and Charles’s reply, angry and tired and tense inside. If she had ever in her entire life needed a man, she needed one now. If she ever needed relaxation and peace, now was the time.

But what was there to do? Going home was the only way open to her, but there would be nothing but loneliness and boredom there. Ronald was too busy to talk to her and Lizzie was out for the evening. Besides, she didn’t want to spend too much time talking to the girl. One of these days she would give her hand away, and that was all she needed.

She left the phonebooth and returned to the MG, driving away from the curb and south on Delaware. Tonight driving didn’t seem to provide the relaxation it usually gave her but it was certainly better than staying at home. She cursed Charles and Ronald and Danny, the harsh words making her feel better in a small way. But it didn’t work; her hands were still clenched too tightly on the steering wheel and there was still an odd constriction in her throat.

Maybe a drink would help. Maybe a whole batch of drinks, one right after the other, would turn the trick. She sure as hell needed something before she went out of her mind.

She searched for a bar, driving methodically down Delaware and across Chippewa and down Pearl and combing the whole downtown area systematically. It was important to find just the right sort of place — one that was decent enough to let her feel comfortable, but at the same time brassy enough so that none of Ronald’s friends was likely to drop in.

Almost half an hour passed before she found the bar, a blue-awninged tavern called The Blue Gate. After leaving the MG in a parking lot across the street, she walked into the bar and took a table at the rear.

It was a pleasant bar. The bartender’s apron was clean and white and the men at the bar wore suits and ties for the most part. The music on the jukebox was quiet, listenable stuff — soft modern jazz and singers like Sinatra and Anita O’Day. She dropped a quarter in the juke, picking records haphazardly and returning to her table.

The waiter came, a tall thin man in a dark green uniform. She ordered a manhattan and drummed her fingers nervously on the marble-patterned table-top while she waited for the drink. She took a cigarette from her pack and tapped it rhythmically on the table, then placed it between her lips and scratched a match into flame. When the drink arrived she stubbed the cigarette out in the heavy terracotta ashtray and took a long sip of the drink.

It tasted good. Carla wasn’t much of a drinker, and the taste of most drinks wasn’t enough of an enticement to get her in the habit of a drink before dinner every day, as was the custom with most of Ronald’s friends. But a drink did let her relax, and that was her primary interest tonight. She polished off the remainder of the manhattan in one swallow and signalled the waiter for another.

The second manhattan was even better than the first. Carla drank it methodically, not wanting to waste time nursing it. Drinking to her was like everything else. It was to be done as quickly and neatly and efficiently as possible. The second drink went the way of the first, and a third followed in rapid succession.

She felt better after the third drink. The music from the jukebox was cool and crystalline, and it seemed to be coming at her through a filter. Her head grew deliciously light and there was a pleasantly numb sensation in her cheek, the first sign that the alcohol was taking effect.

She ordered a fourth drink and closed her eyes while she waited for it.

Pictures swam through her mind — pictures of faces. Ronald and Charles and Danny paraded past in military formation, smiling at her and kissing her and laughing. She laughed back, happy and light inside. Everything was going to be fine.

She took a sip of the fourth manhattan.

I am Mrs. Carla Macon, she thought. And that makes me pretty important, pretty damned important. And everything’s going to be just fine.

She didn’t notice the man until he was seated across from her with his eyes staring into hers. When she did see him, it seemed perfectly natural to her that he should be there. She needed a man, and here was a man coming to talk to her. The fact that she had never seen him before in her life didn’t seem strange at all.

“Hi,” he said. “How are ya, Baby?”

“Hi,” she replied. “I think I’m drunk.”

“You think right.” She noticed that his jacket had padding in the shoulders, and his tie was too loud. There was a shifty quality in his gaze, and it combined with his dress and his pinched-in look to make him resemble the villain in a bad western.

“You’re a pretty girl.”

“Thank you,” she said. She felt his knee pressing hers under the table. At first she started to draw away; then she returned the pressure and smiled across the table at him. He probably wasn’t a particularly nice man, she decided, but he was here and it was a nice night and she was a little bit drunk so it didn’t make too much difference.

“I figure a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone,” he was saying, and at the same time his hand was encircling her knee and fondling it gently. He went on talking, giving her a rather old-fashioned line, but she didn’t mind the clumsiness of his approach. His hand slid up from her knee and rested on her thigh, rubbing the firm flesh gently as he spoke. She smiled again and dropped her hand on his, helping him to caress her thigh.

The music on the jukebox seemed to be coming from miles and miles away. Gently she lifted his hand and pulled up her skirt, replacing his hand on her bare thigh. He took a sharp breath and his fingers kneaded the tender flesh of the inside of her thigh. His hand was remarkably soft, almost like a woman’s, and she pressed her thighs tight together, squeezing the hand between them. It felt so good to have a man want her, to feel the desire flowing across the table. She smiled at him again and ran her tongue between her lips quickly.

His hand moved up between her warm thighs, exciting her. His touch combined with the effect of the four manhattans to send a little shiver of hunger through her body. She knew that it was going to happen: she would leave the bar with him and go somewhere and they would make love. The anticipation of the act increased her excitement.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his fingers still busy with her legs. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“My place.”

She nodded, spreading her thighs so that he could remove his hand. Her skin tingled where his hand had rested and the skin seemed burned from the contact. She stood up and picked up her purse while he paid the waiter for her drinks. Then he took her arm in his and walked her out of the bar.

She didn’t notice anything outside. She didn’t note whether the stars or moon were out or what time it was or anything. All her being was concentrated on the man beside her and the act soon to come. He led her around the block to a small third-rate hotel on Pearl Street, held the door open for her, and followed her inside. She stood awkwardly, her eyes taking in the shabby furnishings and the worn rug on the floor while he signed the register and passed money to the sleepy clerk.

There was no elevator. They walked up one flight of stairs with his arm clutched possessively around her waist, his fingers pressing her gently rounded belly. Her thighs rubbed together as she climbed the stairs and made her more anxious than ever to be in a room with him.

To hell with Charles, she thought angrily. To hell with him and Ronald and Danny and all of them. To hell with love and the whole nonsense of it. There was no such thing as love. Love was an itch, and if you scratched the itch everything was all right. That was all there was to it.

They were in the room suddenly and the door was closed behind them. The man turned to her, a smile on his thin and bloodless lips. She returned the smile and opened her arms to him, and he stepped inside them and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed him, her tongue darting between the thin lips and her body grinding.

“Baby,” he murmured huskily. He lowered her to the bed and the springs groaned as they sank back onto it. The bed sagged in the middle. A lone light-bulb hung from the ceiling, shining in her eyes and swinging lazily from side to side.

He was fumbling with her clothing and she helped him. His hands found her breasts and held them greedily, the tips of his fingers pressing into her milky white flesh and hurting her.

“You’re a hot little baby,” he told her. His breath was stale, a mixture of beer and cigarettes, and at first she drew away from him. Then she told herself that he was just a man, just a tool to be used for her own pleasure, and she put her arms around him and kissed him again.

He had a hand under her skirt now and was forcing it higher, touching her and hurting her. Her whole body was aching from the clumsy way he sprawled over her, his chest pressing against her breasts. His hands pulled at her panties and his breathing grew even faster, and she suddenly realized that everything was wrong.

Wrong.

With Charles her lovemaking had a beauty to it. With Danny at least there had been a genuine attraction and an animalistic drive and zest. But with this man there was nothing but raw, ugly sex.

The whole thing had no more meaning than two dogs copulating in an alley.

The realization was accompanied by a complete lapse of passion. She no longer knew anything but that she had to get away from this little man, had to get out of the dirty hotel room before she was sick to her stomach. She felt nothing at all but cheapness and degradation.

She made her body go all rigid and tried to turn away from him. At first he thought it was just part of the game. He chuckled deep in his throat and tried to kiss her again, but she twisted further from him and pulled her head back from his.

“Let me up,” she commanded.

“What?”

“Let... let me up. I have to go now.”

His eyes went wide in total disbelief. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

She shook her head forcefully, trying to clear away the fogginess of the liquor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have been drunk, but I’m all right now. I have to leave.”

She started to sit up but his hand caught her on the point of the chin and knocked her back down to the bed.

“You little bitch,” he snapped. “You teasing little bitch! You get a guy all hot and then you think you can just pull up your pants and go home. Is that what you think?”

“I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I told you I’m sorry. But I can’t stay here.”

“You think so? Well, you got another think coming, baby. I figure on getting what I came for.”

She struggled but he forced her down on the bed and his fingers tore at her clothing. He was small but wiry and she couldn’t seem to stop him, couldn’t manage to keep him from taking her. She wanted to shout but his hand covered her mouth and prevented her from making a sound.

Suddenly, automatically, she thrust up with her knee and caught him in the groin. He let out a little tortured scream and doubled up in agony, rolling off the bed and onto the floor and holding himself where she had kicked him. She jumped from the bed and rearranged her clothing as well as she could, forcing herself to ignore the man whining and writhing in pain on the floor. Then she ran from the room and down the stairs and out to the street.

When she was in the car headed back to her home, the wind was once again playing with her long blonde hair. But this time it gave her no sensation of freedom. She felt instead only a sensation of total weakness and depression. Her body ached from the way he had hurt her and her insides hurt from a realization of what she had done and of what had almost happened to her.

Her clothes were in bad shape. He had managed to rip the blouse and skirt, and the panties were practically torn to shreds. She hoped that she could get into the house without being seen. Lizzie was out; Ronald was exhausted from his trip and probably asleep by now. If he saw her like this it would be bad.

What was the matter with her? Was she a tramp, a nymphomaniac? It certainly appeared that way, because there was certainly no reason for her behaviour, no explanation for letting the man pick her up.

Was she no better than a barroom pickup, a cheap slut? She couldn’t let anything like this happen again. She had to see Charles, had to straighten everything out and convince him to marry her.

Or else...

She forced the thought from her mind as she parked the little car in front of her house and hurried unsteadily to the door. Ronald was sleeping, so she undressed and threw her clothes down the chute, slipping soundlessly under the covers and falling asleep almost at once.