Seventh Avenue (17 page)

“Like it strong?”

“Any way it comes.”

“Sandra’ll go soon, I hope,” she added.

“I could always push her out the window.”

“Not worth it. I may need her again.”

“Who looks after the baby when you’re working?”

“I drop her at my mother’s every morning and she brings her home in the afternoon. Not a very satisfactory arrangement really, but frankly we need the money. Herbie’s been on the road for five years now and things have got a lot rougher. People don’t want to buy things to play with when they haven’t got enough money for food.”

“So he sends you out to work?”

“It was my idea . . .” She sat down next to him in the coffee nook and put a cigarette in her mouth. She looked tired of life, but she still maintained an air of buoyancy, but without bubbles.

“What kind of guy is he?”

“Honest, hardworking . . . dull. I always wanted to be a dress designer . . . funny ambition, I suppose, but that’s what I studied for. I never had it in me to be a serious painter. So here I am at twenty-two and slightly tarnished with a new career in front of me. I’ll tell you something: even if Herbie was doing well, I couldn’t stand staying at home full time. I’d have to do something to get out of the rut of being a housewife.”

He touched her hand tentatively and watched the blue smoke filter through her nostrils. The smoke reminded him of skywriting. The water boiled, and she got up slowly, patting his hand in a comradely way and took out cups and saucers. On the way back to the table, she kicked off her high heels, and he realized that she was only about five-foot-two and very compact. Her legs were long and that made her seem taller.

Sandra entered the kitchen, yawned adenoidally, scratched one of her chins and stared blankly at Jay out of small brown bloodshot eyes decidedly oriental in shape. She looked like an Indian squaw, the fat pregnant one who’s always the last one to leave the reservation when the cavalry starts to attack.

“Guess I’ll mosey over to Apartment 4B and see if my mother’s still alive.”

Jay could have kissed her if she had a place to kiss. He took out a half-dollar piece and handed it to her.

“My treat,” he said. It was worth a dollar to get rid of her.

Sandra examined the coin, stuck it in her teeth, then in her eye as a monocle. A living goon.

“T’ain’t gold, pardner. But I’ll take it jus’ the same.”

“Buy yourself a mask.”

“Yeah?”

“For Hallowe’en.”

“That’s different.”

“Good night, Sandra.”

After Sandra had gone, Jay said: “That’s gonna be somebody’s mother, someday.”

“We can’t all be born as beautiful as you, can we?”

“You were,” he said, edging closer to her.

“You’re a nice guy, Jay. In spite of yourself. But just for the record: I’m not a fast pickup. I never was, and I never will be. I made one mistake in my life. I felt sorry for Herbie, and I married him. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I haven’t cheated on him, and I didn’t sleep around when I was single.”

“Would you have felt sorry for me?”

“I doubt it. No, I couldn’t have
that
kind of relationship with you.”

The coffee was hot, bitter and strong, and he sipped it slowly, anxious to prolong the night. His demands on women were usually straightforward and elementary, but he found himself enjoying her company, and his desire for her increased out of all proportion. She leaned her head back against the stretch of leather head buffer behind her, and he kissed her softly on the cheek.

“I had to do that.”

“Did you?” she replied in a toneless voice. “You strike me as the sort of man that doesn’t have to do anything except what he wants to.”

“You’re too smart for me.”

“That sounds like a challenge, but I’m too tired to accept it, so I’ll put it down to flattery and be very feminine about the whole thing.”

“Can you sleep late tomorrow?”

“What do you want to do, take me night-clubbing?”

“Another night. I just wondered . . .”

“Lorna gets me up at seven and as I don’t see much of her during the week, I spend the whole day with her.”

“Where do you go?”

“We walk up to Prospect Park, and about two hundred men, usually with their wives and children on their arms, try to pick me up. But I manage to resist them all.”

“Could I meet you one Sunday?”

“Sure and bring your wife; Herb and I’ll have tea with milk ready and we’ll all talk about the weather and the view of Ocean Avenue we have from our living room.”

“I have to see you again.”

“Why?”

He put his arm around her and kissed her roughly on the mouth. She neither protested nor gave anything, and when his hand moved to her waist, she pulled away and held his wrist firmly against the side of the table.

“It won’t work, you know.”

“How do you know?” he said angrily, at the top of his voice. “You don’t love your husband. I think maybe you could love me.”

“That’s a charming solution to my problem. Why didn’t I think of it myself? All I have to do now is fall in love with you, and we’ll live happily ever after. Oh, boy, this is a George Raft scene if I ever played one. All that’s missing is the tango music, and you haven’t got a .45 in your hand.” She shoved a teaspoon in his fist, ruffled his hair, and threw her beautiful red head back and laughed.

“I don’t think you’re very funny and if you ever get smart with me again, I’ll knock your head off.”

She put up her fists and sparred against the air, and he started for the door.

“You’re really serious. Hey, Jay, aren’t you?” She got up and chased him through the living room. He was almost out of the door. “Hey, honestly, I was only teasing you.”

“I don’t like to be made a schmuck of. Better people have tried it and wound up laughing on the other side of their face.”

“Wait a minute, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She didn’t finish the sentence but fell against him. He raised her face and looked at it with loathing, then kissed her with a sense of anguish that almost made him cry. He forced her mouth open, and her breath tasted warm and sweet and he clung to her as though to a life preserver in the open sea. He looked at her closed eyes, and she came away slowly and surprised as though she had received a shock from a live wire.

“Call me,” she said as he started to go. “Oh, and you better comb your hair, or your wife won’t believe that you’re telling her the truth about it being an innocent little party.”

“I’ll see you on Monday when I come up to the showroom. We’ll have lunch,” he added matter-of-factly.

It rained on Sunday, and Roebling Street seemed dirtier, drearier and even more nondescript in the pelting gray thunderstorm. A street designed to support traffic and not much else. In the bedroom, Jay slept fitfully. He woke from time to time to listen to the rain, breathe in the heavy odor of sleep and unaired bedclothes, then decided it was one of those lost days in which one’s personality and the elements find each other at odds and the usual activities reserved for the day, visiting relatives, an early movie, a longish drive, dinner at the local Chinese restaurant, are of such overwhelming futility that sleep becomes an end in itself.

It was about two-thirty when Jay, his beard itching, his tongue parched, his disenchantment with his surroundings at a new and dizzy height, stalked out of the bedroom to the bathroom. On the way he passed Rhoda, who was glued to the radio absorbing the weather report. If she had been standing by the window, he could have pushed her out, without remorse and without thinking. Pregnant women have accidents, he reflected, so she becomes a statistic, somebody has to.

“It’s gonna keep up all day, the rain,” she said.

“That announcer must be a genius. Must’ve had a college education, like you.”

“You’re in a great mood.”

“Put on some coffee, if you can tear yourself away.”

“You might ask me how I feel?”

“Well?” He paused in mid-stride.

“Rotten. I was sick half the night.”

“That’s what happens when you stuff yourself like a pig.”

“Oh, Jay. Cut it out, for God’s sake.”

“Any plans for today?”

“I thought we could drive over to see my family, then maybe go to a movie.”

“Good idea.” Her face brightened. “I’d get an early start if I was you. So don’t bother with coffee, I’ll make it myself.”

“Sure, get me out of the way, so you can go to see one of your whores.”

He slammed the door in her face and ran the bath to drown her voice. A bath and a shave, although refreshing him and reaffirming his status in the human race, did little to improve his humor. He sat down at the table and drank three cups of coffee, and ate two slices of dry toast. The butter had gone rancid. Only one thing could improve the day: Eva. An afternoon in bed with Eva, safely locked in her arms, with perhaps a bottle of rye nearby.

“So what do you say?” Rhoda asked.

“If you want to see your family you can go. I’ll release you from custody. And if you’d like to make it more than an afternoon visit, I’ll help you pack a bag.”

Her bottom lip trembled, and she fought to maintain a show of composure. Tears got her nowhere with Jay, and they gave her gas. She poured herself the dregs of the coffee and flopped down in a chair. He picked up the
Sunday Mirror
and examined the dress advertisements to see if anyone was underselling him.

“What’s got into you?”

He looked over the paper.

“You.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll draw you a picture.”

“All of a sudden you’re picking on me whenever you get the chance.”

“Not all of a sudden.”

“Since we got married then.”

“The day we got married.”

“For months you ignore me. You don’t come near me.”

“You sound surprised.”

“There was a time when you were nice, when you cared.”

“People make mistakes. And to set the record straight: I never cared a whore’s drawers for you.”

“Jay, you can’t talk to me like that. Not after what I’ve gone through.”

He threw the paper savagely on the floor and she recoiled as though from a slap.

“You could’ve saved us both a lot aggravation if you’d done what I wanted you to in Scranton. You could’ve gone back to Borough Park as good as new and married somebody more your style.”

“What I’ve done for you! I mean what were you when I met you! A porter free-loading meals at weddings you weren’t invited to. I’ve made something out of you, given you a trade, tried to teach you manners. Everything I’ve given.”

“If that’s supposed to bring tears to my eyes, it’s failed. I’m grateful, and I’ll always be that, but I don’t feel a thing for you. You’re like a dead lump of meat to me. I’ve learned everything you can teach me, and that wasn’t as much as you think because frankly, Rhoda, I’ve outgrown you already. Now if you want to run home to your parents, I’ll drive you.”

She began to wail slowly and hopelessly. He was too strong for her.

“I’m having your child!” she shrieked. “Your child, you low-life bastard. What did I ever do to deserve someone like you? God must hate me.”

“Don’t blame God. Blame yourself. Your child’ll have a father and a name, and I’ll provide for it. But if you want sympathy, get it from that old pimp Dobrinski or your father.”

She slapped him with the back of her hand across his face, and his nose began to bleed. He caught the dripping blood with the palm of his hand, and he was more startled than hurt. He lifted his foot and with all his strength pushed against her chair. The chair thudded to the floor, and Rhoda hit her head against the leg of the stove. She lay without moving, dazed, her face frozen as though caught in that last moment between life and death. Jay picked up his overcoat and walked out of the room. He paused in the hallway, hoping she was dead. He’d say it was an accident - she must have lost her balance standing on a chair. As he descended the stairs, he heard a yelp that sounded less than human. He pulled up his collar and dashed out into the street. He had the key to his car in his hand but decided first to go to the bar opposite. He had never noticed it before.

The bartender gave him a warm hello, a moan about the weather, lit his cigarette and told him to keep the matches that had the name of the place on it. Jay stared dumbly at the matchbook: SAL’S BAR AND GRILL: SPECIALIZING IN STEAKS AND SEAFOOD. It smelled like a cat morgue and the bartender seemed the sort of man who never washed his hands after going to the toilet and who cleaned the glasses with spit. Jay had three double Harwood’s in quick succession. He wondered if he ought to use the telephone, but decided against it, then rushed out into the street leaving his change on the bar and started up his car. He drove wildly, passing two lights. A patrol car at the curb with two cops made him stop for one.

Eva would be happy to see him. She had to be. The hate in him welled up, and he felt a distinct glow as though the bitterness had reached its limit. He realized with an apprehension so sudden and inexplicable that he gasped: He didn’t hate Rhoda, he had fallen in love with Eva.

Eva was wearing a gray tweed skirt and black sweater when she answered the doorbell. Her hair was loosely combed in a page boy, and he thought she was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. She had an easy swaying grace, and her mouth was irresistibly sad. He swallowed the mint he had been sucking and almost choked on it. She blinked her eyes unbelievingly when she put the hall light on.

“Oh, God. I don’t know whether to laugh or . . .”

He kissed her, and she almost lost her balance.

“Are you glad I . . . ?”

She rubbed her sleeve over his wet hair and wrinkled her nose.

“I never would’ve believed . . . Crazy isn’t it? Only seen you a few hours.”

He brandished a paper bag that contained a bottle of rye and one of scotch. The apartment was just as neat and clean as it had been the night before, and he noticed that she was making a pair of striped kitchen curtains. The material was spread out on the settee.

“You might’ve called.”

“I didn’t have your number. No reprimands today.”

She rubbed his face affectionately.

“I would’ve made you lunch.”

“You didn’t do much walking today.”

“I only walk in the rain when I’m in love.”

“Could you get that cigar store Indian to babysit?”

“I’ll ask her. Gee, I am glad you came. Did you kill your wife?”

He fumbled awkwardly with his coat and avoided her question. She took his dripping coat and hung it in the bathroom on the shower curtain rail; then she went into the kitchen and brought out some glasses and a piece of salami.

“We’ll both smell of garlic,” she said, “but so what?”

She had long reddish-brown eyelashes, and her complexion had an ivory hue under the light He poured them drinks and opened the large bottle of ginger ale he had bought at the last moment. She reached for his hand and toyed with his fingers, then ran them along her cheek.

“So? What’s on your mind?”

“I thought we might go out and have an early dinner or something.”

“Do you like seafood?”

“Love it.”

“We could go to Lundy’s then. It’s only about a ten-minute ride.”

“Where’s the baby?”

“Sleeping. She always has a nap in the afternoon. That’s all she seems to do, eat, sleep and dirty her diapers. You didn’t come from - by the way, where do you live?”

“Williamsburg . . . by the Bridge. We get a pretty fair flow of traffic and dirty windows and the smell of fog. Otherwise, it’s a slum.”

“Then why don’t you move?”

“Maybe I will. It’s only temporary, but at the time it was all I could afford.”

“Well, you didn’t come from Williamsburg, which sounds pretty enchanting, just to hear me tell you about Lorna’s routine.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Well, let’s not have a rehash of last night. Friends, yes, but the other . . .”

Jay took a long pull from his drink and observed the room, which was smallish, but because it had been painted white appeared larger. The furniture, a three-piece affair covered in a heavy tweed material, was functional but without interest. A mantelpiece over a simulated fireplace supported a china cat, a pair of copper ashtrays with beveled edges, two metal soldiers with beards and red uniforms, and a weathervane clock designed not to work and which no doubt had been won in a Coney Island shooting gallery. The only item he found attractive was the figurine lamp on the walnut barrel side table: a Dutch peasant girl with a green jacket, which must’ve come from Gimbels’ antique department, looking, or so he thought, for a missing wooden clog. He visualized them both living in Marty’s apartment without Marty, driving a white Packard convertible.

“Do you think you’d ever divorce your husband?”

“You sound like a census taker.”

“Answer me, please?”

“You’re really too big for this room. Herb’s a good five or six inches shorter than you. How tall are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’d say about six-foot-two: a perfect home wrecker. Well, Jay Blackman, what do you want me to say? That I could be mad about you if I planned to get rid of my short, slightly balding husband who travels half the year?”

“You should’ve been a lawyer.”

“What do we do about my baby?”

“Can’t you be serious for a minute?”

“I could, but I don’t propose to be. What’s the point” - she swallowed her drink and tilted the bottle again – “we’ll just be making more trouble for ourselves than we could ever get out of.”

He moved closer, seized her shoulders and she fell into his lap. Her hair trailed on the floor and much to his annoyance she stared at the ceiling. Her ears were small and pierced. He kissed her lightly on the lobe, and when she didn’t pull away as he expected her to, he put his tongue in her ear and ran his fingers along her neck.

“Counting my skin pores? It gets monotonous . . . there’re so many of them.” She stretched out her legs and let them dangle on the arm of the settee, and her shoes dropped off. He kissed her on the neck, and she moaned slightly; he wasn’t certain if it was excitement or boredom and his hand skimmed along her smooth thighs. He was surprised that she had not put on stockings. His hand seemed to be traveling light years and at last when he touched her she jerked away. Like an acrobat, she sprang to her feet and stood in front of him, her face red and her eyes violent. He touched her hand reflexively and sadly.

“We’re not fifteen years old, and this isn’t the back row of the local movie house,” she said. She rushed out of the room, and he got up to follow her. He found himself in a pink room, dominated by an enormous dressing table running the length of the wall, a bedspread of wild silk, embroidered with initials that were illegible, and a white quilted housecoat hanging outside a closet that seemed to be illustrated by an oriental herbalist. She lay on the bed with her back to the door, and he made his entry silently. Her eyes were red, but she was not crying. She dug her nails into the plum-colored carpet.

“I’m sorry. The last thing I want to do is . . .”

“Then for Christ sake stop treating me like I was a piece of merchandise that anybody could touch. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t find you attractive, but stop forcing me. It’s got to come from in here” - she pressed her hand against her heart – “and I don’t know. I’m pretty confused. Yesterday you were some character who insulted me for no reason when I was feeling very sorry for myself because I knew I wasn’t going to get the job, and then you walk into my life at a party and I see that you’ve got a nice side and that you’re an unhappy man who’s probably making some woman awfully miserable.”

He sat down on the bed beside her and stroked her back. Suddenly she turned round, glared at him with unmistakable hatred, and reached for his head and pulled him close to her. He was too frightened to move. She lifted up her sweater, undid her brassiere, and pushed his head under her sweater so that he was in complete darkness.

His astonishment gave way to discomposure; he had never lost his balance so completely with a woman. He listened to her uneven, chortled breathing as her breasts swelled. She pushed his head away after a few minutes, and he sat on the floor next to a pair of furry green slippers. He could not bear watching as she removed her clothes, carefully folding her sweater and hanging her skirt on a hanger; he was frightened of having his orgasm. She stood before him only in a pair of white panties, and he was overcome by an emotion so foreign and exalted that he almost choked. He loved her, and he was appalled by the realization that he had reduced his stature and confessed to a weakness. She stood over him, swaying from side to side, her face dispassionate, yet submissive, her chalk white skin, slightly freckled, exuding a sweetness and fragrance that drew him to her. He wanted to say something, but could not.

She glared down at him angrily with tears streaming down her cheeks like little bubbles, then bit his lip. He sat there mystified, impervious to pain and thought, a victim of his own passion. He had slumped down lower and with effort lifted himself on his haunches like a jackal. He lowered her panties, and there was an explosion of red hair, and his mouth went to her. She pulled his arms, and he got to his feet as she moved to the bed. He couldn’t remember how his clothes came off, whether she had removed them or he had torn them off and he only became conscious of them when he looked over her shoulder and noticed a pile of rumpled clothing lying by the side of the bed. His body had constricted and he was aware that she was lying on her side with her mouth on him, her head as though on a guillotine that decapitated and re-embodied in the same knifelike motion, and that he was climaxing, agonizingly, and she would not release him. He pleaded with her to stop, but she ignored him, stopping at last of her own accord when he went limp and screamed.

He grabbed her by the throat, and she said: “I’m dead.”

“Dead?” He couldn’t believe his ears. Slowly he released his grip on her. “I love you, don’t you understand?”

“It’ll be like death . . . your love,” she said. “You’ll destroy my life.”

“I won’t,” he protested.

“What do you think we’ve done already? It’s less than human.”

“It’s
only
human.”

“My little girl is in the next room and I let you come into my home and I let you destroy what I’ve got - in my own husband’s bed.”

“You didn’t have anything, but now you have.”

“Oh, Christ, what’s the use? I’m not talking about the morality of what you’ve made me do - what I wanted to do,” she added. “I’m talking about the wreckage that you can’t see yet. But it’s there, right in front of us.”

“I want to marry you.”

“You’ve said that already, but I’m not prepared to give up my life for you.”

“Why?”

“‘Why?’” she shouted. “Is this the sort of thing you want to build a relation on? What do you plan for me? A little two-room apartment somewhere convenient so that you don’t have to travel too far and can visit me, drop your load, then go home and have dinner with your wife? I hate you. If by some crazy mischance I should ever fall in love with you, I’ll hate you for what you’ve done to me.”

“You’re crazy. I don’t want a fast screw, then good luck, goodbye. I want you to be my wife and have my children.”

“This is getting stupid and repetitious. We’re both married, and we’ve got ties.”

He tried to think of a solution, but nothing occurred to him, and he felt mentally depleted. When he turned to her, he saw her adjusting her brassiere from a squatting position on the pillow. He reached out and squeezed her arm so that the strap slipped down. He forced her down beside him. She did her best to pull away, but he would not ease his grip until he was on top of her. When he let her go, her arm was black and blue, and she could hardly raise it. Her eyes remained closed and he kissed her breasts. She opened her eyes slowly.

“Do it! You’re torturing me.”

They spent the night together, and Jay in his agony and joy could not leave her alone for more than an hour. She fed the baby and returned to him.

An alarm clock woke them at seven in the morning and the day, February twenty-first, 1937, was the happiest of Jay’s life. The wintery sun sent a spoke of light into the room, which illuminated her red hair and bored into her closed eyes. When she opened them with a faint fluttering, she saw him propped up on an elbow, smoking and smiling. She held up her face, and he came to her and kissed her.

“God help us both,” she said wearily, “I love you.”

Jay drove Eva to work, then went back downtown through the stream of traffic to his store. He hoped that Rhoda would not be there, and yet when he went into the shop, which was already filled with early morning customers, he became vaguely alarmed by her absence. A short fat woman with spectacles attached to a silver chain attacked him with a kiss when she saw him. She brimmed with happiness and her short body stretched to reach his cheek. He didn’t much care for physical affection from his staff, but Helen was his star saleslady and he couldn’t pull away without offending her.

“A boy, you lucky man. Eight pounds, four ounces,” she exclaimed, slobbering over him. “Your mother rang us from the hospital and said would you go straight back.”

He was overcome. A mixture of relief and shock and his hands trembled. He felt grateful to his mother for saving him from the ignominy of arriving without knowing about the baby. His staff left their customers and gathered round, congratulating him, and he felt small and cheap.

“We’ve all chipped in to buy you something for the baby. A carriage, a genuine English one that they call a perambulator. It’s better than a carriage,” Helen said proudly, and was seconded by the girls.

“Yeah, what do you think?”

“It’s a perambulator.”

“Such a big boy.”

“What’re you gonna call him?”

“You better get back to the hospital!”

This came at him all at once, and he hardly knew what to reply. He threw up his arms.

“Don’t worry about the store today, Mr. Jay, we’ll see that things go smoothly,” Helen cried.

“Thanks,” Jay said in a strained and croaking voice. “You shouldn’t have spent so much money . . . Honestly it must have cost a fortune.”