Twilight Girl (12 page)

"Only trying to get the kid out of your way so that you could..."

"... only trying to do the right thing, and I thought she might have come under bad influence in one of those places."

Then, dropping her voice to a throaty half-whisper, "I still can't say that I approve of that colored maid, Sassy. You might not be aware of her effect on you..."

"That's all the crap I'm going to listen to!"
The roar again, the indignant roar that explained he had thought things were all settled and here they were at it again.

Tears started down her mother's expertly made-up face and Sassy knew, again, what would follow. "All right, all right, I was wrong. I'm glad I was wrong, but I'm completely unnerved. I need a drink desperately, Warren."

"Eat your goddam lunch."

"I can't. I need one little drink and I'll be all right And I'm too upset to go inside and face Mrs. Knippel. Be a darling and—"

Sassy's father rose, grudgingly, leaving his unfinished lunch. On the way to the kitchen, he stooped to kiss Sassy's forehead. "Don't worry about a thing, sweetheart Your daddy's on your side—remember that!"

Sassy reached up to pat his cheek, inwardly rejoicing over her mother's reaction.

"Come over and kiss me, too, darling. And let's not bicker, for heaven's sake." And after the self-conscious smack had been pasted upon Katherine's cheek, she said brightly, "We need a change of pace, lovey. We haven't been to Las Vegas in ages. Couldn't you get away, Warren? Say, next weekend?"

Warmth and sunshine were permeating the scene now and her father was laying on the good-life attitude, implying with a knowing wink that Las Vegas held delicious secrets that could only be hinted at, never mentioned out loud. "You never get any argument from me about Vegas, Kitsie. Maybe Sassy and Durham would like to make it a foursome."

Sassy shuddered inside herself, but not with fear. She could predict that her mother would relieve her of the burden of declining, which her mother did, indeed, with a lascivious giggle, saying, "Oh, they'd be bored, darling. I thought...

We'll have a lovely time, just the two of us, and the kids can have the house to themselves for a change."

It was like telling Sassy that driving to Balboa was a time-consuming nuisance when, with cooperation from her thoughtful parents, she could more conveniently share a bed with Durham in the comfort of her own home.
You bitch,
Sassy thought.
Vulgar, hateful bitch!
Though, except for the presence of Mavis, it would probably work out that way and save the monotonous drive down the coast. And thinking of Durham made her wonder if, perhaps, it wouldn't be easier to enact the week-end pantomime with him after a fix. He wouldn't know the difference, and—not that she didn't enjoy him in bed, really enjoy him. Oh, hell. Her mind rejecting the incongruous pretense, she thought again of Mavis, plunk-plunking with the lemon-soaked rag in the living room, and saw that it would be difficult now to delude herself, because she had not fooled Mavis. The dark-haired butch, the glutton for Sassy's own unleashed fury, crowded her thoughts next. God, with that one to worry about, too, things certainly would be easier after a fix. It wouldn't be a
necessary
thing. Just
easier.
Her hand dropped to her slacks, drawing a comforting crackle from the check in her pocket

"Just one little drinkie," she heard her mother saying lightly. Her father crossed the patio to slide open the kitchen door. Knipps would glare at him, but the martini would be mixed and waiting. Such was the old brown-nose's devotion to her mistress.

"I'm so relieved," that mistress sighed. She smiled her sweetly baleful, youthful smile at Sassy. "Lovey, you can't know how relieved I am. One little teeny drinkie and everything will be fine. I should have guessed that Knips was only using her imagination." She scowled then. And Sassy, running her index finger over the perforated edge of the hidden check, listened to the reason for her mother's annoyance.

The piano-cleaning satire in the background was working itself into a series of jarring discords. Then, apparently to let Sassy know that none of the conversation had escaped her, Mavis swiped out a perversely off-key, erratically punctuated message:
It Ain't Necessarily So.
Sadistic! But a masochist, too, Sassy thought. Trembling inside with the thought, "What does she want me to do—kill her?"

CHAPTER 9

“I like your thighs better white," Durham Saunders was observing. "They're not what I'd call white yet, but they look nicer than they used to, Sass."

He lay flat on his back, showing off the tanned skin he disliked on women and painstakingly cultivated on himself. The berth was barely long enough to accommodate his naked, six-foot-three bulk, so he had drawn up his legs and folded his hands under his head to prop himself up for a comfortable view of the cabin.

Sassy listened to him from an edge of the opposite bunk. Smoking. Wishing there had been time to stop by at Ruggio's and find someplace to boil the junk before coming here. It was only a wishful thought; she wasn't desperate and she wasn't going to be careless. But now, looking at the vapid, physical-culture-magazine-cover face, averting sight of the blatantly displayed body, she told herself that next time she would be ready.

"For a while there, before you outgrew that muscle-girl kick, you were so damn dark... It was like I was trying to change my luck." He laughed the full, deep-down irritating laugh. Then shifting from indolent observation to the more typical urgency, "Hey, honey. Do we get this show on the road?"

Sassy pulled on her cigarette. "Let me finish this."

"Take your time," Durham contradicted himself. "Never rush a good thing, that's my motto."

"You're so right." Humoring him. Stalling.

"Hey, how's about a little parade? Don't I get my parade?"

"You've seen all there is to see, Dur."

"Not enough. Honey, I could look at you from now on."

"Let me finish this cigarette."

"Okay. But take the blouse off first."

"I don't know. It's chilly in here."

"I've gotta see those gorgeous bubs. What's the use of those beautiful titties if you keep them covered?"

"It's too bright in here, Dur. Put something over that light and I'll do it."

Durham grinned. "Will that warm it up in here? What're you doing, practicing up to be a blushing bride?" It was a relief to hear his inane, suspicionless tone. "When we're married, remind me that you like dim lights and hot rooms, hey?"

The cigarette had burned down to the filter, like time running out on a condemned prisoner. She got to her feet, found a metal ashtray in the galley and ditched the butt, Durham's eyes following her half-naked body, she feeling them as palpably as she would feel the harshness of his hands soon.

"You're a man-sized view," he told her. "And,
mmmm,
I like a lot of what I like." Adding as she stared into the ashtray, "Come on, Sass. Let's see it all."

An old yacht-club burgee, remnant of her father's long-discarded enthusiasm, lay crumpled on the bunk. She draped the pennant over the shaded wall fixture. Through the marine-blue fabric, the single bulb cast a dismal light; dark enough, she decided. Then, filling the plastic glass next to Durham's bunk with bourbon (the routinely purchased bourbon), she swallowed quickly and handed the drink to him. "Stoke up, Commodore."

Slipping out of her blouse, reaching back to unhook the tailored bra, she worried. But looking closely, after the garments had been tossed aside, she drew reassurance from the barely visible punctures in her arm. The last was more than a week old; God, she was getting hypersensitive about needlemarks! It wasn't as though she had a habit—one of those impossible to disguise, daily, even three times daily habits. To be this concerned about a casual kick! Goodness. Besides, Durham high enough, excited enough, wouldn't be likely to make a microscopic inspection of her arm. Still, the burgee over the light was comforting. Besides, but, still, yet— she was weary of self-argument. It was time, hey, to get the show on the road...

She crossed the few feet to where Durham sprawled, waiting for her. Enormously proud of her body, she found a lofty, disdainful satisfaction in its effect upon him. Telling herself, arguing again,
I
wouldn't feel this way if I weren't bi-sexual. Would I?
And refuting her point as he pulled her down to his firm, disciplined body, feeling the familiar chill take possession of her insides.

She felt no loathing for him, only a condescending tolerance of awkward hands kneading her buttocks, pinning her hard against him. She had known Durham too long, had even learned to like him in a detached, comfortable, permissive way, as one might like anything that draws attention, by comparison, to one's own superiority. She could not hate anyone so incapable of stirring her emotions; the reserve, the chill generated by his touch, were impersonal. She could patronize him for his passionate abandonment under these circumstances, while she remained self-possessed and aloof, but she could not hate him. Finally, there was something too ludicrous in the scene they were about to dramatize—something grotesquely laughable that precluded the strong, basic emotions. For to escape the ridiculous, it was she who should possess, not be possessed. She who, knowing a woman's secrets, knew better how to arouse the hidden fires—she who should play the aggressor. Durham's fumbling efforts were only those of an inept beast; in her case, too meaningless even to stir revulsion. And the monotony, the crudity of his approach made it difficult to manufacture ardor.
Why do I bother?
Sassy wondered.
Why do I let him do this to me?
Then, reminding herself that if she tried, really tried, response might come.
I
wouldn't have a worry in the world if that happened!

Trying meant taking part in the panting repartee that Durham needed as he needed the motion of flesh.

"You aren't with it, Sass. Let go!"

"Give a girl time, Dur."

"I'll warm you up, hey? Don't I always warm my honey up?"

"Oooh
...!”

"I like you hotter'n a two-dollar pistol." Running his hands over her body like a county-fair judge appraising a steer. "You're my big baby! Plenty to warm up, hey?"

He dragged at her body clumsily, reversing their positions until her shoulders touched the mattress. Like a sweating, muscle-bound wrestler, pinning his opponent to the mat in a sloppily rehearsed television event.
Oh, God...!
Wriggling against her, handling his enormous weight without regard for her need to breathe.

"I know what you need, honey. You've got to be teased."

"Dur... you're heavy..."

"Don't tell me you don't like it. That. Tell me you don't like that!"

Oh, God. Get it over with, you damn fool!

"Honey, I'm gonna tease you till you're screaming for it. Tonight you're gonna let go—really let go. You're gonna scream, Sass...!"

What breath was left in her was stifled by the slobbering kiss. Automatically, a reaction from time after time of trying, desperately trying, her arms went around him, and under the pressures of his body and his smothering mouth, she tried to force the emotions that should be logical now; normal now.
If
once,
she thought,
if once I could feel something for him, I'd be able to take Mavis or leave her.
The guilt would be gone then—the gnawing pain of inferiority expressed in never being able to accept her place in the clan that society reviled.

Her mouth finally released, Sassy shut off her critical senses and pretended. Pretended because there was no other way.

"Again, Dur...!"

"Oh, you like that?" Dur going through his tease routine.

"Love it, darling."

"Boy, you're wound up. You're gonna go wild in a little while."

"Don't I always?"

"Bite me if you want to. Don't hold out on me tonight, Sass." And with his face bearing down toward hers once more, "Try this on for size, gorgeous!"

Her lungs ached and she released herself from the second kiss, gasping. And Durham, breathless for his own reasons, crowed, "I've got baby all hot and bothered. Hey, we're wasting time. The mood you're in—"

Sassy closed her eyes. Thinking,
this is going to be too much.
But she musn't let herself compare, mustn't let herself recall her own patient, meticulous, passion-subdued technique, mustn't let herself be so sharply aware of the differences between girls searching for the same explosive release that Durham sought now, and this perspiring, ungraceful, demanding ugly body. She clamped her lower lip under her teeth to prevent an audible outcry.
Ugly!
Still, a sound escaped her and Durham mistook it, vainly, for a cry of passion.

"Easy, honey... easy. You'll get what you want. Right now... right-a-bout-now!"

And it was like all the other times before when the pretending had been lost in the alien violation of her body... neither painful nor pleasurable, but only gross... gross and degrading and stupid. And Durham like the determined bull she had watched once at a ranch (shuddering with nausea as she watched), but punctuating his animal rhythm with the choking, half-swallowed remarks to which she responded now only because words were a stimuli, a tried and true method of speeding the warm barnyard process to its conclusion.

"Oh, Jesus, you're terrific. Scream for me, Sass! Oh, honey, honey, what a bitch you are... what a gorgeous, beautiful bitchy...!"

And she stopped trying then, admitting the failure and somehow—somehow fiercely glad of her failure.
Listen to him—oh, God, listen to him!
She had heard identical mumblings from her mother's room that New Year's Eve when the party noises had awakened her. Eight. Yes, she had been eight. She had fallen asleep. She had groped her way to the bathroom, stumbling through the hall. Then she had heard the sounds like these that Durham was making now. And a man's voice had murmured querulously, "Are you sure he's passed out, Kitsie? What the hell would we do if he walked in here now?" And her mother's voice, laughing and barely coherent, "When Warren passes out, darling, he's good for eight hours."