The Housewife Blues (26 page)

They came into the living room. Terry wore her usual casual
home clothes, jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers.

"I'm so sorry," Terry began. "I—"

"Don't be. I'm not," Jenny interrupted.
"It's not your fault. In fact, I'll survive." She felt exhilarated by
the thought and must have shown it in her expression. As if to underline her
resolve, she got up and brought out a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses.
She uncorked the bottle, poured, and gave Terry a glass. Their eyes met.

"You're a tough little hombre." Terry winked.
"I'll give you that."

"For a housewife."

"Lucky you."

"You're not serious."

"I'm not sure. I used to be. But now..." Terry
lifted her glass. "You're looking at a woman with a bambino in the
oven."

"For sure?" Jenny asked.

"I tested today. Turned out old Godfrey was loaded
with little spermatozoa."

Jenny laughed, hoping that she had helped in their
extraction.

"He's a regular jumping jack now," Terry said.

"That's two things to celebrate," Jenny said
gleefully. They clinked glasses and drank deeply. Terry put down her glass and
stood up.

"Godfrey and I are off to a Chinese restaurant to
celebrate. Want to come?"

"I'll take a rain check. I ordered a pizza."

Terry started toward the door, then stopped and turned.
"I want you to know, Jenny. Godfrey and I are just one flight up. You'll
never be lonely with us around."

"I know," Jenny said. "Nice to have good
neighbors."

They embraced at the apartment door, and Terry bounded up
the stairs.

Jenny poured herself another glass of champagne, undressed,
and began to run the water in the tub. A warm glow had begun to suffuse her.
She finished the champagne in her glass and poured herself another. She
giggled. "I feel delicious," she said aloud.

Suddenly the outside buzzer rang. She put on a robe, and
sipping her champagne, she answered the intercom.

"Who is it?" she asked gaily.

"Pizza," the voice answered.

She giggled. "I nearly forgot."

She rang him in and, still sipping the champagne, opened
the apartment door.

"Welcome," she said to the young man bringing the
pizza. "I'm famished." She had difficulty pronouncing the word and
giggled, upending the glass of champagne.

"Eight fifty," the young man said.

Leaving the door open, she went into the apartment.
"Gotta find my pocketbook," she said, leaving the man to wait in the
doorway.

The pocketbook was in none of the obvious places. She
inspected the various surfaces in the living room and dining room. She was not
conscious of hurrying, expecting the man to remain patiently at his post by the
doorjamb. She moved into the bedroom. No pocketbook. Then she came back into
the living room.

It was only then that she realized he had moved into the
apartment. Up till then she was conscious of him only as a young man, a pizza
delivery person without identity. But inside the apartment he seemed to become
more of an individual. Despite her tipsiness, she managed to note that he was
Hispanic looking, a bit taller than she, with broad shoulders, a dark
complexion, tight curly hair, tight jeans and cowboy belt, and a black leather
jacket, the zipper pulled nearly to his chin.

"You havin' a party, lady?" the young man asked.
His speech was accented, and his smile, when his lips parted, showed gaping
spaces where teeth had once been.

"You might say that," she said, laughing as she
took the pizza from him with one hand, balancing it on her palm.

It was then that she realized she was still carrying the
champagne glass. She felt no sense of danger, and her cursory view of the man
was nonthreatening. The man's smile, despite the gaps, seemed warm and
friendly.

She walked past him, back into the kitchen with the pizza,
saw her shoulder-strap leather pocketbook on the floor below the windowsill,
where it must have fallen. She picked it up, laid it on the kitchen island, and
inspected the contents of her wallet.

"Damn," she called to him. All she had was two
singles. She had spent what cash she'd had on the kitten. Must learn to carry
more cash, she told herself. "The best I can do is a check," she
said, taking the checkbook out of her wallet and fishing in her pocketbook for
a pen.

"Never there when you want it," she said,
crossing the hallway past him. She moved to the living room secretary, where
she stored her collection of mismatched ballpoints. Bending slightly over the
open desk flap, she began to write the check, then, hesitating, looked up. He
had moved a few feet into the living room. It was then that she noticed his
sneakers, pure white with high-tops, not the slightest smudge to mar the white.

"What was it again?" she asked.

"Eight fifty."

"Made out to?"

"Pizzaland."

"If I add the tip to the check, will they give you
your tip in cash?"

He didn't answer, and as she glanced toward him, she noted
that he had moved still closer, but his attention was concentrated elsewhere.

"Nice paira jugs, lady," the man said.

"What?" Surely she was hallucinating. He couldn't
have said that. Then she noted that her robe had fallen open. She cinched it
closed with her hands, feeling the full shock of quickening sobriety. She shot
him a quick glance. Actually, he would barely qualify for adulthood. Close up,
he looked young, still in his teens. His youth did not, however, dispel the
sudden sense of imminent danger.

Stay cool, she told herself, noting that the apartment door
had been closed. He was so close now, she could smell his breath, garlicky.
Maybe onions and anchovies. A trill of panic tightened her insides, and she
thought suddenly of Larry. Where are you when I need you? Then, remembering,
thinking: No, I don't need you now. Or ever. I can take care of myself.

"You and me, Maria," the delivery man said.
"Chico can make you happy." She deliberately kept her eyes averted.
Mustn't look. No eye contact. As if ignoring him visually might make him
disappear.

"Here's your money," she whispered hoarsely,
using the moment to hold out the check, which he took and put in his jacket
pocket. Then she stepped away from him sideways, slowly, not wishing to alarm
him with any quick move. But her mind was plotting an escape route. The
apartment door seemed the logical—indeed, the only exit. She considered the
bathroom, which she could lock from the inside. But he could smash down the
door. She could scream, but that could panic him, turn him nasty. Besides, the
three closest apartments to her were presently empty.

Again she thought of Larry, his warnings, his caveats. He
would gloat over this. Perhaps he had set it up. She wouldn't put it past him.
He had, she supposed, spoken the truth. She was just a Hoosier hick without
street smarts. A damned fool. She hadn't acted defensively, like a true New
Yorker.

The young man picked up the champagne bottle, which she had
put on the secretary, and gulped down the remains. Then he wiped his moist lips
with the back of his hand and smiled. Time to make a run for it, she decided,
gathering her resolve, focusing her energy. Now! But before she could move, he
had sprung pantherlike toward her, blocking any escape. Still smiling, he
pulled open the bow that held the belt of her robe. Both sides of the robe came
loose, revealing her nakedness from neck to toes.

"You mustn't do this," she said, forcing herself
to remain calm.

He held open the robe, inspecting her nakedness. Then he
pressed his body against her between the folds. She felt the cold leather
against her breasts. They hurt from the pressure. His metal belt buckle against
her belly felt like ice against her bare skin.

"You're hurting me," she cried.

He put his hand on her windpipe but did not apply any
pressure. It was too late to scream now. Not that anyone would have heard.

"You feel what Chico got for you," he said, his
arousal unmistakable as he dug the bulge of his crotch into her. "I gotta
lotta ways to make you happy, Maria."

"I don't want what Chico got for me," she
muttered sternly. "Before you get yourself into real trouble, I suggest
you leave."

"We start a new party. You got more wine?"

"You're buying yourself real trouble."

His response was to grab one breast and move his thumb
roughly over her nipple.

"I told you. You're hurting me."

"Don't look like that way to me."

"Trust me," she said, her throat taut with fear.
She remembered how cavalierly Larry had used that phrase. Should she have
trusted him more? It was too late for such contemplation. "This will ruin
your life," she told the young man.

"Why? You got AIDS, Maria?" He laughed and
tightened his grip around her, moving her backward toward the couch.

"You know the penalty for rape?" She resisted a
major struggle, although she continued to squirm. Use your head, girl, she told
herself. She felt a wave of nausea begin deep inside of her.

"Leave now and I'll forget about it," she
pleaded. "Why throw away your life on a rape charge?"

"You talkin' rape. This ain't no rape, Maria. This is
jelly roll. Real love."

He took her wrist and moved it to his crotch. "Feel
that. You want I should let you suck it?"

"This is so wrong...."

She had raised her voice for the first time. The sound of
it seemed to embolden him, and he put pressure on her windpipe.

"You think Chico wants to hurt you?"

"Well, you're doing a good job," she whispered,
unable to raise her voice louder.

"We do this like I tell you." He pressed his hand
harder around her windpipe. "You open my belt. You pull my zipper. You get
it out. Simple. You got two good hands and I hold you here." He continued
to press her windpipe.
"¿Comprende?"
She nodded in consent and
did as she was told.

Suddenly the wave of nausea crashed. She gagged, and a
bubble of champagne rose in her throat. He let go for a moment, and she
expelled the champagne, turning her head away, letting it fall on the carpet.
Then she had a coughing fit.

"Jesus, Maria," the young man said as he darted
back a step to avoid being soiled by her throw-up. He looked ludicrous, his
pants down around his knees.

At that moment her instincts reacted to the separation. She
darted across the living room toward the apartment door, grasped the knob, and
turned it. Again. The door would not budge. Panicked, she pulled at it. He had
slipped the dead bolt. Behind her, she heard his movement, sneakers padding
over the floor in pursuit.

Avoiding him by a hairbreadth, she felt the wind of his
missed grasp and headed for the kitchen, moving like a magnet to the knives in
their wooden sheaths on the kitchen island, pulling one out at random, then
turning, lifting her arm. She felt the heft of the knife, a big one, with a
heavy blade. Her ominous gesture stopped him in his tracks.

Lifting his arms, palms forward in a cautionary way, his
eyes alert and predatory, he shook his head and smiled broadly.

"All right," he said. "It's okay."

Sensing his treachery, she moved backward, then circled the
island with its wooden cutting board and sink, until it stood between them. She
noted that her pocketbook was still open on its surface.

"It's okay, Maria," he said. "I no hurt you.
I make a little fun is all." His fancy buckle dangled at the end of his
unfastened belt. The top button of his pants was open, and his fly was
unzippered, showing a sliver of white underwear.

"Out," she cried, her throat constricted, barely
able to force the word. She had it in her mind to scream, but Larry's ridicule
came back at her. No way, she told herself, brandishing the knife.

"You think I was gonna hurt you, Maria?" he said,
mustering every effort at ingratiation, his lips still curled in a twitching
smile.

She assessed the distance between them, alert to any sudden
lunge. Then she noted that he was within reaching distance of the wooden knife
stand. Without letting her eyes signal, she started to circle the island again
to where she had started. Waving the knife, she moved, watching his eyes. Still
smiling, palms out, he backed off. She stopped near the knife stand, taking
some comfort in his stupidity.

"Just get out and I'll keep my mouth shut," she
said, finding the full timbre of her voice.

"I didn't do nothin'," he said, his eyes
obviously searching her for any weakness. She could tell he hadn't given up and
was calling on his street-smart con to get at her.

"Now be a good boy and get out of my home," she
said.

She noted that the hand that held the knife was shaking.
His eyes seemed to observe this. By then, too, his scanning glance had taken
note of the knife stand. She also realized that the island was not much of a
barrier if he chose to leapfrog it. The assessment only made the trembling
spread to every moving part of her. Her knees felt weak, and her pulse raced.

"Please," she began, only to discover that her
throat had constricted again and her voice had weakened.

"I'm goin', Maria. I promise," he said, turning
his body as if he were about to be true to his word. Instinctively she knew
better. She lifted the knife, sensing that he would spring. He reacted on
schedule. She saw his fingers splayed on the cutting board, to be used as
leverage to lift his body forward.

But before he could move, she waved the knife, slashed
hard. She felt the blade's flicker of resistance, then the actual sound of
slicing. He looked down at his arm. The knife thrust had sliced through his
leather jacket, and blood was pouring out of the opening. It took a minisecond
for it to register on both of them, simultaneously. Their eyes looked up, met,
turned away, hers in disbelief, his in pain.