Twilight Girl (14 page)

"Mave—if you leave me now I'll...!" She tried to shake off the rising nausea, folded her arms against the inexorable cold. "She won't make you feel... the way I can. Mave, the way... I'll make love to you... if you stay..." Her head sank with the weight of its sickness, so that she could not meet Mavis's eyes. Yet felt the steady gaze—the penetrating, assaying, omniscient gaze. And heard the windy, echo-chamber sound of a voice so free of derision, so deeply compassionate, that she could only wonder whether it were Mavis or some departing stranger, benevolent stranger, who stood above her huddled body and spoke.

"Don't know why I have to see her tonight, Sassy. Nobody ever knows why they have to do something. Don't know why I came here, don't know why I'm going..."

"Don't, Mave. Mave, I'm only asking this one small favor."

"You won't appreciate it tonight," Mavis said through the swirling, cold mist. "You may never—unless you do what's right. But I did you a big favor, Sassy. Did it already." The words diminishing in another spasm of nausea. "Did it already, girl."

An automobile horn bleated somewhere above. Sass lost her grasp on time, her mind groping the fog for understanding of what Mavis had said. And suddenly in the timeless chill she realized dimly that Mavis had gone.

Short flight to the bedroom level. Now it was a formidable cliff. Rock-jutted, perilous, dark. She thought of her feet bleeding on the jagged rocks, the blood freezing before it congealed. Shuddered convulsively, inched her way upward, sobbing more in pity for her bone-chilled body than the cruel loss, the vicious betrayal.
Soon it will be happening outside me. It won't affect me. I'll be warm... warm... and Mavis won't matter.

She reached her room, stumbling to the bed corner and falling to her knees. Her hands were barely controllable as they swept the hollow space between box spring and headboard. Feeling hopefully. And blindly. And then, making no contact but the smooth wooden surface, frantically. Now the full impact of Mavis's words penetrated the cold-numbed brain.
I did you a big favor, Sassy. Did it already!

Sassy heard herself whimpering, "No. Oh, God, no." And she tugged with a desperate effort at the mattress, failing to lift it, but knowing with a sinking certainty that the packet, the needle, the bent spoon were gone.

The effort left her enervated, gasping for air. And now the monstrous fear poked icy jabs into the writhing, somersaulting entrails. Never before this ineluctable, inside-screaming need; and she had seen too much, read too much, knew too much. She had peered objectively, oh so wisely, into the hell-pit of addiction from the smug security of a protected ledge. And now she felt herself catapulting into that gaping blackness, terrified by her knowledge of its depths.

Hooked, hooked!
Demon words cackled by the ice-fingered imps prodding, prodding. She kneeled, face down against the covers, sucking in the fabric of the bedspread, clawing at it with her fingers until she could wrap the slick satin cloth around herself greedily. But continued to shiver. "Make it stop! Oh, God, I'm so sick—make it stop!" Then, sorrowed by the pitiable sound, she searched the anguished brain for the villain. Someone was to blame. "She did this to me! She'll laugh... laugh about it tonight... with Lon!"

And she screamed their names then. "Mavis, you filthy, rotten bitch! Goddamn you... damn you... your filthy Lon!"

Long after she knew the taxi had gone, long after she had spent her strength tearing at the secret hiding places, long after she was too exhausted to scream out her frustration, the musical chimes filled the house. With so much to look forward to Durham Saunders was always early when calling on his bride-to-be.

Part Three

LON

CHAPTER 11

The purple-brown swelling on her face had subsided and the bruised mouth had almost restored itself to normal. Except when she chewed or yawned or laughed, there was little to remind Lon of her brutal encounter with Sassy Gregg. By the following Friday she had been able to survey her image in a mirror without wincing. Now, on the eve of Violet's party, the scabbed elbows under Lon's shirtsleeves were the most obvious outward records of her humiliation. The bruises that were not of the flesh would heal more slowly, she knew. If they healed at all.

She had hidden in her room as long as possible after the fight. And when it had been necessary to emerge, her father had clucked his tongue sympathetically after hearing her detailed and far-fetched explanation. Her mother, who always seemed disappointed if Lon's excuses had a plausible ring, was satisfied that the story was an outrageous lie, thus justifying her established conviction that Lon was a molding apple in the exemplary Harris barrel. She made it clear that never in a million years would anyone convince her that falling from a ladder while helping an improbable friend named Violet clean a high closet shelf could produce such drastic damage. She said it with her eyes every time she looked at Lon. And Lon had answered in a variety of ways, "You don't have to believe it. You never believe anything I say, anyway." Always adding under her breath, "Even when it's true!"

The week had seemed interminable. To break the confined monotony and because she could not afford to lose her job, Lon reported to the pet shop on Thursday, suffering the trite and inevitable cracks. Mr. Beckwith's expected chuckle preceded: "I'd sure hate to see the other guy." The "other guy" would sear her way into Lon's consciousness then. Her fists would tighten, the nightmare of her impotence would flood her senses and her hatred of Sassy would twist a constricting noose around her throat. Sensing that she had forced a wedge between Sassy and Mavis was a pacifying ointment. But the inner wound cried out for more drastic medicine—the balm of a rapacious vengeance. Soon. Maybe Saturday night. . .

She broke the news of Violet's party abruptly, shortly before it was time to go, pleading the fact that she had not left the house, except to work, all week long. Arguing, "It's just a pajama party. Violet's having a few of her other girlfriends over..."

"One a.m. isn't good enough any more. Now we've taken to staying out all night!"

"But, all the girls are going to stay overnight. It's safer than driving home late, isn't it?"

"That hasn't seemed to bother you lately."

"But that's the idea of a pajama party."

"She hasn't disgraced us enough. Oh, no. Now it's all night!"

Lon sent a silent appeal to her father. Acquiescence at any cost was better than a scene, his voice hinted. "Oh, now, Mother, we want to be reasonable. Lonnie's been home all week..."

"Why? Because she couldn't be seen in public looking like a battle-scarred alley cat."

"I know, but Judy went to these pajama things. Seems to me Evie did, too."

"They never came home looking like she did last Friday. You saw what she looked like."

"Well, of course, if the girl's parents are going to be there... I can't see the harm."

Lon decided upon a do-or-die gamble. "Call Violet's mother. Go ahead. Check up if you don't trust me."

The daring strategy succeeded. Lon left early for Violet's house, her spirit light with the promise of twenty-four hours of freedom. If Mavis and Sassy stayed away tonight, she would taste of two disappointments. If they came...? Lon drove as one drives to meet destiny.

* * *

It was so exactly right, Lon thought. Mavis had come, miraculously alone. Somehow the clasp of hands came naturally, as it comes to lovers. It dispensed with the need for another language, and they found a quiet corner of the congested parlor, sitting on the floor to nurse burning whiskey, to share a single intimate cigarette between them, to observe the unfortunate others. Lon, in her most impassioned reveries, would not have asked this of the most generous Polynesian gods. Yet it had happened.

Conversely, for Violet everything had gone wrong. She had greeted Lon at the door with recriminatory tears. "Look at my hair, kid! Oh, Jesus, I wanted to do it real special so I used this other kinda crap, not what I always use. It came out like so much snot, of all the times!"

Violet's lament was justified. The bleached hair swirled with undecided shades from cobalt to magenta. The total effect resembled raspberry-ripple ice cream.

And Luigi had told her, when she had phoned to plead illness, that she sounded okay to him and if she stood him up on a Saturday night, she could apply at another drive-in on Monday. She had told him what to do with his job then, needing the afternoon for preparation and the early evening to greet her guests. There was only one hope of consolation. "It'll be worth gettin' canned if only she'll come." But Sassy had not come. And Violet wore the vain expense, the wasted effort and the crushed anticipation like a heavy shroud. Wishing that she had died before the party had sprung up in her brain.

Ironically, though Violet's prime guest had ignored her invitation, the habitues of The 28% swarmed the house. The gay grapevine had probably cleared the club of everyone but Rigs and Betty, and someone hinted that they might be along later.

"Goddam free-loaders," Violet cursed them all, confiding in Lon after noting the dwindling liquor supply. And the final indignity: most of the crashing butches had arrived with ready-made fems; substitute pickings for the hostess appeared slim. Lon sympathized with her as Violet deplored the waste of cold-cuts and cut-rate bourbon. And sincerely regretted Violet's lack of a partner. But only because a neglected Violet might become a demanding Violet. Lon pressed Mavis's hand and watched the kids take possession of Violet's empty trap, which had not been potently enough baited for such game as Sassy Gregg.

* * *

Midnight had stalked through the Polivka parlor and gone its way. The red lampshades cast their seductive glow, the blue sofa held its fill of interlocked pairs, and a collection had been made to replenish the empty bottles lined up beside the kitchen sink. Now the maroon rug was decorated with more than tan feather designs; a heel-crushed cracker spread with pimiento cheese, a tooth-marked salami slice, dropped from a sandwich unheeded. "I wish we were somewhere else," Lon told Mavis. The second highball had been enough. The smoke was enough. The kids were too much. "Just the two of us."

"Some crazy island," Mavis agreed hazily. They remained glued to their corner, Lon raked by a mounting desire, afraid to move lest she destroy their tense, quiet rapport.

A croaking Delta voice rose above the Dixieland blare from the record player. Cheap booze had taken the edge from Violet's misery, yet she mourned, "I bought all these classical records, like waltzes about Vienna, but this friend a mine that I got them fer special, she couldn't make it."

"What'll we do?" Lon asked quietly.

"You tell me," Mavis replied. And still they waited.

The tempo picked up around them. Violet's guests, the invited and the uninvited, danced faster, sang louder, necked harder. And agreed that Violet knew how to throw a party, all right.

"This is being gay," Mavis observed. "The gay are like everyone else, but tuned up a few decibels." She excluded Lon and herself from the analysis, increasing Lon's feeling of intimacy.
We two are different.
"When they're generous," Mavis droned, "man, they can't give enough. Nobody touches them, selfish. There's no laugh like a gay laugh, you know? But nobody means it more when they cry. When they dislike, they hate—and when they love...
mmph!"

When we love,
Lon corrected silently
. When I love, it's like this. Hungry and wild with the hunger...

One of the butches was seized by inspiration then. Rennie—the fat one in the black jersey pullover—had started the evening by scowling at anyone conveniently close, sniffing at her glass and growling, "I just may vomit!" Apparently she had abandoned the earlier idea, for now she took the center of the living room to play master of ceremonies. Chuckie and Lee, she hawked, embellishing the announcement with suggestively wiggled eyebrows, Chuckie and Lee had kindly condescended to demonstrate their famous Apache dance. Everybody in favor signify by yelling
yow!
Everyone was in favor, everyone yelled
yow.
And Chuckie got into the spirit of the thing, leaping out of the gathered audience and swinging at Rennie in mock protest. The girl named Lee giggled, the kids applauded and Violet screamed for order: "Hey, you wanna wake up the goddam neighbors?" In response, the crowd began humming the dance music,
My Man.
Chuckie and Lee fell drunkenly into the slow, violent dance. When Chuckie sent Lee into the traditional spin across the room, Lee collided with fat Rennie, who retaliated by lifting Lee and throwing her back at Chuckie. The gang thereupon fell on Rennie to punish her, all in the spirit of fun. Rennie fought them off good-naturedly, controlling her flailing ham hands as the girls worked at pulling the jersey over her head. Laughing louder than the others as she lost balance, she thudded to the floor like a safe dropped from a second-story window.

"I love you," Mavis said. Pressing Lon's moist hand within her own. Mavis dragged on the shared cigarette. Watching the shrieking hilarity with expressionless eyes. And Lon watched, too, as the kids pinned down the wallowing walrus and Chuckie took over as the life of Violet's party.

She and the other kids now were working vigorously on the squealing Rennie, avoiding the fat-leg kicks, their laughter high-pitched and genuine. Somebody had re-started the phonograph. A trombone blared repeatedly where the needle had stuck in a record groove, and Violet, clinging to the arm of a likely red-haired prospect whose fern had passed out in a back-yard glider, wailed for order. "Jeez, watch the furniture. For chrissakes—you wanna bust the damn furniture?"

Twill slacks pulled from fence-post calves. And Rennie floundered on the floor like a beached whale. She flipped to her side suddenly, knocking down two of her hysterically gleeful assailants. The scrolled leg of an end table cracked under the assault of their bodies. One of the gilded ox-blood lamps toppled, exploding its bulb against the wall, leaving its red-shaded mate to light the smoke-hazed room. In the dimmer light, the luminous heart on the wall glowed feebly. Reluctantly.