The Accused by Harold R. Daniels (books to read as a couple .TXT) 📖

of Jimmy and Eddie, her real friends, she began to feel more and more sorry for herself and more and more bitter toward Morlock. She hadn’t really meant it when she called him a fairy. He was not a fairy, she explained carefully to Eddie, but he acted like one with that fag, Paul Martin.

When she got down from the stool to look at the selections on the juke box, she stumbled and nearly fell. Impossible that she was half drunk this soon, she reasoned. She was thinking as clearly as if she had had nothing at all to drink.

There was a section on the juke box that listed old time tunes being revived. She read them carefully. How could she be drunk when she could read so easily? “Sunny Side of the Street.”

“Blueberry Hill.” That’s when they had the good songs. “Dance with me, Eddie,” she commanded.

Eddie got down from his stool. He was really a good-looking kid. He put his arms around her and she leaned against him. They began to sway back and forth. Eddie was pressing too hard, thrusting his lean belly against her. She knew what he was after all right. Trying to get her worked up. She giggled. What if he did? Who cared? She pushed him away suddenly. “I want another drink,” she said.

Eddie said fuzzily, “Sure, Louise,” and they walked arm in arm to the bar. Jimmy brought the drinks and she reached for money to pay him with. Funny where it went. Seven dollars left. She gave Jimmy a single and asked him to change the remaining dollar bill. The five she tucked in her compact, remembering vaguely that for some reason she had to be careful of her money. Oh, yes, that was it. Shylock Alvin was going to handle the money from now on—him. She had spent more in a single day out at the track than he made in six months. When Jimmy brought her change she bought two packages of cigarettes, Lucky Strikes for herself and a package of Pall Malls for Eddie. He was a good kid. When she gave him the cigarettes, he said, “Let’s dance again, Louise.”

It felt good to be wanted. She said, “Sure,” and they moved away from the bar again and into each other’s arms. “Chapel in the Moonlight.” That was nice. When had she danced to that song before? Oh, yes—it had been Tommy Dorsey’s band, that first night—how long ago?—that she went out with the jockey, Eddie Mason. The other Eddie. But this Eddie—come to think of it, she couldn’t even remember if he had ever told her his last name—pretty young to be playing an old timer like that except that it was slow and he could do—what he was doing now. Pushing hard against her. She giggled again and moved her own body against him. Fresh kid. If that’s what he wanted she could give him lessons.

They broke apart reluctantly when the music ended and walked slowly back to the bar. While she ordered another round of drinks, she was aware of an animal desire to have Eddie possess her. After a moment she giggled again. It would be a good joke on Morlock. She had been unfaithful to him several times since their marriage—twice in Anna Carofano’s bedroom and once in a parked car. Sexual fidelity meant so little to her that she hardly considered herself as having cheated Morlock. But to bring this kid to their home and in Morlock’s own bed—this would pay him back for taking the money from her and for bringing Paul Martin to their home to insult her and call her a Dago from Federal Hill. She didn’t remember that the words had been her own and not Martin’s.

When she had finished her drink, she said, “This damn dress is too hot. I’m going over and change into something else.” She looked sidelong at Eddie as she spoke.

He said huskily, “I’ll go along and help you change,” trying to keep his tone light so that_ he_ could pretend that he was joking if she acted offended. When she merely shrugged, he called to Jimmy the bartender. “Let me have a pint, will you, Jimmy?” he asked. “Make it Carstairs. You’ll have to put it on my tab until Friday, all right?”

Jimmy said, “I guess,” and got a bottle from beneath the bar. He put it in a paper bag and handed it to Eddie.

They left the bar and started toward the tenement. It was really funny, she thought, the way Eddie tried to look as if he weren’t in a hurry. He sprang ahead to hold the door open for her. Ah, wasn’t he being polite though! He wouldn’t be so polite when he got in the bedroom. She still had it, for Eddie or any real man. Al? He could drop dead.

She held the door to the living room aside while Eddie stepped in and then closed it behind her, smiling at him. As the door closed, he reached for her with both arms, the bottle still held in one hand. With the free hand he pulled her closer. She pushed him back, laughing.

“Let’s have a drink first,” she said. “We’ve got lots of time.”

He asked huskily, “What about your old man, your husband?”

She said, “I thought we already said to hell with him.”

Eddie, said nervously, “Sure. But just the same we don’t want him to come in and find us.” He put the bottle down and moved toward her again, reaching for the front of her dress, trying to get his hand on her breast.

A little irritated, she pushed his hand away. “Don’t tear my dress,” she said sharply.

He moved away and she picked up the bottle. “You stay here,” she said. “I’ll make us a drink.” She smiled, her anger forgotten, at his crestfallen expression.

When she returned, carrying the drink, she moved past him and toward the bedroom. When he followed her into the room, she pointed toward the bed and handed him his drink. “I’m going to take it off,” she said. “I don’t want you ripping it.” She reached down and pulled her dress over her head. Standing in her slip she still teased him, lingering over her drink. She moved a step toward him, lurched and caught herself barely in time. “Go out in the kitchen and get the bottle,” she said.

He left, hurrying. When he returned she was lying on the bed. He fell on top of her…

He was just a kid, she thought. No lover at all, all impatience and fumbling ineptness. Al, for all he was a Shylock and thought he was too good for her, was a better and more considerate lover. She pushed Eddie, half asleep now, aside and drank from the bottle he had placed beside the bed.

She had really had too much this time. The room was spinning, spinning. She relaxed, drowsing. Anyway, she was even now. Better wake up and get Eddie out before Al came home. He didn’t have to know about this. She was satisfied, knowing what she had done herself, keeping the secret to laugh about. She would tell Anna Carofano, of course.

She awoke from a doze to see Eddie, his back to her, standing beside the dresser. She blinked, trying to get her eyes into focus, before she realized what she was seeing. The little sneak was going through her purse. She sprang naked from the bed and snatched at it. He dropped it and it fell to the floor in a clatter of metal. Her compact, her cigarette lighter. A few coins.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” she screamed, “what do you think you’re doing!”

He said, “Ah, don’t get sore, Louise. I just wanted to borrow a couple of bucks.”

She was almost insane with anger. Unable to find words she slapped him across the face with all her strength. He fell back against the dresser, hand against his cheek. He looked as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. She took her eyes from him to reach for her purse. In that moment, he lashed back at her with his closed fist. She had stooped and the blow missed her face, catching her on the shoulder and knocking her to the floor. He stood over her, his eyes narrowed.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve, you bitch,” he said. “Give me the dough. You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You think I cared anything about coming over here with an old bag like you?”

She got to her feet as he snatched up the compact and opened it, taking the money from it, holding her off with one hand as she clawed at him, unable to speak, unable even to scream. He pushed her away and ran from the room. She started after him, half crazed, and only remembered when she was halfway into the hall that she was naked. With silent, desperate fury she raced back to the bedroom and threw her robe over her naked body. She raced down the stairs, wanting only to catch Eddie and hit him and hit him; when she reached the front door he was not in sight. Reaction hit her then, swift and furious. Even a hot pants kid. She began to cry in racking sobs that shook her whole body. Morlock, coming home at that moment, found her sitting on the top step. He ran up the steps and bent to look at her. “Lolly,” he said, “what is it? What happened?”

She continued to cry in shaking spasms that would not let her catch her breath. Recognizing hysteria, Morlock slapped her across the face, trying to hit her hard and unable to make himself do it. When the sobbing continued, he hit her again. It was at that moment that the policeman grabbed his arm. “Cut that out,” he said. “I’m a police officer.” The slaps or the words reached Louise. She scrambled to heir feet and rushed up the stairs. Morlock turned to explain, but the policeman was saying, “I don’t want any woman beaters on my beat, Mister.” There were people gathered around, staring, giggling. Morlock, humiliated, tried to explain but the policeman beat at him with questions. He answered them in monosyllables, wanting only to hide his head, to be away from the staring faces and to get to Louise. When at last he was permitted to go to her, she was in the bedroom, lying on her stomach with her face buried in her arms. She would not answer any of his questions.