CHAPTER 7

Carolyn meandered down Tenth Street toward the river front. She didn't know where she was going or what she intended to do now. It didn't really matter. She felt lousy. Already a hangover pounded fiercely inside her skull. She felt nauseous and tired and she ached in every bone. More than anything in the world, she wanted to lie down on a soft bed and sleep.

Yet she couldn't go home and face Angie. Not like this. She could just hear Angie, laughing at her, holding her close and cooing, "Poor little thing!" the way she always did. She couldn't take that from Angie tonight.

An early morning breeze from the river brought with it the smell of rain but as yet there was no sign of relief from the heat. She crossed under the towering steel of the West Side Highway and strolled out onto an open pier.

It was quiet on the pier. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the thick planks. As far as she could tell, she was alone.

It was a hell of a place for a girl to be at four in the morning. She took a closer look around.

The tide had reached its peak and already begun to ebb. She watched reflections of city lights shimmer on the ripples, skip over the surface toward shore and drown in eddies along the bank. The smell of wet moss, of garbage and salt was everywhere. There were a few boats on the river, anchored near the opposite shore. On her left, a loaded coal barge, tied up for the night, thudded rhythmically against the pilings with the lapping of the tide. In a shack on the far end of the barge, a single bulb glowed dimly through filthy panes. She could see no other signs of life.

Satisfied that she was alone, Carolyn lit a cigarette and sent a cloud of smoke billowing into the breeze. The quiet and the slight breeze felt good. The throb in her head settled to a dull ache. Yawning, she stretched her legs out on the pier, leaned back against the piling and turned her face toward the lightening sky, glad for the chance to be by herself.

She let her thoughts drift aimlessly as the tide, wanting to forget the night and all that had happened. But she could not keep her mind from turning back, to Angie, to the bar. And finally she thought about the girl in the denim shirt.

It had been strange, that whole business. She had wanted so much to lose herself in someone's arms, to dispel for a while the pain that was Angie. And when she had the chance, she had behaved like an idiot. She had obviously disappointed the girl.

Yet, oddly, remembering it now, Carolyn felt no shame nor even embarrassment. For, in a way, the girl had been right. It was not just a woman Carolyn wanted, it was Angie. It had always been Angie, maybe it always would.

But if she didn't have Angie—

Would she want a man?

She had wanted a man before she met Angie. Or at least she supposed she had. It had certainly never occurred to her that she might want a woman. She had to admit that she hadn't really thought about it much. Her life had always seemed a full one, with work and play and Walter to pal around with.

It had bothered her parents that she hadn't married, yet to Carolyn it hadn't seemed strange at all. She had spent six years in school. Six years of study and working after class to pay her way. Six years with no time for play. Or for romance. She had always believed that life for a woman should mean more than feeding a husband and raising kids.

She had wanted a career and she had worked hard to earn one. She hadn't meant to rule out marriage. But that was for later, when she was older and ready to settle down.

Yet the first time she and Angie made love, she had realized how meaningless and incomplete her life had been.

She had never felt the emptiness until it had been filled. She knew now how much she had always needed the excitements, the heartaches of love. How much she craved sexual fulfillment. Angie had never been generous that way, but she had awakened a need in Carolyn that could no longer be denied.

Abruptly she sat up and ground the cigarette under her heel.

What about now? she thought. What about now?

She and Angie were through, of that she was sure. There wasn't a chance that they could ever be happy together again. But Carolyn wasn't going to drop dead because of it. She could not go back to her old way of living, to a life without love or fulfillment. Even if she had failed with the girl from the bar, there must be someone to fill the emptiness.

As though in answer, a match flared in the darkness close to shore.

 

Startled, she jumped up and stood with her back to the piling, her hands behind her, clinging to the splintery wood.

A pulse throbbed steadily in her temples and the breath caught in her throat. She knew fear such as she had never felt before.

She watched a blob emerge from the shadows and gradually become a man. He stopped ten feet away, eying her curiously, sucking flame into the bowl of his pipe. She saw pinpoints of light reflect from his eyes. He flicked the match away and she heard it sizzle as it hit the water.

Too frightened to speak, she stood there waiting for him to make a move. Her glance darted about quickly, seeking an alley of escape. He stood directly in front of her, in such a position that he could stop her no matter what she tried. She knew she didn't have a chance.

She heard him take a step forward. She cowered against the post, close to the edge of the pier, ready to dive if she had to.

Apparently sensing her terror, the man stopped.

She could see him clearly now. A runt of a man with bowlegs and arms like a chimpanzee. He seemed neither young nor old, but ageless. He wore seamen's pants and a torn T-shirt. She realized he must have come from the barge.

The silence became intolerable. She felt a trickle of perspiration slide along her ribs. He didn't try to move closer, just puffed on his pipe and peered at her.

"What do you want?" she asked finally. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

He puffed smoke over his shoulder, then cleared his throat. "Wasn't figurin' to take a swim, was you?" His voice rasped harshly like a rusty hawser. But he obviously meant to be friendly and he smiled around the stem of his pipe.

Carolyn breathed a silent sigh of relief and loosened her grip on the piling. "No," she said. "I was just sitting here, enjoying the breeze." She was still nervous, but she felt the tension beginning to relax.

"Good thing," he said. "Young girl went in here couple of months ago with all her clothes on. Pretty thing, they say.

I never saw her." He clucked thoughtfully, holding the pipe in his hand and rubbing the stem along the edge of his jaw. "Haven't found 'er yet. Guess maybe she didn't want to be found. Had a fight with her fella, they say."

Carolyn listened to the voice drone on without paying attention to the words. She knew he was only trying to calm her. And she no longer felt afraid of him. But the throbbing behind her temples caused by the shock of his sudden appearance drowned out everything else. She found that she couldn't concentrate on what he said or even on how to get rid of him. She was certainly in no mood or condition for a chat.

She tried to light another cigarette to steady her nerves. Her hands shook. Match after match went out as she fumbled. She felt him watching her and became completely helpless. Finally she threw the cigarette into the river and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She felt light-headed and the pier seemed to sway beneath her feet. She could barely stand yet she did not have the strength to sit down.

She heard him take a couple of steps toward her. She did not want him to touch her. Steadying herself as best she could, she lowered her hands and blinked at him.

"You sick?" he asked cautiously.

She started to shake her head no and felt suddenly limp with the pain. Her eyes began to tear. She felt her legs start to buckle. Knowing she was going to fall, she put one hand behind her and grabbed hold of the piling.

He stepped forward quickly and took her arm. "Here," he said. "Let me help you."

She sagged heavily against him. He put an arm around her and made her sit down on the pier with her head between her knees. She heard him running behind her and the thud as he jumped down to the barge. Almost immediately he was back on the dock.

She looked up as he came close and tried to smile. "I'm all right now, I think." It wasn't so, she had never felt worse in her life.

"Just the same," he said.

He crouched down beside her and held a sopping wet handkerchief to her forehead, then crooked his finger to catch the drops that ran down her face. She felt the calloused knuckles rasp against her skin.

The smell of him, as he kneeled close to her, was worse than the pain. He reeked of perspiration, of tobacco, of salt water, of God knew what else. His trousers brushed against the side of her arm and they felt stiff with filth and wear. She thought it was probably a blessing that she could not see the rag against her forehead. Yet she tried hard not to let him sense her revulsion. She was grateful for his help. Without him, she would have toppled into the river.

 

He patted her cheeks with the damp cloth and wiped it gently across her lips. She swallowed hard so she wouldn't gag.

"Feelin' better?" he said after awhile.

"Yes, much, thanks." She hoped it sounded sincere.

He stood up then, wadded the handkerchief in his fist and shoved it into his pants pocket. With the pipe still clamped tight between his teeth, he grinned and winked at her. He held out his hands to help her up.

She let him pull her to her feet, but carefully held herself at arms' length. He seemed relieved to see her standing, but she knew he was still concerned.

Something about his manner began to disturb her. "I'm all right now," she said, "I guess I'd better be getting home." She started to edge away from him. Without knowing why, she felt a sudden urge to run.

Frowning, he came a step closer. He stretched out his hand, but did not touch her. "Can I help?" he said. "You need a doctor?"

For one second she felt again the fear she had suffered when he appeared out of the shadows. But there was nothing in his behavior to cause it, she knew.

She laughed then. "All I need is a large pot of coffee," she said. She held her head between her hands and shook it sadly. "I had a little too much gin." She was babbling, trying to relieve the tension she felt building inside her.

He smiled triumphantly. "Coffee I can do," he said. "Pot's on the stove, over there in the shack." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

For a long moment she hesitated, following the line of his thumb out to the barge. It looked lonely and dark and isolated from the world. There was not a sound on the pier, except for the murmur of the water. She had no sensible reason to fear going with the gnarled little man. Yet she was filled with apprehension at the prospect of being out on the barge.

On the other hand, she could sure as hell use a cup of coffee. Now that she was on her feet again, she realized she was still in no condition to get herself home. The thought of the cup she might have to drink it out of revolted her.

Yet she had no choice. Either she would have to drink his coffee or let him take her home. That was the last thing she wanted to do. She knew what Angie would think when she saw him. And she wasn't about to give Angie the satisfaction.

She saw him waiting expectantly and smiled. "Why not?" she said.

She followed his swaying stride across the pier, feeling, from the way her eyes focused, that she must be swaying, too. She waited while he jumped down onto the barge. When he turned and held up his hands to catch her, she let herself relax.

He caught her under the arms and swung her easily off the pier. For an instant she hung suspended, feeling his powerful hands against the sides of her breasts, pressed hard against her.

Then he lowered her gently to her feet and turned to walk along the edge of the barge, leading her by the hand.

The center of the barge was piled high with coal. Once, as she stumbled, her foot slipped off the edge into the pile.

A chunk dislodged itself, avalanching across the deck and into the water. She hurried to keep up with him.

He yanked open the door of the shack and she followed him inside. It was a room about six feet square, unfinished, with a bunk on one wall and a latrine in the corner. A two-burner hot plate with a coffee pot sat on a shelf, a tin cup beside it.

He put his fingertips tentatively against the pot. "Still hot," he said. "Have to take it black, though. Can't keep milk in this weather." He gestured toward the river. "Even spoils in the water."

She stood there uncomfortably, peering around her. She looked at the soot-blackened sheet on the bunk, at the windows and the wall and the floor, cruddy with coal dust. And then at the man himself.

His skin was the color of the sheets, gray with black coal dust ground into the pores. The hair on his arms and head and eyebrows was black with red at the roots, like a henna job done backwards. The only things about him that looked clean were the whites of his eyes.

He caught her examining him and laughed. "Been on this tub a month now," he said. He handed her the tin cup half filled with grainy black coffee.

She nodded thanks and stepped back away from him, toward the bunk.

 

"Funny thing about that black stuff," he went on, nodding out the open door, "the way it seeps in."

She held the cup tightly between her hands. Feeling the edge of the bunk against her calves, she lowered herself gingerly down onto the mattress.

"Even gets in your teeth."

She took a mouthful of the hot coffee and realized exactly what he meant. Running her tongue across her upper teeth, she felt a gritty slime and wrinkled her nose distastefully.

But the coffee was strong and it calmed her. She drank it down and passed the cup for more.

He poured her another cup gladly and handed it over.

With the coffee inside her, she began to feel a little better. Her knees were still weak and she knew it would be a while before she could safely navigate under her own steam. She leaned back on one elbow and looked around the room curiously. As far as she could tell, there was nothing to indicate the habits of the man. There was not a picture or a book or a magazine in the place and the only newspaper had been spread out on the floor like a rug.

She glanced up to where he stood leaning against the wall. "What do you do besides look after the coal pile?" she said. "It must be a lonely life."

He laid his pipe on the shelf beside the stove. "Don't do much of anything," he said. "Once in a while, I take a night in town. Mostly I just sit and smoke." He paused reflectively. "Is pretty lonely, though. Don't often have a lady in for coffee."

Catching the peculiar light in his eyes, she was sorry she had asked. She felt him peering at her and kept herself busy with the cup, drinking slowly and staring ahead of her at nothing. The pounding inside her head began again.

She knew she would not get out of the shack as easily as she had walked in.

Realizing that she was trapped, she cursed herself for having gotten into such a position.

Her stomach sopped up the sooty coffee and gradually began to settle. In a minute she would calmly get up, thank him for his cups of coffee, walk demurely toward the door —and run.

Then she heard it, the first patter of rain on the shack's tin roof.

Rain falling faster and a rumble of thunder from across the river.

Rain, pouring, clattering like pebbles against the roof. He reached over casually, pulled the door closed, and latched it.

She jumped up abruptly, spilling coffee onto her slacks. "I can't stay here," she said. She heard the tremor of fear in her voice.

He cocked his head and listened. "Rainin' hard," he said.

"I can hear," she answered sharply. She started toward the doorway.

He moved easily and leaned his shoulders against the door. She was aware for the first time of the bulging muscles of his neck and arms. He kept his hands behind him and, except for his eyes, he seemed perfectly at ease.

"A shower," he said. His voice was soothing. "It's only a shower."

Carolyn took a deep breath and dragged up all the strength she could find. Then, without further hesitation, she stepped forward, her hand outstretched to open the door.

He didn't move.

She opened her mouth and began to scream. He hit her sharply across the mouth with the back of his hand.

She staggered backwards onto the bunk. Her head banged into the wall.

He followed her, his face contorted, his eyes bright sparks of life in the grimy face. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. He stood over her with his monkey arms limp at his sides. "Never hurt anybody."

She touched her tongue to her lower lip and tasted blood. Afraid to scream again or even to move, she pressed against the wall, half expecting him to kill her.

He put out his hand and gently, tenderly began to stroke her hair. "Soft," he said. “So soft." He let the short strands slip between his fingers.

 

She forced herself not to draw away and concentrated on his eyes. Those bright, blazing eyes. Black and shining, like pieces of coal.

His hands moved to her shoulders and he leaned slowly toward her, pushing her down to the bunk.

She saw the tiny reflection of herself in his black, shining eyes. Growing larger.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered. "I just want to touch you. That's all. Just want to touch you."

Her back met the mattress and she let herself go, knowing there was no escape.

Gently he unbuttoned her shirt and slid a hand in to fondle her breasts. Bracing himself on one knee, he bent over her, his eyes coming still closer, his breathing shallow as he caressed her.

The rain beat down steadily on the roof. It was smelly and stifling in the tiny room. He pressed closer, undressing her slowly, running his hands lightly over her body. Touching her, touching her...

She twisted her head to one side, suffocating and gasping for air.

He lowered himself on top of her, spreading his body over her like a blanket. Rubbing against her, grinding her into the bed. His rough trousers scraped the soft flesh of her thighs.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered hoarsely. "I won't hurt you."

She closed her eyes. The ugly little man and his smelly sheets became a blur and there was only the pain ripping through her.

Her back arched. She bit hard on her split lower lip, holding back the scream tearing up from her throat.

She heard the breath go out of him and he was a dead weight on top of her.

He rolled away from her then and lay on his back. She got up painfully and for a moment, stood looking down at him, sick with revulsion and loathing. His black eyes stared stupidly at the ceiling, the lights in them gone. A trickle of saliva dried on his chin.

Quietly, she dressed and left the shack. When she reached the pier, she lowered her head and ran through the rain.

Stumbling, falling on the slippery streets, she ran until she was out of breath. Collapsing against the fender of a car, she leaned over the gutter and threw up. Her guts heaved as though she would turn inside out, but she felt no relief.

Sobbing and gasping for breath, she sank slowly down to the curb. She sat with her head between her knees, her feet slipping in the puke.

Soaked through, wretched, she wanted to die.

She sat there for a long time, too numb to think, too miserable to move. Rivulets of rain trickled off her hair and ran down the back of her neck. A man and a woman stopped and peered down at her curiously, then went on down the street. She heard the swoosh of their shoes in the puddles, the whine of tires on the slippery road. But the sounds meant nothing, nor did the rain.

She got up slowly, leaning heavily against the fender of the car. She did not know where she was nor remember how she came to be there. Gradually, she realized that she was afraid. That she was afraid and she had to move.

She started walking, without destination, but sensing that she had to get away. Away from…

From the river. From the barge. As the memory crashed in on her, she began again to run.