Sheldon Lord

Carla

This is for

BETSY

Chapter One

Stepping nimbly from the steaming tub, she reached at once for the nubby yellow towel and rubbed herself vigorously. The bath had been excellent — refreshing and invigorating — and the brisk towelling was just as good. She rubbed herself dry until her whole body was a healthy pink from the rubbing.

Dry at last, she turned to the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. It was steamed over from the hot bath, and she wiped it off with the towel in order to get a good look at herself. That was one of the joys of being rich, she thought sardonically. Now she could afford a full-length mirror in the bathroom, or in any room, if she really wanted one. She stepped back and studied her reflection with scientific curiosity, noting with pleasure the firm thrust of her breasts and the sleek lines of her hips. Breasts as large and round as hers had a tendency to sag, but hers were as firm and lush as ever.

But what difference did it make? Her breasts could droop until they touched the ground and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Who was there to look at them, to excite her by holding them in his hands? She had a beautiful body, but what good was it? There was nobody around to put it to good use. Here she was, Carla Macon, 24 years old and stunningly beautiful — and without a man to make love to her properly.

She shook her head sadly. Today was the worst day in a long time. Today the hunger in her had become so strong that she felt she couldn’t stand it another day. She was young and alive, and she had to love and be loved or she would go out of her mind. Could a 24 year old woman be expected to live a life of celibacy? It was impossible.

Well, she thought savagely, that was the price she had to pay. Ronald Macon had done a great deal for her. He brought her from a Polish slum in Buffalo’s East Side to an ivy-covered brick home on Nottingham Terrace, the swankest street in town. He had changed her name from Carla Straczyk to Carla Macon. He had given her money and security and whatever she wanted. When she asked for a sports car, Ronald had an MG delivered the very next day. He bought her furs and jewelry and gave her a liberal allowance for whatever else she happened to desire. He gave her everything.

Everything, she thought, but love.

Oh, Ronald loved her. But, as he had said, he was not a young man. No matter how deeply he cared for her it was impossible for him to give her the type of love she needed so desperately. For two years she had been Mrs. Ronald Macon, and for two years she had lived with a burning desire within her, a deep physical need for a man who could make love to her. She wanted a man who would hold her firmly and practically bruise her lips when he kissed her, a man who could satisfy all her desires. And no matter how much he loved her, Ronald Macon was not such a man.

Carla was a woman born for love. She was tall, with long blonde hair and a perfect figure, perfect from the firm rounded calves to the high and proud breasts. Her high cheekbones and narrow jaw gave her features an aristocratic cast which belied her slum background. She was a beautiful woman, and now all her beauty was being wasted.

It might have been different if she had been a virgin at the time of her marriage. If she had never slept with a man before, if she had never known the delights of passion, it would be infinitely easier to resign herself to living a sexless life as Ronald’s wife.

But Carla was by no means a virgin when Ronald met her. Maturing early, she attracted the attention of the boys in the neighborhood while still in school. While she was never sexually promiscuous, she was not a puritan either. The boy who first seduced her had shown her so much pleasure that she was unwilling to forego it because of morality which she couldn’t completely understand.

Standing before the mirror, she paused to remember that first episode. She had been sixteen at the time, young and vibrant and beautiful. She had a date with a boy from her English Class at school, a tall brawny boy named Pete Witosky. She didn’t know him at all outside of the classroom, but there was something so exciting and appealing about him that she didn’t hesitate when he asked her to go to the movies with him.

After the show he took her to a juke joint for a soda. They talked for several hours, but she couldn’t remember at all what it was that they talked about. It didn’t matter at all. She was hardly conscious of the conversation, her whole attention concentrated upon the silent fury in his intense eyes and the strength revealed by the tight muscles in his arms. How strong he must be! His hands were large and his fingers tapered, and she thought that he could easily squeeze the breath out of her with them.

They left the juke joint finally and walked home. She had no brothers or sisters, and her father had been killed in an accident at the steel mill when Carla was very young. She lived alone with her mother, and her mother was sleeping when they reached her house. On an impulse, she asked Pete if he would like to come in for a few minutes. She had never invited a boy inside before, but somehow things seemed different tonight. Inside, she felt ashamed of the shabbiness of the living-room. If only they could afford a nice place, and furniture that was fairly new, without the stuffing leaking every time anybody sat down on a chair! Someday, she vowed. Someday she’d have all the money she wanted.

But Pete didn’t seem to notice the condition of the room. He walked in and sat down at once on the sofa, throwing one arm over the back and motioning for her to sit next to him. She did, relaxing against the back of the sofa and just barely feeling his arm against her blonde hair.

“I had a very nice time tonight,” she said, trying to get a conversation going.

“What do you mean, had? The evening’s still going on, isn’t it?”

“Sure. I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Carla. I was only teasing you.” As he spoke, his arm dropped from the back of the sofa and his left hand rested gently on her shoulder. The contact excited her slightly, filling her with a feeling she had never experienced in the past. She wanted to draw away from him, but at the same time she wanted to stay right where she was, wanted to let him touch her and excite her still more.

“You’re a real pretty girl,” he said. He smiled and moved a little closer to her. She could feel his thigh through her skirt.

“Thank you.”

“Real pretty.” There was a husky quality in his voice this time, and his hand closed around her shoulder and squeezed it gently. She thought suddenly that something was wrong, that she ought to tell him to go home before something bad happened. She wasn’t exactly sure what might happen but she had a fairly good idea. Still, it was so nice to sit beside him on the sofa, and his hand felt good on her shoulder.

“C’mere.” He took her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and turned her face toward his. He brought her mouth close to his and kissed her gently, moving his lips expertly against hers.

“That was nice,” he said. “But you kiss like a little girl, Carla. Not like a woman.”

She was puzzled. “How does a woman kiss?”

“Want me to show you?”

“Sure.”

“Keep your lips apart a little,” he advised, “and let’s try it again.” He brought her mouth near his a second time and let both his arms go around her back, holding her tightly. She followed his instructions, parting her lips slightly, and when he kissed her she was excited by the contact between his tongue and her lips. Little shivers of liquid fire went through her and she put her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her and kissing him back, holding close to him and breathing heavily. The movement of his tongue excited her more and more, and she began to nip playfully at it, rubbing her body against him and holding him tighter in her arms.

“God,” he said when they finally broke apart. “Where in hell did you learn to kiss like that?”

“You just showed me.”

“Yeah? You learn fast, Baby. Let’s make this night a real lesson, huh?”

His arms went around her again and he clutched her more fiercely than before. His mouth pressed savagely against hers and one of his hands went to her breast.

She hadn’t expected that. She didn’t think he would touch her there, knowing that it wasn’t right to let a boy touch you there. But what was wrong about it? She couldn’t understand it. It felt so good, the way Pete’s hand was caressing the firm flesh through her thin sweater. What could be bad about something that felt so good?

She was only dimly aware of what happened next, too deeply immersed in the flood of sensations passing over her body. His hands seemed to be touching her everywhere, evoking brand-new feelings and hungers every place they touched. One hand went under her skirt, sliding gently over her calf and resting momentarily on her knee, then gliding further up her thigh. He stroked her thigh gently, so gently. She began to squirm violently on the couch and make little animal sounds deep in her throat.

Deftly he raised her sweater and slipped it over her head. Then his fingers toyed with the hook-and-eye of her brassiere, finally managing to remove that too. The touch of his hands on her bare breasts sent her into a frenzy.

“Carla!”

“Ohhhh!” His hands were busy with her skirt now, and she wished he would hurry, wished he would remove the rest of her clothing quickly.

“Carla!”

“What?”

He had trouble getting the words out, panting as though he had just finished running a five-mile race. “Baby,” he said, “I don’t think I can stop. I—”

“Don’t stop,” she moaned. “God, don’t stop!”

Looking back on those first experiences, she marvelled at what a naive girl she had been. Still, what wouldn’t she give for a similar half-hour on a sofa with a strong and virile man! There had been other boys and men between that memorable first time and her marriage, but no one had quite compared with Pete Witosky.

She wondered absently what ever had happened to Pete. He was probably still living in the same place, working at the steel mill and getting drunk every Friday night. Thank God she had escaped that dismal trap! She had all the money she could possibly want now, all the clothes and furs a woman could desire.

The only thing missing was love, and somehow she would have to discover a way to get that as well. It was something she needed, and Carla was a woman who got what she wanted. She wanted a ticket out of the slums, and she lost no time in latching onto Ronald Macon.

She remembered the second time with Pete, when the pain was gone and the pleasure was even greater. And she also remembered what came after, when her mother came into the room and saw the two of them in each other’s arms on the sofa. Pete practically dove into his clothing and raced full speed for the door, but Carla could do nothing but cower in terror on the couch.

“You little slut!” her mother screamed. “You dirty little tramp!” And then she switched to Polish for a long string of words delivered at full speed. Carla didn’t understand the words but she knew the general tone.

“You don’t move,” her mother commanded. “You stay right there on the sofa, bitch.”

Her mother disappeared into the bedroom and returned second later with a hairbrush in her hand.

“Slut,” her mother said. “The only thing you got and you let a kid take it away from you. You’ll wind up on the streets, that’s what happens to sluts. Dead and stinking in an alley you’ll wind up with your insides rotting!”

Carla hardly knew what was happening. She felt herself hauled still nude over her mother’s knee. At first she was too numb to be fully aware of anything, but the first stroke of the hairbrush proved to her that she wasn’t altogether numb, not by a long shot. Her mother had the strength of a husky woman who worked hard all her life, and all that strength was being applied to Carla’s posterior. The hairbrush rose and fell with the grinding regularity of a watch ticking and above the noise of the hairbrush striking her skin was the constant flow of curses from her mother.

She thought that the beating would never stop. God, how it hurt! Her flesh flamed and she wished she could die.

Then, above the slapping sound of the hairbrush and the curses of her mother, Carla heard agonized screaming.

She couldn’t realize that it was her own...

Now she wanted a lover, and she would have one in due course. She would manage it.

There was plenty of time for that, she decided. It was late, and Ronald was already in bed. It was time for her to join him. She thought to herself how ridiculous it was for the two of them to share a twin bed, since the bed could never be the scene for the sexual union she craved. But Ronald said that he slept better with her by his side.

It might be easier for her if he didn’t love her so much. But she didn’t want to be unfaithful to him, not when he was so good to her and cared so deeply for her. She remembered unhappily their honeymoon, when Ronald tried so desperately to make love to her and was impotent on each occasion. He had warned her before hand that this would probably happen, but this didn’t lessen the disappointment that each of them felt.

But it was time for bed. Resolutely, she slipped into the sheer silk night-gown he had bought for her, enjoying the feel of the smooth silk against her bare skin. Then she opened the bathroom door and tiptoed softly down the hall to the bedroom.

She moved very softly in the bedroom, careful not to wake Ronald. She took off the night-gown and placed it on the armchair, a smart armchair that didn’t leak stuffing all over the floor. Then she tiptoed to the bed and slipped under the covers. She always slept nude, a habit she picked up in childhood when pajamas were a luxury her mother couldn’t afford.

“Carla?”

She started. Ronald wasn’t asleep; he had been waiting in bed for her. She turned to him and was surprised when he took her in his arms and kissed her gently. Was he going to be able to make love to her at last? The thought of satisfaction of her desires combined with the feeling of his arms around her to send her pulse racing.

He began to fondle her, touching her all over her body and increasing her desires. The caresses continued for a long time, and her passion built up to a point where she felt she would die if he didn’t make love to her.

But — again — he was impotent. With a heavy sigh he withdrew from her and pressed his face against the pillow.

“It’s no use,” he whispered. “I’m afraid I’ll never be a husband to you, Darling.”

“Shhh,” she said, comforting him. “You’re all the husband a woman could want.”

He lifted his head from the pillow and gazed into her eyes, a sad smile on his lips. “You’re a wonderful woman,” he said, slowly. “You’re a wonderful woman and I don’t deserve you at all. I don’t know why you go on living with me.”

“Because I love you,” she replied, the words coming automatically from her lips.

“I guess you must. I don’t know why you should, but I guess you must.” He shook his head and turned over on his side, breathing heavily.

She lay motionless in bed beside him, far too tense to sleep. His attempts had only succeeded in aggravating the desires which had been so intense all that day, and sleep would be impossible for several hours.

After a few minutes his breathing became regular as he drifted off to sleep. He was such a good man, she thought. If he could only be her lover, their marriage would be absolutely perfect. But he couldn’t, and there was no way to change that sad fact.

She hated the thought of being unfaithful to Ronald, but there seemed to be no other way for her to get along. She couldn’t go on this way much longer, that was certain. A night like this was the ultimate in pure agony.

Had she made the right choice when she married Ronald? The answer to that was easy; a look around the house showed how much better off she was now. She had made a good bargain and she was going to stick with it. But, at the same time, she couldn’t go on this way.

She resolved finally to take a lover. She didn’t need a permanent relationship. All she wanted was a man who could seize her and make love to her when her hunger was uncontrollable. As long as she didn’t care about the man she could remain faithful to Ronald in her heart, and that was the most important thing.

The tension stayed with her and she couldn’t relax. She waited, by Ronald’s side, listening to his smooth, deep breathing, until finally hours later she was overcome by exhaustion and fell asleep.

Chapter Two

In the sober light of the day it was much more difficult for Carla to conceive of being unfaithful to her husband. She woke up a few minutes after noon, her mind fresh and awake at once. She hurried for the bathroom and showered quickly, enjoying the way the driving water pelted at her smooth skin. She rinsed herself and turned off the hot water, forcing herself to stand for several minutes under the icy shower. Nothing could compare with a cold shower early in the morning, and although she had slept much later than usual this morning the shower felt better than ever. When she climbed out of the tub and rubbed the water from her body she felt alive and ready to face the world.

After a quick glance at the mirror, she returned to her room to dress. She never did manage to get used to the idea of breakfasting in a night-gown and still preferred to go downstairs fully dressed.

What should she wear? For some reason she felt that the choice of clothes was especially important today, and choosing clothes was a luxury she never failed to enjoy. She was filled with pleasure and a feeling of enormous wealth every time she opened the closet door and looked through her sumptuous wardrobe. Before, living in her flat on the East Side, most of her clothing was bought second-hand — and price rather than appearance was the first consideration. Fortunately with her face and figure she had the knack of looking good in whatever she wore, but the clothes she owned now showed her off to perfection.

She felt that this was a special day, and that she ought to dress accordingly. So far she had no plans, not committed to a busy schedule like so many of the women in her social class. Although marriage to Ronald had brought her an elegant social position, she found it difficult to mingle easily with the wives of Ronald’s friends. They all seemed cold and distant to her, and she couldn’t share their interests in books and the theater. She liked to read a book or see a movie now and then, but the idea of sitting around talking about it with a bunch of over-dressed old biddies didn’t appeal to her in the least. Since Ronald was over thirty years older than she was, his friends’ wives were all out of her age-group, and this intensified the uncomfortable feeling she got in their presence. She could handle older men easily enough, but women were another matter.

Consequently, she kept pretty much to herself. She was never the type of girl who formed close personal relationships, and the few girls she’d had on the East Side were long forgotten. Buffalo was a big city, a metropolitan area of more than a million people, and it wasn’t hard to lose old friends when you moved from the neighborhood.

At times she would feel a bit lonely, longing for someone to talk to. She spent some time looking at the television set and more time reading or listening to records, and still more time shopping. Shopping, however, had lost a good deal of its novelty. It was a thrill to buy whatever she wanted in the beginning, but the joy wore off as she finally came to the realization that she was at last rich and could buy whatever she wanted. She accepted her situation and was glad of it, but the thought of it didn’t make her tremble with pleasure as it once had.

So, although she expected to spend the day either sitting around the house and talking to Lizzie, the Negro girl who cleaned the house and did the cooking, or else out riding in her MG, she still wanted to dress in something a little bit exotic. She slipped on a pair of panties first and struggled into her brassiere, happy with the knowledge that she could still get along without a bra if she had to. Then, after careful consideration, she put on an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and a tight black skirt. The combination, while decidedly exciting, wasn’t the least bit cheap. Clothes sense was something that came instinctively to her; she could unerringly select the right combination to achieve just the right effect.

Breakfast was ready for her when she came downstairs. It always amazed her the way Lizzie knew just when she would be ready for breakfast; the girl’s timing was incredible. She sat down at the table and dug into a mushroom omelet cooked to perfection.

Afterward, smoking a cigarette with her cup of black coffee, she tried to plan out the day. Reading was out; she felt like something a little more strenuous than curling up with a book. By the same token, listening to records or watching television failed to appeal. She realized suddenly that she was lonely, that the time had come when she couldn’t amuse herself doing nothing day after day. Once merely sitting in such a lovely home was enough to satisfy her, but now she wanted something a little more stimulating.

She stubbed the cigarette out viciously and stood up from the table, her mind searching for something to do. Shopping? No, not again. There was nothing she wanted to buy. The museum? No — too damned dull for a beautiful day like this. And it was definitely a beautiful day, with the sun streaming in through the window and not a cloud in sight. Buffalo weather was surprising. It could be dismal and drizzly for days, but a hot sunny day was heaven — especially on Nottingham Terrace, where a cool breeze from the Delaware Park Lake made everything much better and fresher.

But this didn’t solve her problem. She still had to hunt out a way to spend the next six hours. Well, what did she really feel like doing?

The answer came without her willing it. She knew what she wanted, all right. She wanted the same thing she had last night, the same thing she wanted every day for the past two years.

She wanted a man.

Well, she thought, why not? She didn’t have to walk the streets like a common whore, but she certainly wasn’t going to find a lover if she sat around in the house every damned day. She could at least give herself a chance. If she got out in the air for awhile, she stood a slight chance of finding a man and having something happen between them. She didn’t have to crawl into the sack with the first thing in pants she saw, but she could at least take a look around the town.

Why not?

It occurred to her then that this was what she had been planning on from the moment she woke up. It was the obvious reason for her choice of the skirt-and-blouse combination. Today was a day when she wanted to be especially attractive; it was a day for her to go out looking for a lover.

She strode out of the Breakfast nook, enjoying the way her strong thighs rubbed against the skirt with each step she took. “Lizzie!” she called. “Lizzie!”

Lizzie hurried from the living-room, a dust cloth dangling from one hand. She was a lovely chocolate-brown, with a figure an exact duplicate of Carla’s and about two sizes smaller. Carla was certain that the girl didn’t have any troubles when it came to getting attention from men. She was far too beautiful to spend her time cooking and cleaning day after day, and Carla knew that in a short time she’d be getting married and giving up her job. Carla would hate to see her go, because the younger girl was pleasant company in addition to cooking like a French chef and keeping the house spotless.

“Did you want me, Mrs. Macon?”

Carla smiled. “Just wanted to tell you I’ll be going out for the afternoon. I’ll be home in time for dinner, so if Mr. Macon comes home before I do just tell him I took the MG out for a spin.”

“I’ll tell him,” Lizzie said, nodding. “The mail came, if you want to look at it. I put it on the hall table.”

“Thanks.”

She leafed casually through the stack of mail, not expecting anything but bills and not finding anything else, either. It was a shame, she reflected, that no one ever wrote to her. If nothing else, she envied Ronald the volume of mail he received. The only letters addressed to her were bills which Ronald paid, catalogues she rarely looked at, and those mysterious and utterly useless letters that came addressed to “Occupant.”

The MG was parked at the curb in front of the house, looking like a giant cat ready to spring. She opened the door and seated herself behind the wheel. It was always a thrill for her to get behind the wheel of the tiny car, a thrill which hadn’t worn off yet. It gave her a genuine feeling of power to kick over the engine and start the MG racing off. There was something delightful about a sportscar, something on a par with taking a French poodle for a walk. But poodles always struck her as a trifle ridiculous, while there was nothing silly about the MG. She turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb, the wind tossing her long blonde hair and playing with the neckline of the peasant blouse.

The tank was nearly full when she started that afternoon, and by four o’clock it was nearly empty. She drove all over town, down Delaware Avenue past the impressive buildings and expensive stores, back north on Main Street, through the park, and out Delaware into the suburbs. North of Sheridan Drive the houses were fewer and farther apart and the road stretched before her invitingly. The MG ate up the miles, racing along at high speed while the wind blew her hair every which-way. It was pleasant, very much so. She took side roads and doubled back on her own trail, not wanting to go anywhere in particular and anxious only to give the MG plenty of racing room.

She even managed to forget her longing for a man.

By four o’clock she was close to the city line and the gas tank was nearly empty. She looked around for a service station. Service stations, like men, never seemed to be around when you needed them most. At last she saw one and turned the wheel swiftly, bringing the MG to a dead stop close to the gas pump.

“Fill her with regular,” she said, without looking up.

“Nice little buggy you got here.” She looked up suddenly at the sound of the deep, resonant voice. The owner of the voice was a man, naturally enough, and he was a most attractive man. The attractive quality of him was the first thing Carla noticed, even before she was aware of the grease on his hands or the stubble of beard on his rugged chin.

He was about 29 or 30, she guessed, with jet-black hair cut short and piercing eyes. His muscles bulged beneath his uniform and his shoulders were extremely broad.

“I say that’s a pretty fine little car.”

“Oh, she said, realizing that she hadn’t answered him. “Thanks.”

He nodded and walked to the pump, placing the nozzle in the gas tank. She watched him wordlessly, struck by the appearance of him. Her heart was beating more rapidly and her breath came hard and fast. God, what was the matter with her? Two years out of the slums and she got hot as a pistol over a grimy gas-pump jockey!

But he was definitely attractive, and she needed a man badly. Naturally she wouldn’t want him as a long-term lover. He’d hardly do in that capacity.

But once with him might be nice. Very nice...

“That’ll be $3.85.” He was staring hard at her, his eyes riveted to the top of the peasant blouse. She smiled inwardly. This ought to be easy enough to manage.

She took a twenty dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him, letting her fingers trail against his calloused palm. “Here,” she said.

He frowned. “This is the smallest you got?”

“Yes,” she lied.

He turned without a word and walked toward the office for change. She let him get several yards ahead of her and made her decision abruptly, turning the key in the ignition and putting on the emergency brake. Then she got out of the car and followed him into the office.

He whirled from the cash-drawer when he saw her come through the door. “What do you want?” he demanded, a puzzled expression on his face.

Instead of answering, she smiled and let him have a good look at her body. She threw her shoulders as far back as possible to emphasize the size and shape of her breasts. With a good deal of amusement she noted the way his gaze travelled slowly up and down her body, returning at last to her face. She held his eyes with hers, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

Finally he broke the silence. “What do you want?” he asked again, but this time the words came more slowly and his voice was lower and huskier than before.

“What do you think I want?”

There was no misreading her meaning. He smiled and raised his eyebrows knowingly, and she knew she had made a conquest. Why, the slob was practically falling over his own feet.

“You picked a bad time,” he said. “I’ll have to close up the station; then we can take a ride over to my place. That okay with you?”

She almost agreed; at the last minute, however, an idea flashed into her mind. If she was going to be unfaithful, she might as well try something different while she was at it.

“No,” she said. “Don’t close the station.”

“What do you mean? Look, you’re the best-looking woman I’ve seen in a hell of a while, but that doesn’t mean I can walk off leaving the place open. Are you kidding?”

She stepped up to him, letting her body rest against his. Her breasts pressed against his hard, barrel-like chest and her hips ground into his.

“Right here,” she whispered. “I want you to make love to me right here, right in the station.”

His jaw fell. “Here? Jesus, there ain’t even a couch in the office. What do you—”

“Not in the office,” she went on, rubbing up against him like a playful kitten. “In the place where you grease up the cars. On the floor there.”

“Are you nuts?” He tried to take a step back but her arms held him against hers. “Jesus, it’s filthy in there.”

“That’s where I want it to be,” she said evenly. Before he could reply she pulled his mouth down to hers and planted her lips firmly on his. When he returned the kiss she sank her teeth into his lower lip and drew blood. He backed away, startled and breathing hard.

“Okay,” he snapped, amazed. “You’re calling the shots.”

Quickly he closed the office door and turned the key in it. Then he seized her by one hand and half-dragged her into the grease room. Once inside he released her and strode to the wall, flicking a switch to lower the grease-room door. Then he turned and walked toward her slowly, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. The hunger in her eyes was easy to see.

She pulled the peasant blouse over her head and tossed it into a corner, not caring whether it got dirty or not. The skirt followed it seconds later. She kicked off her shoes, pulled off her stockings, and slipped out of the bra and panties and stood naked before him.

For a second he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her. “Christ,” he said, half in a whisper. Then he came closer to her and seized one of her ripe breasts in his powerful hand while the other hand encircled her back and drew her roughly against him. Her arms went around him and her fingernails began raking his back, digging into him and hurting him. He kissed her again, harder this time, and she felt a burst of passion shoot through her whole body.

Her nostrils filled to overflowing with the smell of the grease-room. Slowly they both sank to the gritty pavement.

He rolled away from her at last and clambered to his feet, fumbling with his clothing. “God,” he said, in that hoarse whisper he had used before. Then neither of them spoke while she retrieved her clothing and dressed quickly and methodically. She felt like a woman for the first time in two years.

After she had finished dressing, he flicked the switch again to raise the door of the grease-room. She stepped outside and walked quickly to the MG, anxious to get away now that her desires had been fulfilled. It was time for her to get home.

He strode after her. “Christ,” he stammered, “I don’t even know your name!”

She smiled. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” She opened the door of the MG and hopped inside, fitting the key in the ignition.

She almost laughed but contained the laughter. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be around the next time I run out of gas.”

She stepped on the starter and the engine turned over. “And you can keep the change!” she called over the roar of the motor. Then she drove the car out onto the street, laughing to herself at the unbelieving expression on his face.

What a man he was! Hardly the type for a permanent alliance, of course, but this had been a most satisfactory afternoon. Her heart soared as she raced the MG back into town.

Chapter Three

As she turned the corner of Nottingham Terrace and pulled up in front of her home, something within her went limp and relaxed. The excitement of the affair in the service station finally had worn off and she was able at last to look at the whole thing rationally.

Well, she thought, you’ve pulled a cute little trick, Carla Macon. After living like a decent married woman for two years you throw yourself on the floor for the first rugged-looking guy you run into. What kind of a tramp was she?

Despite her childhood spent in a Polish slum, Carla had begun to think of herself as a member of the upper class. The wife of a crack corporation lawyer like Ronald Macon automatically held a great deal of social prestige, and even before her marriage Carla had felt superior to the other residents of her neighborhood. In school she was an excellent student, spending plenty of time reading and studying. After high school, two years at a business college had elevated her to the point where she could land a job as Ronald’s secretary. Marriage was an easy step ahead, and she adjusted to her new role with ease.

In a few years she had managed to change from a slum brat to a thoroughly respectable woman, and today she had chanced the loss of all she had gained. For a few passionate minutes on a filthy floor she stood the chance of losing everything. What kind of a damn fool trick was that?

The memory of the filthiness of the grease-room sent a shiver through her. She glanced at her face in the rear-view mirror and saw that it was streaked with grime and perspiration. Her hands, too, were dirty — and there was blood under several of her nails from when she had scratched him. She hunted frantically in her purse for a handkerchief and began the laborious process of getting herself clean once again. She certainly couldn’t walk into the house looking like that! Even if Ronald weren’t home yet, it wouldn’t do any good to let Lizzie see her in such a state.

When her hands and face were again clean she took her lipstick from her purse and applied it carefully. She surveyed the results in her mirror and was satisfied. No one could tell now by looking at her how she had spent the afternoon. No doubt there were bruises on her body from the rough embraces, but they wouldn’t show now.

But what a foolish thing to do! Still, it had been worth a good deal to her. The man was a magnificent animal, healthy and wild and strong. In the future she would be more careful, but she wouldn’t go two more years without a man’s love. There was a whole city full of men, crude and powerful men like her lover of this afternoon. It wouldn’t be difficult to find one of them willing to accommodate her. For that matter she could always return to the gas station in a few months. While she surely didn’t want a man like that on a regular basis, an occasional interlude with him would be time pleasantly spent.

Suddenly a feeling of guilt washed through her. Ronald loved her so much, and she repaid his love by rolling on the floor with a common brute! Well, she thought, she couldn’t be expected to live forever in a sexless vacuum. As long as Ronald never found out, everything would be all right. And she resolved that she would be careful to keep the truth from him. The gas-pump jockey didn’t even know her name, so there would be no trouble from that source. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell Ronald.

She alighted from the car and closed the door gently, walking swiftly up the path to the front door of the house. She slipped her key into the lock, marvelling at how much more relaxed and self-possessed she was now.

“Lizzie!” she called, closing the door behind her.

Lizzie appeared almost instantly from the kitchen. “Hello, Mrs. Macon,” she said. “Mr. Macon called while you were out.”

“Oh?” For a split-second she felt guilty again but the guilt passed easily. “What did he want, Lizzie?”

“He said to tell you he was bringing a friend with him for dinner and they’ll be home around six-thirty.”

“He’s bringing a friend?”

The girl nodded. “That’s what he said. He just called about a half-hour ago, Mrs. Macon. I was lucky I was making shrimp paella for dinner — it’s easy to make extra with a dish like that.”

Carla smiled. Ronald’s friend was in for a treat; Lizzie made paella better than any she had ever tasted, even better than the Spanish restaurant in New York where she and Ronald had dined once. “Did he mention the friend’s name?”

“Oh, I almost forgot. He said his name was Mr. Charles Butler.”

“Charles Butler.” Carla repeated the name to herself, trying to remember if she had ever been introduced to the man before. Charles Butler — the name didn’t ring a bell, but Ronald had so many friends and business associates that it was tough to keep them all straight. She knew that the Butlers were an important family in Buffalo, but this gave her no clue as to who Charles Butler might be.

With a little shrug she hurried to the staircase. There would be time later in the evening to find out more about Mr. Charles Butler. Now there was something more important: it was a few minutes to six, and she had time to take a shower and wash the smell of the grease-room from her skin. Hurriedly removing her clothing, she wondered briefly whether Lizzie had an inkling of how she had passed the afternoon. She was almost sure she had given no sign of it, but the Negro girl was sharp as a tack, and Carla wasn’t an old hand at cheating on a husband.

She would have to be very careful from here on in, careful to cover her trail at every step.

Stepping into the tub, she realized that this was her second shower of the day and laughed. If nothing else, leading a double life would keep her good and clean!

She was sitting in the living-room with a cigarette when the door-bell rang. She answered it herself, pausing on the way to take a quick look at herself in the hall mirror. The house seemed to be filled with mirrors, she thought suddenly.

Her black cocktail dress was just the right thing for the evening, she decided, pleased with her choice. It contrasted vividly with the golden glow of her hair and the milky whiteness of her skin, while the sophisticated styling of it gave a contrasting impression of aloofness and reserve. But not too reserved, she thought, noticing the way her breasts pressed against the front of the dress. Not too reserved, but a mixture of respectability and downright sexines.

When she opened the door Ronald smiled at her, and his appearance belied his age. His eyes were a bright blue and he still had all his hair. Although he was almost sixty, his hair was still a glossy black except for a slight greying at the temples.

But Carla barely noticed Ronald and scarcely heard the words he was speaking. All her attention was focused at once upon the man at Ronald’s side, a man she took to be Charles Butler. She couldn’t take her eyes away from him.

He was not at all as she had expected him to be. She had anticipated an evening with one of Ronald’s typical friends — short, bald, old, and pot-bellied. But Charles Butler possessed none of these qualities.

She estimated his age at anywhere between 35 and 45. His blond crew-cut made him look young, as did the sparkle that was always present in his eyes and the half-smile that formed frequently upon his lips. He was tall and slender, moving gracefully and easily. She watched him constantly while they had drinks in the living-room and continued watching him over the dinner table. She had never met anyone quite like him in her entire life.

“I guess you could call me an overgrown playboy,” he explained at one point. “My grandfather made a fortune, my dad made a good try at losing the whole bundle, and I’m content to merely amuse myself with what money is left.”

“But what do you do?” she asked, fascinated.

“Travel, read, whatever I want. There are always things for a man to do and new places to see.” Then he changed the subject quickly, seemingly unwilling to talk about himself.

In spite of this, she managed to discover quite a bit about Charles Butler during the remainder of the evening, and everything she learned served to stimulate her interest in him. He was decidedly attractive — not in the brutish way of the gas station attendant, but with a polish and suavity which appealed to her strongly.

She learned that he lived alone, in a bachelor’s apartment at the Tiffany, one of Buffalo’s most luxurious residential hotels. He had the touch of the connoisseur about him, a deep interest and appreciation for quality and taste in everything from food and wine to clothing and home furnishings. Carla guessed immediately that the same appreciation for quality carried over into his love life. It was easy to see that he was a man of extensive experience. Although he never gave her the frank and hungry stare she had come to expect from men, she knew that he found her desirable. Several times at the dinner table his glance found hers and held it for a split-second, and once or twice she noticed his eyes surveying her figure casually.

She wondered what it would be like, being possessed and loved by such a poised and smooth person as Charles Butler. The thought bothered her, but she couldn’t force it from her mind.

It was late in the evening before he took his leave. He took her hand in the doorway and held it just a little bit longer than necessary. The subtle but insistent pressure of his fingertips upon the palm of her hand set her trembling against her will. She was actually afraid of him, afraid of a man who could excite her so easily.

What was the matter with her? Perhaps it was true, as her mother had said years ago: she must be a tramp, an insatiable slut who never got enough in the way of loving. Here she was, married to a wealthy and loving husband, coming fresh from the embraces of a rough boor and ready for a fresh go with a friend of Ronald.

What was the matter with her?

No, she decided firmly, she couldn’t let Charles make love to her. With a man like the gas-station attendant she was safe: he didn’t know who she was and she would never see him again, at least not for a good long while. But Ronald and Charles were friends, and if anything started in those quarters it would be bad for her.

Usually when she made a decision her mind was able to relax. Now, however, things didn’t seem to work that way. Although she told herself repeatedly that she wouldn’t have an affair with Charles, there was a nagging doubt in the back of her mind as she recalled the look in his eyes and the touch of his hand on hers.

For the second night it a row, it was a long time before she drifted off to sleep.

In a far less imposing room on the other side of town, Danny Rand had his own troubles sleeping. He tossed feverishly on his creaking army cot, trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.

The problem was money.

While he made a good salary running the gas station, Danny knew there was no future working for somebody else, especially in his business. If he could only save up some dough he could buy the station on time from his company, and then the money would start to come in. He lived frugally enough, paying six bucks a week for the hole-in-the-wall of a room he had and taking his lunches with him. But whenever he got a little pile together, something always came up and he blew the dough on some damn thing he hardly wanted in the first place.

It was time for him to settle down and save his money. Christ, in another year he would be thirty, and what did he have to show for it? No money, no home, no wife and no kids. A fat string of zeroes.

The problem was money, and he had to find a way to keep from spending what he managed to save. But he couldn’t manage to concentrate on his problem. His mind kept returning to the woman he had met that afternoon, the woman who liked her loving on a grease-room floor. At first, smarting from the way she had left him and patronizingly advised him to keep the change, he had dismissed her as a rich little bitch hunting for kicks.

But she was more than that. The bit in the greaseroom was no act; he ran his finger across his throat and could still feel the tooth-marks where she bit him in a moment of heightened passion. Closing his eyes, he could recall perfectly the shape of her perfect breasts and the slope of her thighs. He remembered the way her skin was all satiny beneath him. She was a beautiful and passionate woman, and although he was no raw schoolboy when it came to dames, this one had him knocked for a loop. He had to admit it — he was pretty hung up on her.

But what kind of a chance did he have? Those clothes cost plenty of money, and the MG wasn’t a toy. She was used to luxury and he sure as hell couldn’t give her that. He was just a game for her, someone to satisfy her when she needed loving. She didn’t care any more about him than about a meal she had already eaten and digested.

Forget her, he advised himself. Keep on working and save your money and marry one of your own kind, a gal who doesn’t expect a mansion and servants.

But he couldn’t put her out of his mind. Christ, he didn’t even know her name! He had to find out who she was, had to get some idea of the kind of person he had enjoyed himself with so completely.

He had to see her again.

He sat up suddenly and turned on the overhead light, blinking at the sudden brightness. He found what he was looking for in the pocket of his slacks — a tiny scrap of paper with a hasty scrawl on it. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain. Then, resolutely, he put on his bathrobe and stalked into the hallway to the pay phone. He dropped a dime into the slot and began to dial a number.

Chapter Four

Her shower the next morning left Carla refreshed and awake, but she found herself unable to rinse the events of the previous day from her mind. Perhaps it was no more than her imagination, but her hand still seemed to tingle where Charles’ fingers had held it so firmly. He was a new type of man, a man infinitely more sophisticated than any of the boys she had grown up with, yet far more romantic and intense than any of Ronald’s other friends.

Her vow of last night didn’t seem to help matters. Although she knew how fatal it would be to have an affair with Charles, she felt weak and powerless inside. If only there was someone for her to talk things over with! She couldn’t figure everything out by herself, not when so many things were happening so quickly.

She dressed and polished off her breakfast in short order. Thoughtfully, she smoked a cigarette and took a long look out the breakfast-room window. The yard next door was a blaze of color, with roses climbing the sides of the garage and other flowers competing with them for her attention. It was funny, she thought. The people on Nottingham were lucky enough to have gardens and the time to work in them, and they sacrificed that pleasure by hiring a gardener to take care of all the work. It didn’t make much sense.

She wondered vaguely who the neighbors might be. Ronald had told her once but the name didn’t stick in her mind. That was the big trouble. She didn’t really know anyone, not even the people next door.

The cigarette burned down and she ground it out in the red beanbag ashtray. “Lizzie!” she called.

Lizzie hurried into the breakfast-room, looking stunning in her white uniform. Her eyes were very bright, and they held a perpetual expression of wisdom. Perhaps, Carla thought, the girl might be able to give her some help.

“Sit down for a minute, Lizzie.”

Lizzie hesitated for a minute, then took a seat across the table from Carla. “Is anything the matter?” she asked. “Was your breakfast all right, Mrs. Macon?”

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk with you for a minute or two.”

The girl relaxed visibly and smiled.

“Lizzie, I— Do you go out much with boys?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, do you ever — I mean—”

Lizzie smiled. “Mrs. Macon, are you trying to ask me if I ever sleep with a man?”

“Why, I—”

“That’s all right; I don’t mind talking, Mrs. Macon. I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you mean.”

Carla pulled another cigarette from the pack and lighted it, embarrassed and mildly envious of the ease with which the girl spoke. She tried to put herself in Lizzie’s position, realizing as she did so that she could never talk so freely to an employer.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I just wondered how you felt about things between a man and woman.”

“About sex?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“I don’t spend too much time thinking about it, Mrs. Macon.”

Carla paused, searching for the right phrase. “How do you feel about it, though?” she asked. “I mean, do you think it’s right sometimes and wrong other times? That sometimes a man and woman have a right to sleep together and other times they shouldn’t?” She paused, expectantly.

Lizzie considered the question for a minute, her eyes narrowing in concentration. “I guess I don’t think much about right and wrong,” she admitted. “If I go out with a man, I just let things happen.”

“Let them happen? How do you mean?”

“Well, if I go out with a man and I have a good time, I’ll go up to his apartment or out parking with him in his car. I let him kiss me, and if I enjoy the way he kisses me I let him go farther. And as long as there’s nothing bothersome about it, I just let it go on.”

“Don’t you ever feel that it’s wrong?”

Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t feel that way about it,” she said. “If I have a good time with a man, how should it be wrong? Neither of us is getting hurt or anything like that. We aren’t hurting anybody else either. I just don’t think anything nice between two people can be wrong, Mrs. Macon.”

“I see. Do you believe in God, Lizzie?”

“Of course, Mrs. Macon.”

“Well, doesn’t that change the way you feel?”

“No — why should it? I just think God wants people to be good to each other, and sleeping with a man isn’t hurting anybody, is it?”

Carla nodded absently, wondering how to say more without giving herself away. She took another long drag on the cigarette and watched the smoke drift lazily to the ceiling.

“Lizzie,” she said finally, “what if one of the persons is married to somebody else? Would that make a difference?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzie said. Slowly a puzzled look came over her face, and Carla thought for a second that the girl had an inkling of the purpose of all the questions. She decided to end the conversation before revealing too much.

“I guess that’s all,” Carla said, standing up from the table. “I didn’t mean to pry, but I just wanted to chat a little. It’s always interesting to find out how different people feel about things,” she added lamely.

The puzzled expression vanished and there was no trace of perception on Lizzie’s face as she said, “Certainly, Mrs. Macon. Any time you want to ask me about anything, just go right ahead.”

Back in her bedroom, Carla went over the conversation in her mind. If only she had Lizzie’s attitude, things would be so much easier. She could imagine how the girl would handle herself in a situation like this one. First of all, she’d be clever enough to avoid getting so desperate that she would have to root around on a grease-room floor like some kind of animal. She’d do the sensible thing and get herself a lover, a man like Charles but not a person her husband knew. She’d be smart about it, and she’d be able to make Ronald a good wife without torturing herself in the process.

She giggled suddenly, getting a mental picture of Ronald’s face if he could know about the affair with the garage mechanic. She tried to guess how he would react to the sight of her writhing on the floor in the man’s embrace, her sweat mingling with his and her lips on his throat.

Oh, what was the matter with her? Maybe she had sex on the brain, just as some people had water on the knee. She wasn’t sex-starved any more, not after yesterday, but she still couldn’t get Charles out of her mind. She imagined being married to Charles instead of to Ronald. Charles was rich too, but he would be able to give her the satisfaction that Ronald couldn’t supply. She would still possess the necessary prestige and security without any of the great disadvantages of being the wife of an older man.

Being married to Charles would solve everything.

But she was dreaming. She wasn’t making any sense at all, getting off on tangents that had nothing to do with the situation. For all she knew, Charles wasn’t even interested in getting her into bed. Maybe she was reading far too much into a glance across the table and the touch of his hand at the door. It might be nothing more than his way of being polite. A man as sophisticated and smooth as Charles could probably order ham-and-eggs in a restaurant and let the waitress think he was propositioning her.

And, she reflected, he would probably be successful with the waitress — when he was just trying to order a plate of ham-and-eggs.

But she couldn’t be wrong. She sensed his desire with the intuition she had developed over the years, a sense of intuition which could spot the hunger in a man with no difficulty. She had never been wrong before. Charles must want her.

She had just finished lunch and returned to her room again when the telephone rang and Lizzie announced that it was for her. She jumped up from the bed, wondering who in the world it would be. It would have to be Ronald, she decided, but he rarely called in the afternoon unless he was going to be home late, and he had said last night that he definitely wouldn’t be working late. She hurried to the phone and held the receiver to her ear.

“Carla?”

“Yes — who is this?”

“This is Charles.”

Charles! Then he did want her, but how come he was calling so soon?

“Charles?”

“That’s right,” he went on, his voice as smooth as silk. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why, Ronald isn’t home now—”

“I know. It’s you I want to see.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer. She felt herself going all weak inside and the right words wouldn’t come to her.

“Why don’t you come up to my place, Carla? I’d like to see you this afternoon.”

“I... I couldn’t,” she stammered.

“Of course you could. I’m in Room 715 at the Tiffany, and I’ll be waiting for you. I’d really like very much to see you, dear.”

The last word sounded like a caress. She tried desperately to think of a reply, realizing seconds later that he had hung up and she would be talking to an empty phone. Dimly, she replaced the receiver on the hook and tried to concentrate.

Room 715, Hotel Tiffany. The number stayed with her, something numbers rarely did. She was the type of woman who had to look up phone numbers and addresses again and again. But she knew at once that she wouldn’t forget Charles’ address.

Oh, what was wrong with her? She stormed into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror, trying to find some hint of her inner turmoil by staring at the mirror image. She simply couldn’t go to Charles, not today.

Suppose Ronald found out? And he would find out, in fact he couldn’t help it if she played around so close to home. She remembered the time when she was a little girl and a man across the street came home early and surprised his wife in bed with a delivery boy. He almost murdered them both, she recalled, beating the boy with his fists hard enough to send him to the hospital and striking his wife all over her face and body.

Ronald wouldn’t do anything like that. Ronald would never be violent with her, but she could imagine the look of sadness and anger that would come over his face, the tone of his voice when he spoke to her. He would divorce her, of course, and she would be right back where she started from, a little Polish blonde from the East Side with nothing to show for her life but a body for men to amuse themselves with.

All the arguments told her to stay home, to let Charles wait in his room forever. But the arguments weren’t enough. Even as she told herself how wrong the course of action would be, she felt her will power weakening rapidly. She returned to her bedroom and changed her clothes again, dressing in a skirt-and-sweater combination that showed off her figure and made her look girlish and desirable, the skirt clinging to her long legs and the sweater showing off her breasts perfectly.

It was good to feel that there was a purpose in dressing. She liked to put on clothes with the knowledge that a man would appreciate them. Oh, why couldn’t she be a stronger person! She needed somebody to make the decisions for her, somebody who could tell her what to do and keep her from situations like this one. Maybe Charles would be strong. Maybe he would tell her to divorce Ronald and marry him, and after they were married she wouldn’t have to go through hell like this again.

The guidance of a genuinely strong man would make a tremendous amount of difference to her. Even talking with Lizzie was a help to her, but someone who could come right out and say: “This is right” and “This is wrong,” that was the real thing she needed.

Maybe she could find it in Charles.

She told Lizzie she would be back for dinner, noting the expression in the girl’s eyes. Did she know? At least Lizzie would never tell Ronald. Of that she was quite certain. Still, it would be much better if no one knew, if she could keep everything to herself. She climbed behind the wheel of the MG and turned the key in the ignition, racing the little car down Delaware Avenue toward the Tiffany.

“Ah!” Charles said. “I hoped you would come see me. Come right in.”

She followed him into the room, impressed by the furnishing of his apartment. The furniture was all quite modernistic without being too extreme, a blend which seemed to indicate a combination of daring and taste. A pair of Modigliani prints “were hung on the far wall in simple black frames. Charles fit the room perfectly, wearing a pair of gray flannel trousers and an elegant plaid smoking jacket. He led her easily to the couch and sat down next to her.

“May I offer you a drink?”

“No,” she began, then changed her mind. “On second thought, that might be a good idea.”

“Martini all right? I have a shaker mixed.”

“That’ll be fine.”

He rose and disappeared from the room, and she waited nervously on the couch. When he returned with the drinks she sipped hers quickly, hardly listening to what he was saying. On the way down she had toyed with the idea of seeing him without letting him make love to her, but now she knew how impossible that would be. She felt too weak to make even token resistance.

She finished her drink and he set the glasses on the coffee-table. “Carla,” he said, turning to her, “I don’t want to waste either time or words. I think you know why I asked you here, and I think I know why you came. I could proceed more slowly, but that would only be a sham.

“You’re a beautiful woman and one of the most thoroughly attractive ones I’ve ever met. I would like to make love to you.”

She began to breath heavily.

“Carla?”

She looked into his eyes, her own eyes going soft and her lips parting automatically. Her breasts rose and fell with her uneven breathing. For a long moment neither of them moved.

Then he took her in his arms.

His lips on hers were a new experience, half full of fire and half full of ice. There was a passion to his kiss that she had never experienced before, a passion blended with the skill and artistry of the lover to whom love was a true art. Every movement of his mouth on hers and his hands on her back sent little fires coursing through her whole being, burning her up with their feverish intensity. She could think of nothing but the overwhelming desire to merge herself with him, to immerse her whole being in the intensity of his love.

“Come this way,” he said. He took her hand and led her from the living-room through a hallway to the bedroom. The covers were drawn back, waiting for her. She stood like a person in a trance while his deft fingers lifted her sweater over her head and dropped her skirt to the floor. Then, almost without touching her, his hands removed the flimsy bra and slipped the panties over her thighs. His hands brushed her body so gently in the act that she barely felt them. Finally, she stood before him naked.

“You’re incredibly beautiful,” he said in a whisper. “I didn’t realize you were this beautiful.”

He kissed her then, running his tongue tenderly over her lower lip. She responded eagerly to his kiss and pressed her body against his. Then he stepped back once again, taking her arm and leading her to the bed.

“Lie down,” he said. “Lie down and don’t move.”

She obeyed his command.

“Now close your eyes.”

The next thing she knew, his lips were travelling all over her, planting little kisses of fire wherever they stopped.

She moaned his name. His mouth found hers and her arms tightened around him, pressing him to her.

Then there was nothing but her body and his and the clean fresh beauty of the world.

Chapter Five

Carla’s hands were shaking slightly as she alighted from the MG and walked to her door. The whole world seemed imperceptibly different. Charles was so skillful, so perfect and sure of every gesture. She felt whole and complete, and at the same time she couldn’t shake of an irrational feeling of guilt over the whole affair. She had made a cuckold of Ronald with a friend of his, and this fact disturbed her so deeply that the fulfillment of the afternoon could not totally counteract the sense of guilt and betrayal.

She opened the door and entered her house, hoping desperately that Lizzie wouldn’t see the satisfaction in her eyes or hear it in her speech. She had heard or read somewhere that it showed in a woman’s eyes, that a person who knew what to look for could see that a woman was or was not sexually satisfied. Lizzie was sharp. Would she be sharp enough to notice?

If Lizzie did notice anything, she was clever enough to keep herself inscrutable. She only smiled a hello and told Carla that there had been a call for her.

“Who was it?”

“A man, Mrs. Macon,” Lizzie replied. “He wouldn’t tell me his name, but he said he’d call later.”

Carla walked into the living-room and sat down in a soft armchair, wondering who in the world the caller could be. It certainly wasn’t Charles; they had already decided that he would never call her again, but that she would be the one to phone him. But who could have called this afternoon?

She pushed the incident out of her mind, and in a few moments it was forgotten. Ronald was home for dinner and took her out for the evening to a Broadway show on tour. All through dinner and at the show afterwards she was especially careful to act the same as ever toward her husband.

At first she tended to be more affectionate than usual, to let her lips linger on his when he kissed her hello at the door. But she quickly realized that this would serve to arouse suspicion if anything. The best course of action was perfectly natural behavior, so that Ronald would have no cause to suspect she was deviating in any form from her normal activity.

That night she slept more perfectly than she had since she was married.

Ronald had told her about his latest case, one which promised to lead to a genuine courtroom battle. His client was involved in some charge of fraud in government contracts and the case looked like it would turn out to be one of Ronald’s biggest and most crucial. He emphasized that any one of a group of minor factors could be enough to sway the jury either way. A scandal involving any party would turn the trick.

Carla had listened eagerly as usual. Ronald’s cases always fascinated her, since his keen mind and quick wit was well shown off in his business activities, and because she knew how much he appreciated her interest in his work. But it was not until the following morning that she realized the full implications of what he had told her.

She realized later what this signified. If a scandal would sway the jury, she had to be more careful than ever to keep anyone from uncovering the affair she was having with Charles. If Ronald’s opponents discovered and let the news leak out, the case would be lost — and so would her marriage. In addition, she gathered that a good deal of Ronald’s capital was invested with his client — and the loss of the case would greatly cut down his fortune.

Besides all this, another of her hopes was dashed. She had thought from the beginning of the possibility of divorcing Ronald and marrying Charles. Ronald would give her a divorce; of that she was relatively certain. And, if she knew anything about men, Charles would marry her. But now a divorce was out of the question for the time being. It would ruin Ronald, and that was not her intention at all.

However, these facts didn’t worry her to any great extent. She had enjoyed her interlude with Charles tremendously and planned to repeat it regularly, but she could go on without marrying him.

At least that was what she thought.

That afternoon, however, she wasn’t so sure. She had expected to be more accustomed to Charles’ lovemaking and less moved by it the second time, but quite the reverse was true. Every touch, every measured caress was even newer and more thrilling than before. Her passion mounted to a new peak and the fulfillment came to her with an almost audible explosion, moving and shaking her and bringing her an overpowering sense of relaxation and joy.

Afterwards, she lay in the bed holding him to her breast. Suddenly struck with the desire to unburden herself, she found herself telling him everything about her. She talked of her slum childhood and of the first time she gave herself to a boy, and she spoke of every important event in her life from that time until they had met. All that she omitted was the one incident with the garage attendant. It seemed too trivial to mention, and the memory of it stirred her a little and frightened her.

Charles listened to it all without commenting. Then, when she had finished, he began to tell her about himself. The difference in their backgrounds was astounding. While she had been continually deprived, he had enjoyed an abundance of everything.

“How many women have you made love to?” she asked suddenly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Too many, perhaps.”

“Tell me about the first time.”

“Well, I was terrible young at the time. Just 14. We had a frightfully attractive serving-girl, a brunette with sulky eyes and huge hips and breasts. I was just starting to think rather deeply about sex, and I suppose she noticed the way I kept looking at her from time to time.

“At any rate, she came to my room one evening when the rest of the family was sleeping. I was half asleep myself and I thought I was dreaming. God knows I dreamed enough about her! She walked right over to my bed, slipped off her robe, and climbed into bed with me. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.”

“Was it... good?”

He kissed her breast tenderly. “It was wonderful, Carla. She was much better than I was — I shudder to think how gauche and inept I must have been. But she was back the next night and the night after that, and I suppose I must have learned rather rapidly.”

“What happened to her?”

“She left after a while. I learned a few years later that Dad had hired her for that purpose and I hadn’t seduced her at all. He paid her a few hundred dollars a week to accommodate me and let her go when he figured I was broken in. Why are you laughing?”

“Because it’s funny. He must have been quite a man.”

“He was a fool,” Charles said softly. “But in some respects he was a very wise man.”

He fell silent then and began to kiss her with an increasing intensity, his hands roaming over her body and exciting her. And then he took her a second time, almost violent in his lovemaking, hurting her delightfully and driving her to the very limits of human pleasure.

As the days passed, Carla began to realize that she was falling in love with Charles. The realization came as no surprise. Bit by bit she was depending more and more upon him and responding still more fervently to the artistry of his lovemaking. For the first time in her life she felt that she was genuinely in love. She had given herself to men before and wanted men before, but she had never cared so deeply about an individual as she did about Charles. All of her being was wrapped up in him and all her day was centered around the few hours they were able to spend together each afternoon. She was unable to imagine living without him. The memory of the days without end when she did nothing but stay at home or ride around in the MG was unbearable. She couldn’t lose him.

At the same time, for the first three days of her affair with Charles she continued to receive phone calls when she was not at home. Each time it was a man calling, and each time the man refused to leave his name but said that he would call back. Probably some jerk selling something, she decided — but the jerk stood a good chance of getting her in trouble. If he called often enough Lizzie would begin to suspect something, and that would be pretty ironic — since Charles never called, and she would be discovered because of the phonecalls of someone else entirely.

She tried to figure out who the mysterious caller could be. Not one of her old friends, certainly, because she was never close enough to anyone back in her old neighborhood. Besides, they didn’t know she was now Mrs. Ronald Macon.

Who else? Probably a salesman or someone soliciting for a charity, but could it be anyone else? The only man she had met lately was that grease-monkey at the gas station, and he didn’t even know who she was.

No, it couldn’t be him.

Each day the calls disturbed her just that much more. Not only was it a nuisance to keep missing a phonecall, but in addition the possibility of discovery became increasingly unattractive. Ronald’s case was occupying the bulk of his time and leaving him so tired each evening that he seemed almost at the point of collapse. Carla could see that he was completely wrapped up in it, seeing it as representing not only his fortune but the professional reputation he had established. If he could win the case, his career would be crowned with success. Carla knew how Ronald always drove himself harder than was necessary. He had inherited the bulk of his money, and he found it necessary to continually prove to himself that he could have done all right on his own. He felt guilty over having inherited the greater part of his wealth through no effort on his part, and by excelling in his profession he was able to assuage these guilt feelings.

But, as he said more than once, this case was one which could go either way. He maintained that his client was in the right; proving this, however, was another matter. And one breath of scandal could ruin everything completely.

Carla was constantly alert, trying to detect some sign that her love affair was noticed by somebody else. Try as she might she was unable to detect a clue. Lizzie seemed to be acting a bit differently lately, but this didn’t seem in any way connected. Ronald’s only change was the attitude of detachment which always went hand in hand with total absorption in his work.

The doorman at the Tiffany glanced knowingly at her each afternoon, but she discounted him quickly enough. She knew that she was by no means the first woman to visit Charles in his apartment, and she guessed that the gray-haired doorman ought to be used to that sort of thing by now. The management of the Tiffany didn’t care about the private behaviour of their residents — not as long as the rent was paid and the residents were fairly discreet. Charles had told her that there was a lesbian couple on the fifth floor, and an interior decorator on the fourth floor who continually brought various men to his room for private parties. Considering this, Carla decided it was strange the doorman even gave her a second glance.

The thought of marriage to Charles began to prey on her mind until there were times when she could think of nothing else. It would be so completely different, waking up every morning with her lover beside her, eager to take her into his arms. Then too, there was the fact that she was beginning to fear losing Charles if she didn’t have a firm hold on him, the type of firm hold that only marriage could give her. Although he seemed to enjoy their lovemaking just as she did, she thought at times that she detected an inner restlessness in the man, a sign that he would eventually look around for new worlds to conquer. Sometimes she would be talking to him and he would stare off into space, hardly seeming to hear a word she said. Moments like that made her nervous and worried that he might leave her. And that was one thing she felt unable to bear.

Yet she was afraid to broach the subject of marriage directly. She knew that such a step could scare off any man, particularly an accustomed and comfortable bachelor like Charles. At the same time, she couldn’t help trying to work the idea into the conversation.

“Charles,” she said on their fourth afternoon together, “how come you’ve never married?”

He looked up. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know exactly. I’ve never wanted to, I guess.”

“It’s strange,” she went on.

“How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d think a lot of women would have wanted you to marry them.”

“I suppose a few of them did.”

“And you weren’t interested?”

He shook his head. “Never, Carla. I’ve never thought of a woman in terms of things like marriage and babies. It just hasn’t seemed proper to me. I’m happy, you see, and the thought of any curtailment of my freedom or end to my happiness automatically repels me.”

“Does marriage have to end a man’s freedom?”

“Maybe not,” he said, smiling, “but it almost invariably does. Look at the average marriage — a ‘trust’ based on suspicion and a delicate system of checks and balances rivalling the working of international diplomacy and leaving a man more thoroughly bound than a serf under the feudal system.

“But even that isn’t the most important thing. Carla, look at the sort of relationship we have. It’s one that endures simply because it’s healthy and alive. As soon as one of us tires of the other, the relationship will end with no hard feelings on either side. No strings, no ties that bind — in short, nothing but mutual attraction. A relationship between a man and a woman can be a beautiful thing, but it remains beautiful only so long as it remains free and permissive.”

“I guess I understand.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, darling.”

He lifted her chin in his hand. “Then why so sad? What did I say to make you unhappy, Carla?”

“Nothing.”

“There must have been something,” he said, shaking his head. “Goodness, you’re almost in tears! What is it, honey?”

“It’s... oh, I just wish you wouldn’t talk about anything like us breaking up!” She clenched her hands into little fists to keep from crying.

He smiled. “Poor baby,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Poor little baby. You’re so young in some ways and so old in others that sometimes I forget about the young part of you. In time you’ll come to realize that everything has to end sometime, but now you love me and I love you and it’s no time to think of such things, is it?”

She shook her head, unable to open her mouth without crying.

“I understand,” he said. “It’s no time to talk about break-ups or endings or anything of the sort. Come here, Carla. Kiss me.”

She kissed him — gently at first like a child, then fiercely with the hunger and desperation of a woman who suddenly has realized that love can be a transient affair. His arms tightened around her in response to her passion and he forced her back unto the sofa. His hand closed over her breast and held it like a dove.

The world turned into a ball of fire and spun madly before her tightly-lidded eyes. Time and space ceased to matter. Only the moment was important.

She cried out once, sharply.

And then all was still.

Chapter Six

“Darling?”

Ronald’s face across the dinner table seemed troubled, and for a terrible moment she thought he knew the truth. The moment passed, however, and she realized that his trouble came from the case and not from her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing more than usual. Except that I have to leave town tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? How come?”

He sighed. “The damned case, Carla. There’s a man in New York I have to see, and I have to see him as soon as possible. I’m catching a flight down tomorrow morning, and I’m afraid I won’t get back until Friday morning or afternoon.”

“I see,” she said. Instantly her heart swelled as she realized what that would mean — a whole day alone with Charles! But she contained herself and asked: “Want to tell me about it?”

“Sure.” He pushed his dessert away half-eaten and produced a cigar from his jacket pocket, puncturing the end and lighting it. “Remember I told you about Hodges?”

“The second assistant?”

“That’s him. He’s the main opposition witness, and the man is obviously going to lie in his teeth. It will be perjury — clear-cut perjury. But proving it is another matter.”

“I see.”

He drew deeply on the cigar and expelled a huge cloud of thick smoke. “There’s a man in New York,” he went on. “A Mr. Lewis Cantrell. He will be able to offer contradictory testimony on one point, and for that reason I want to get to him at once and find out what he’ll be able to say.”

“That’s wonderful! Then he’ll break Hodges in half, won’t he?”

Ronald smiled. “Not quite, dear. His testimony is very minor, but the fact that he can refute Hodges at all will take a little of the weight off Hodge’s story. I’ll have to make the jury reason that, first of all, Cantrell is right and Hodges is wrong. Therefore, if Hodges can lie once he can lie a second time. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Of course! But I was right — this Mr. Cantrell could be the turning point in the case.”

“He could,” Ronald agreed. “That’s the main reason why I’m taking a plane down tomorrow. I’d want to get to any witness in a hurry, but this is more important than usual.”

They spent the night at home, since Ronald’s flight was leaving early the next morning and he wanted to be well-rested for the trip. Carla’s mind was disturbed by her own reaction to the news. Despite the fact that she was spending her afternoons with Charles, Ronald was still her husband and her first loyalty should be to him. Yet her chief emotional reaction was one of joy at the prospect of a night with Charles. Instead of being thrilled at the thought of a possible break in Ronald’s big case, she was only glad that he would be out-of-town for the day.

What was the matter with her? She reasoned quickly that this was a sign, a sign to show her that she ought to be married to Charles and not to Ronald. And yet she hadn’t dared to do more than hint vaguely at the prospect that afternoon, and Charles was about as enthusiastic over the allusion as a small boy over the idea of a bath. She wanted Charles desperately, and she made up her mind that she would get what she wanted. She always had done so, ever since she vowed so long ago that she would never be poor again.

She would make Charles need her. She needed him now, needed him more than anything else, but she knew how much he loved her body and the way it responded to his touch. In time he would come to need her, and then she could come up with the ultimatum: no more lovemaking unless he married her.

That, she decided, ought to do it.

In bed that night, Ronald turned to her and took her in his arms. She wondered if he would try once again to make love to her and hoped that he wouldn’t, knowing how disturbed he was by his failure.

“Carla,” he said softly, “I’m going to miss you. It’s silly, isn’t it? I’ll only be gone a day, but I’ll miss you.”

She didn’t answer, letting her arms encircle his body and hold him against her.

“Let’s go to sleep like this,” he said. “Close to each other.” Then, embarrassed, he closed his eyes and lowered his head to her breast.

Carla suddenly felt herself overflowing with compassion and affection for this man who was her husband. He was so good to her and loved her so deeply! A lump began to rise in her throat and she held him gently in her arms until they were both asleep.

Ronald was gone by the time she awoke the next morning. She raced through the ritual of shower and breakfast, impatient to get in touch with Charles. When his phone failed to answer she became mildly furious, angered at the thought of missing up on the chance for an extended period of time together. Just as she was about to hang up in disgust, Charles answered the phone.

“Darling,” she said, the words coming out in a rush, “Ronald’s in New York until tomorrow morning. Isn’t that wonderful?”

He laughed. “That’s a fine way for a devoted wife to talk.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. It’s fortunate too, because I’ll be busy until later afternoon. Can you meet me around four?”

“Of course. At your apartment?”

“Where else? And then I’ll take you out to dinner, if you don’t have something better in mind.”

She giggled. “Well, I did have something better in mind, but—”

“But we’ll have the whole night for that.”

“Uh-huh.” She grew serious. “Charles, do you think it will be safe — going out together?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know a small Hungarian restaurant where no one will possibly recognize you. I’ll see you at four, all right?”

“All right. And Charles?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” She made a little kissing sound against the mouthpiece of the phone and hung up.

Later, Carla emerged radiantly from the bedroom. Her blonde hair fell freely down the back of the black evening-gown in a truly striking fashion. The plunging neckline of the gown plummeted between her full ripe breasts, highlighting and accentuating their complete and vivid perfection. The only obstacle now was Lizzie, and she wished she could have given the girl the day off without arousing her suspicions. Instead she told her that she was spending the evening with a friend. Lizzie’s face didn’t change expression, but Carla was certain that the girl knew the truth She could only hope Lizzie would remain silent.

It was precisely twenty minutes to four when she hopped into the MG and turned the key in the ignition.

It was precisely four o’clock when the five-year-old Ford pulled up where the MG had been. A man got out of the car and walked slowly to the door of the house. His step was firm and sure, but there was a hesitation in the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t quite sure of his footing.

He rang the bell once, shifting uneasily from foot to foot while he waited. At last the door was opened by a stunning Negro girl in a maid’s uniform. The man took a good long look at the girl’s body; then, remembering where he was and why he had come, he flushed guiltily.

“Is Mrs. Macon home?”

“No,” said the girl.

“I see. When do you expect her? You think she’ll be home in a few minutes or so?”

The girl considered, her eyes twinkling as she watched the young man struggle to keep from ogling her. “Yes,” she said suddenly. “Yes, Mrs. Macon should be home any minute. Why don’t you come inside?”

After a second’s hesitation the man followed her into the house. He glanced around automatically, his eyes taking in the almost regal splendor of the living-room. His feet sank into the carpet with every step. The girl pointed to an armchair and he sat down in it, his eyes still flitting continually from one object to another.

“You wait right here,” the girl said. “Mrs. Macon ought to be home soon and I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“Swell.”

“Are you the party who’s been trying to reach Mrs. Macon on the phone?”

He started. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I answered the phone every time, so how could I miss knowing? I recognized your voice the minute you opened your mouth. Mrs. Macon’s all upset, not ever being home when you call and you not leaving a name or anything.”

“I suppose I should have realized that.”

She didn’t answer, and at the same time made no move to leave. Unwillingly his eyes returned to her body, trying to imagine just how she would look without the protection of the uniform. The maid’s uniform, a rather shapeless affair of white cotton, was unable to hide entirely the curves of her body. The skirt ended a few inches below her knees, and his eyes caressed what they could see of her legs and imagined the rest. Her arms were equally perfect — slender and chocolate in colour. Several times he forced his gaze away from the silent, motionless girl, and each time his eyes returned to wander over her body. Once his eyes caught hers and held them, and he was blushing slightly when he finally tore his eyes free.

“You wait right here,” she repeated, standing up suddenly and walking from the room. His eyes followed her until she was gone. Then he glanced once more around the room until he became more or less accustomed to the furnishings.

Only then did he realize how tired he was. He hadn’t slept well for nights — too many nights. He tried to lose himself in his work, but that had helped only a little and left him more tired than ever. He leaned back in the armchair, wondering how long it would be before Mrs. Macon returned.

Charles recommended the Chicken Paprikash. It was good, but this didn’t surprise her any more than the fact that the wine was excellent and the perfect dessert came as a surprise. Perfection was perhaps the best summation of Charles Butler, she thought. He always did exactly the right thing, even if he didn’t seem to have any particular feeling for it. How could any man care so much about art, music, food, wine — almost everything there was to care about? It seemed to her that he didn’t really care that desperately, that he was more concerned with “being right” than with the final result.

“What’s the trouble?”

“Nothing,” she replied, looking up at him and smiling automatically across the tiny marble-topped table. “I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Things.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mysterious tonight, aren’t you?”

“A little. I was just thinking how nice it is to have dinner with you.”

“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it.”

She put a cigarette between her lips and started to reach for a match, then stopped and let Charles light it for her. “I wish we could do it more often.”

“We can,” he said. “Whenever Ronald goes out-of-town.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant. I—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know precisely what you meant, Carla. Let’s not discuss it, shall we?” And he smiled, ending the conversation.

In the car driving back to his apartment they were silent. Perhaps he wouldn’t discuss it yet, but at least she had managed to show him what she wanted. Now she would have to make him more dependent on her and at the same time show him that his freedom wouldn’t end with marriage.

It would be difficult, she decided, to reduce a man like Charles to a state of sexual dependence. He had possessed so many women that it would be no easy matter to make him crave for her and no one else.

But it might be fun trying...

He woke up like a man coming out of an opium trance. The house was dark, much darker than when he had come in, and he cursed himself silently for falling asleep. How long had he slept? The girl had said she would be home any minute, but she didn’t seem to be home.

Dimly he realized there was music playing, a slow and sensuous Spanish melody. He glanced around the room, trying to locate himself. Someone — the girl, he guessed — had drawn all the shades and turned off the lights.

The volume of the music increased. Suddenly the girl entered the room, but she was no longer wearing the uniform. The shapeless white cotton no longer hid her body from his eyes.

She was wearing nothing at all.

His eyes fastened on her breasts, fuller and more perfect than he had believed possible. The two bright red nipples seemed to glow in the dark. His eyes travelled downward past the flat stomach and rounded boyish hips, embracing the dark triangle and sleek thighs. He caught his breath and tried to get to his feet.

“Don’t move,” she said.

That was all she said.

Slowly her body began to weave in time to the music, picking up speed as the tempo of the Spanish dance increased. She moved closer to him, her whole body an orgy in rhythm, and he caught a sensual whiff of sandalwood perfume as one liquid-brown arm passed close to his face.

She stretched backwards, arms akimbo, proffering her hips to him in an offering of love, her proud breasts pointing at the ceiling. She twisted constantly like a woman in the throes of passion, her body keeping perfect time with the music.

His breathing became faster and harder. He felt himself caught up in the savage beauty of the dance, unable to take one iota of his attention from the fantastic spectacle before him. It was new and old, pure in its beauty and outrageous in its wanton lust. It was Heaven and Hell all enwrapped in a whirling brown body and an evil, passionate dance.

She moved closer and closer to him, never missing a beat in the music. One hand darted out and played with the buttons on his shirt and he was powerless to resist her or to aid her. He could only watch fascinated, fascinated as a bird is fascinated by the mad dance of a snake.

The music came faster and faster until the speed of her movements became unbelievable. She raised him to his feet, pressing her body to his and kissing him on the face and lips. Her tongue darted into his mouth and set him on fire while her slender hands slipped under his shirt and her nails raked his flesh. He felt her soft firm breasts pressing against his bare chest and her hips grinding into his.

Then she was pulling at his clothes, hurrying, and he was helping her, finally able to move once again. Her mouth found his again and she kissed him, rubbing against him all the while, making sharp little cries from deep in the back of her throat. With an agonized groan she fell back to the floor and pulled him down on top of her.

The record of the Spanish dance played over and over and over...

Much later she said: “Come upstairs with me.”

“What’s upstairs?”

“My bed.”

“But—”

“There’s more room in a bed. And it’s more comfortable.”

“Look,” she said when he didn’t answer, “Mrs. Macon isn’t home and she’s not coming home, not tonight. And Mr. Macon won’t be home until tomorrow either.”

“Then why did you tell me to come in?”

She giggled. “Why do you think, silly? You’re not sorry, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come on upstairs.” On the stairway she said: “You’re in love with her.”

“How did you know?”

She shrugged. “I always know,” she said. “I can tell. But it doesn’t really matter, you know. She can have her love — all she wants of it. I like what I have.”

Her bedroom was on the third floor. “My name’s Lizzie,” she announced at the doorway. “What’s yours?”

“Danny,” he said. “Danny Rand.”

“That’s a nice name,” she said. “Let’s go to bed, Danny.”

Chapter Seven

Carla relaxed as she drove the MG home. She held the steering wheel in one hand, letting the other arm rest on the back of the seat. The air was cool and fragrant with the smell of morning, and little currents of wind toyed with her hair. She liked the wind in her hair — it made her feel free, and she always enjoyed the feeling.

Freedom was a remarkable state, a state she wanted and at the same time rebelled against. While she had spent all her life escaping such rule as her mother’s hairbrush, she still felt the overwhelming need for someone strong. Sometimes she felt free and powerful, but there were other times when her spine turned to jelly and she felt weak as a kitten.

This morning she felt half-free and half-bound. She could still feel Charles holding her and hear him whispering in her ear, and the clean smell of him lingered in her nostrils. She had spent the night — and what a wonderful night! — in bed with another man.

But she was not entirely free. If she were, she wouldn’t be racing back home at this hour to meet her husband. If she were free, she wouldn’t need Charles as desperately as she did. Her plan of getting a strong hold over him by making him need her physically wasn’t working at all. As a matter of complete fact, it was backfiring. She knew that she had no hold whatsoever on Charles, that he could do without her with ease. No matter how desperately she gave herself to him, there were times when she felt like a toy, a plaything he used for his own amusement and nothing more.

To be sure, he treated her like a woman. But each day she sensed something beneath his outward display of affection — a deep reserve that would keep her from ever possessing him fully.

Carla, however, was falling more and more deeply in love. Not love, exactly; she was ceasing to believe in love as such. Rather, the hold she was trying to gain over Charles was one which he was gaining over her. And she didn’t like this at all.

She felt as though she was becoming a slave, and that wasn’t the role she wanted to play. Oh, she didn’t mind being a slave, dependent upon her man — but she wanted a relationship in which her master would be equally dependent upon her. She wanted to possess while she was possessed; she wanted to be needed as well as to need.

As she parked the MG in front of her house, she noticed a car across the street. Somehow it didn’t look as though it belonged on Nottingham Terrace. It wasn’t a rich man’s car. Then, paying no more attention to it, she walked to the door and entered the house.

“Mrs. Macon?”

The sound made her jump. She turned, startled, and walked into the living-room. There was a man seated there, looking directly at her with a strange expression in his eyes. She noticed the plaid shirt and dark gabardine pants almost without seeing them. The strong face with its prominent features seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she hadn’t the slightest idea where she had seen the man before. For several seconds he regarded her silently and she was unable to speak.

“What do you want?” she stammered finally. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t. But I’d like to know what you think you’re doing in my living-room. What do you want?”

“Wait a minute. You remember me, don’t you?”

“I may have met you but I’m sure I don’t remember when. And I don’t have any time to play guessing games. Now who are you?” She could feel her temper rising at the way he sat in the chair watching her, his face almost empty of expression.

“Try again,” he said. “You should remember me.”

“I don’t.”

“You should. Or do you let everybody keep the change from a twenty-dollar bill?”

Her mouth fell open. At first she couldn’t believe it; then, studying the face and eyes she remembered him all at once, remembered his arms around her and the smell of grease and the pavement under her bare skin. At first her pulse raced at the animalism of the memory. Then she realized fully just who he was.

“You—”

“Remember? I thought you would. But we never got to the introduction stage before, did we? My name’s Danny Rand, and I guess you’re Carla Macon.”

“Danny Rand,” she repeated half to herself. “I— How did you find me?”

He shrugged. “I just ran around ringing doorbells. How else would I do it?”

“How?” She felt her knees going weak and fought to control herself. This couldn’t be happening, she told herself. She was dreaming, and any moment she would wake up and Charles would run his hands over her body and then she would—

“It was easy,” he said. “I got your license number, honey. You never even thought of that. My brother-in-law’s a cop, and when I gave him your number he ran it through the license bureau and got me your name and address.”

Suddenly she was too weak to stand. She groped her way to a chair and fell into it, powerless to remove her eyes from his piercing gaze. He was talking, saying more about how he had found out who she was, but she half-heard him as if he was talking through a wall.

“What... What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?”

She breathed deeply. “How much?” she asked.

“What?”

“How much money do you want?” Her voice rose and she fought to control it, hoping that Lizzie couldn’t overhear the conversation. Why had the girl let him in, she wondered. Why had he noticed the license number, and why was he here now, and what did he want from her.

“Money?”

“Money,” she repeated. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to blackmail me. Well? How much do I have to pay?”

He looked at her in amazement, and for a moment neither of them spoke. She saw the muscles in his jaw go tight, then relax slightly. When he spoke the words came out clearly and distinctly.

“I don’t want money.”

At first she felt an irrational swell of relief. Then, “What do you want?”

“You.”

“What!!”

“You,” he repeated levelly. “Carla, you’re like no woman I’ve ever had. You’re fire and ice and everything, and no matter how much I try to forget you I can’t get you out of my mind. I think if I go without you much longer I’ll go crazy. I want you and I’m going to have you.”

“Go crazy? You’re crazy already.”

“Carla—”

“You must be crazy,” she went on, the words flowing freely from her lips. “You must be out of your damned mind. I don’t love you and I don’t want you and I couldn’t care less if you dropped dead tomorrow. I don’t want to see you or look at you or have you anywhere near me. Why can’t you get out and leave me alone?”

“Because I love you,” The words were almost savage.

“You are crazy. Well, I don’t love you.”

“You did.”

She sighed. “You fool. I wanted a man and you were there so I let you have me. That’s all. Period. If you think—”

His jaw was stubborn. “Not the way it happened. There was more than just wanting a man. It was us, Carla. Us. I’ve been around, baby. You’re not the first woman I’ve had. And you wanted more than a man. You wanted me.”

“Oh, Christ!” She shook her head fiercely and drew a cigarette from the pack in her purse, lighting it and drawing deeply on it.

“Do you really think it was you that I wanted?” she demanded. “Is that what you think?”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

She nodded. “You’re completely wrong. Take a look around you, you blockhead. You think I want to give this place up for a stinking gas-pump jockey? You think I want to trade this place for a stinking flat and a houseful of brats? You think I want a man who comes home reeking of grease and gasoline?”

“I—”

She drew again on the cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You fool,” she said again. “Just what do you think you want? You want me, do you? What do you mean? You want me to roll around on the floor with you? You want to take me on the floor whenever I get a tankful of gas?”

“No.”

“Well?”

“I want to marry you.”

Carla felt numb all over. What did this idiot think he was saying? She couldn’t even begin to think what it would mean to be married to a man like Danny Rand, to trade Nottingham Terrace for a cold-water flat. The idea of going back to the same kind of slum she worked so desperately to escape made her sick to her stomach. She wanted to scream for help, to shout for somebody, anybody, to come and get him away from her. She couldn’t even answer him, could not even start to tell him how insane he was and how much she loathed him. Her mouth opened and shut involuntarily as she watched him stand up from his chair and take a step toward her. A muscular hand reached out for her and she shrank back against her chair to escape his touch.

“Get away,” she said, her voice taut.

“Carla—”

“And don’t call me Carla. Just get out and don’t ever come here again.”

“I—”

“Get out,” she snapped, feeling a sensation of power returning to her. “My husband is coming home any minute and if he sees you here he’ll kill you.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” she said, realizing at the same time that she was talking to a man who would not be afraid of anybody. “You should be afraid of him. He could buy you and sell you a dozen times over. “But that’s not all. If you don’t get out at once I’ll scream. I’ll tell the police that you came in here and tried to rape me, and whose word do you think they’ll take? Mrs. Ronald Macon’s or a gas-pump punk’s?” He was silent.

“You can’t prove a thing,” she continued, her voice filled with self-assurance. “You can’t prove you ever met me before or anything else. You can just get out of here and go back to your rotten little gas station and stay away from me from here on in. And to think I was going to pay you blackmail money! You can’t touch me, Mr. Danny Rand. Now get out!”

“All right,” he said. “I’m going. But get this: I’m going to be back and you’re going to want me back. You think you want this house and the expensive clothes, but there are things you want more, baby.

“You’re gonna want me. Me, understand? You’re gonna come crawling to me, begging me just the way you begged me with that hot little body of yours. You’re gonna forget all about being Mrs. Ronald Macon and driving a hot little foreign job. You’re gonna crawl to me, and when you do I’ll turn you over my knee and wallop all the spoiledness out of you. I’ll beat you black and blue and you’ll love every minute of it, understand?”

She started to form a retort, started to tell him how wrong he was. But the words stuck in her throat and before she could say a thing he was out the door. He slammed it behind him, loud. She walked to the window and watched until he was inside the Ford and the car had made its way down the street and out of sight.

When he was gone at last she sank into an armchair, totally exhausted. She was too weak to move, completely shaken inside. What a vile, impossible man he was!

While she sat motionless in the armchair, every detail of that first meeting with Danny Rand went through her mind automatically. She remembered the way she threw her clothes to the floor and the way he took her — harshly, violently, almost viciously. Every detail came back to her, every crude and frightening caress, every gesture, everything that passed between them until she drove away and left him behind.

Involuntarily she found herself mentally comparing Danny to Charles. That was ridiculous, she decided at once. The two men had nothing in common. Charles was refined, sophisticated, clever and gentle — in short, the perfect lover. But Danny was rough and crude and boorish, an animal without a brain in his head or an iota of sensitivity in his whole being. She hoped that she would never see him again, but she couldn’t avoid feeling that he would be back, that there would be a scene between them once again.

Finally she pulled herself to her feet, shook her head forcefully, and walked into the hallway, calling for Lizzie. The girl appeared momentarily.

“Why did you let that man in?” Carla demanded. At the same time she fought to keep from revealing any of the situation. If she showed too much in the way of anger or irritation, the girl might guess the real situation.

“He said he knew you, Mrs. Macon.”

“And so you let him come into the house?”

Lizzie lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Macon. He said he knew you and you would be expecting him, so I guessed it was all right.”

“Never mind,” Carla said, more gently. “He was selling something and he managed to waste some of my time, but there’s no harm done. But be more careful in the future, will you? He could have been a thief, for that matter.”

Lizzie nodded. “I should have thought of that.”

Carla dismissed the girl, but she couldn’t overcome a decided feeling of nervousness. Twice she started to call Charles and each time decided against it. She played several games of solitaire and started reading a couple times but couldn’t concentrate on anything. When Ronald came home a few minutes after noon, there was nothing forced about her greeting. She was glad to see him, glad to have a man in the house with her.

Ronald told her about his trip. While she hardly listened to the details, she gathered that it had been neither wholly successful nor a total disappointment. The case was more or less the same, difficult without being impossible.

Once more she realized how disastrous scandal could be. Why, if that fool Danny came around again it could be the end of everything! That was all she needed — a juicy scandal involving her with a garage mechanic. Well, he would be afraid to show up for awhile at least. It was a good thing she had thought to threaten him with the police. The idea came to her on the spur of the moment and saved everything.

She was just beginning to understand how thoroughly the experience had shaken her. Ronald’s presence helped but wasn’t enough. She continually felt herself trembling with a mixture of fear and rage, and Ronald’s arms could not chase the fears and let her relax. If Charles were only there she could get the memory of Danny out of her system, but Charles was at his own apartment and couldn’t help her now. She remained with Ronald, listening half-heartedly to his talk and answering his questions, biding her time.

There would be time. Lizzie would be out that night and Ronald would be busy, and if she wanted to go out he wouldn’t mind. She could see Charles, and even a half-hour with him would be heaven.

She needed him. She needed someone to take the taste of Danny Rand out of her mouth.

Chapter Eight

Carla banged down the phone in disgust. The air in the telephone booth was stuffy and clouded with smoke from her cigarette, but she didn’t have the strength to get up and leave. She took a final puff of the cigarette and dropped it to the floor, grinding it out viciously with her heel.

Damn, she thought. Damn, damn, damn!

She was in a drugstore just a few blocks from her home. Ronald had said good-bye to her, too wrapped up in his work to even ask where she was going or when she would be coming back. After hurrying to a phone, she had called Charles at once. His voice over the phone relaxed her at last, but when she proposed a meeting his words set her on edge.

“I’ll be busy this evening,” he had said. “I thought we agreed on afternoons?”

“But I have to see you.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” And then there had been an odd aura of finality in the click of the receiver in her ear.

She called back immediately and listened to the phone ringing over and over. After two dozen rings she gave up, resigned to the fact that he had left for the evening. But where had he gone? And why couldn’t he give her the evening when she needed him so much? It wasn’t fair.

She started to light another cigarette, then decided against it and rammed the cigarette back into the pack, dropping the pack into her purse and snapping the catch on the black alligator purse with the same touch of finality that she had noted in the click of the receiver. She was angry. She was angry in an illogical way, angry about Danny’s visit and Charles’s reply, angry and tired and tense inside. If she had ever in her entire life needed a man, she needed one now. If she ever needed relaxation and peace, now was the time.

But what was there to do? Going home was the only way open to her, but there would be nothing but loneliness and boredom there. Ronald was too busy to talk to her and Lizzie was out for the evening. Besides, she didn’t want to spend too much time talking to the girl. One of these days she would give her hand away, and that was all she needed.

She left the phonebooth and returned to the MG, driving away from the curb and south on Delaware. Tonight driving didn’t seem to provide the relaxation it usually gave her but it was certainly better than staying at home. She cursed Charles and Ronald and Danny, the harsh words making her feel better in a small way. But it didn’t work; her hands were still clenched too tightly on the steering wheel and there was still an odd constriction in her throat.

Maybe a drink would help. Maybe a whole batch of drinks, one right after the other, would turn the trick. She sure as hell needed something before she went out of her mind.

She searched for a bar, driving methodically down Delaware and across Chippewa and down Pearl and combing the whole downtown area systematically. It was important to find just the right sort of place — one that was decent enough to let her feel comfortable, but at the same time brassy enough so that none of Ronald’s friends was likely to drop in.

Almost half an hour passed before she found the bar, a blue-awninged tavern called The Blue Gate. After leaving the MG in a parking lot across the street, she walked into the bar and took a table at the rear.

It was a pleasant bar. The bartender’s apron was clean and white and the men at the bar wore suits and ties for the most part. The music on the jukebox was quiet, listenable stuff — soft modern jazz and singers like Sinatra and Anita O’Day. She dropped a quarter in the juke, picking records haphazardly and returning to her table.

The waiter came, a tall thin man in a dark green uniform. She ordered a manhattan and drummed her fingers nervously on the marble-patterned table-top while she waited for the drink. She took a cigarette from her pack and tapped it rhythmically on the table, then placed it between her lips and scratched a match into flame. When the drink arrived she stubbed the cigarette out in the heavy terracotta ashtray and took a long sip of the drink.

It tasted good. Carla wasn’t much of a drinker, and the taste of most drinks wasn’t enough of an enticement to get her in the habit of a drink before dinner every day, as was the custom with most of Ronald’s friends. But a drink did let her relax, and that was her primary interest tonight. She polished off the remainder of the manhattan in one swallow and signalled the waiter for another.

The second manhattan was even better than the first. Carla drank it methodically, not wanting to waste time nursing it. Drinking to her was like everything else. It was to be done as quickly and neatly and efficiently as possible. The second drink went the way of the first, and a third followed in rapid succession.

She felt better after the third drink. The music from the jukebox was cool and crystalline, and it seemed to be coming at her through a filter. Her head grew deliciously light and there was a pleasantly numb sensation in her cheek, the first sign that the alcohol was taking effect.

She ordered a fourth drink and closed her eyes while she waited for it.

Pictures swam through her mind — pictures of faces. Ronald and Charles and Danny paraded past in military formation, smiling at her and kissing her and laughing. She laughed back, happy and light inside. Everything was going to be fine.

She took a sip of the fourth manhattan.

I am Mrs. Carla Macon, she thought. And that makes me pretty important, pretty damned important. And everything’s going to be just fine.

She didn’t notice the man until he was seated across from her with his eyes staring into hers. When she did see him, it seemed perfectly natural to her that he should be there. She needed a man, and here was a man coming to talk to her. The fact that she had never seen him before in her life didn’t seem strange at all.

“Hi,” he said. “How are ya, Baby?”

“Hi,” she replied. “I think I’m drunk.”

“You think right.” She noticed that his jacket had padding in the shoulders, and his tie was too loud. There was a shifty quality in his gaze, and it combined with his dress and his pinched-in look to make him resemble the villain in a bad western.

“You’re a pretty girl.”

“Thank you,” she said. She felt his knee pressing hers under the table. At first she started to draw away; then she returned the pressure and smiled across the table at him. He probably wasn’t a particularly nice man, she decided, but he was here and it was a nice night and she was a little bit drunk so it didn’t make too much difference.

“I figure a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone,” he was saying, and at the same time his hand was encircling her knee and fondling it gently. He went on talking, giving her a rather old-fashioned line, but she didn’t mind the clumsiness of his approach. His hand slid up from her knee and rested on her thigh, rubbing the firm flesh gently as he spoke. She smiled again and dropped her hand on his, helping him to caress her thigh.

The music on the jukebox seemed to be coming from miles and miles away. Gently she lifted his hand and pulled up her skirt, replacing his hand on her bare thigh. He took a sharp breath and his fingers kneaded the tender flesh of the inside of her thigh. His hand was remarkably soft, almost like a woman’s, and she pressed her thighs tight together, squeezing the hand between them. It felt so good to have a man want her, to feel the desire flowing across the table. She smiled at him again and ran her tongue between her lips quickly.

His hand moved up between her warm thighs, exciting her. His touch combined with the effect of the four manhattans to send a little shiver of hunger through her body. She knew that it was going to happen: she would leave the bar with him and go somewhere and they would make love. The anticipation of the act increased her excitement.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his fingers still busy with her legs. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“My place.”

She nodded, spreading her thighs so that he could remove his hand. Her skin tingled where his hand had rested and the skin seemed burned from the contact. She stood up and picked up her purse while he paid the waiter for her drinks. Then he took her arm in his and walked her out of the bar.

She didn’t notice anything outside. She didn’t note whether the stars or moon were out or what time it was or anything. All her being was concentrated on the man beside her and the act soon to come. He led her around the block to a small third-rate hotel on Pearl Street, held the door open for her, and followed her inside. She stood awkwardly, her eyes taking in the shabby furnishings and the worn rug on the floor while he signed the register and passed money to the sleepy clerk.

There was no elevator. They walked up one flight of stairs with his arm clutched possessively around her waist, his fingers pressing her gently rounded belly. Her thighs rubbed together as she climbed the stairs and made her more anxious than ever to be in a room with him.

To hell with Charles, she thought angrily. To hell with him and Ronald and Danny and all of them. To hell with love and the whole nonsense of it. There was no such thing as love. Love was an itch, and if you scratched the itch everything was all right. That was all there was to it.

They were in the room suddenly and the door was closed behind them. The man turned to her, a smile on his thin and bloodless lips. She returned the smile and opened her arms to him, and he stepped inside them and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed him, her tongue darting between the thin lips and her body grinding.

“Baby,” he murmured huskily. He lowered her to the bed and the springs groaned as they sank back onto it. The bed sagged in the middle. A lone light-bulb hung from the ceiling, shining in her eyes and swinging lazily from side to side.

He was fumbling with her clothing and she helped him. His hands found her breasts and held them greedily, the tips of his fingers pressing into her milky white flesh and hurting her.

“You’re a hot little baby,” he told her. His breath was stale, a mixture of beer and cigarettes, and at first she drew away from him. Then she told herself that he was just a man, just a tool to be used for her own pleasure, and she put her arms around him and kissed him again.

He had a hand under her skirt now and was forcing it higher, touching her and hurting her. Her whole body was aching from the clumsy way he sprawled over her, his chest pressing against her breasts. His hands pulled at her panties and his breathing grew even faster, and she suddenly realized that everything was wrong.

Wrong.

With Charles her lovemaking had a beauty to it. With Danny at least there had been a genuine attraction and an animalistic drive and zest. But with this man there was nothing but raw, ugly sex.

The whole thing had no more meaning than two dogs copulating in an alley.

The realization was accompanied by a complete lapse of passion. She no longer knew anything but that she had to get away from this little man, had to get out of the dirty hotel room before she was sick to her stomach. She felt nothing at all but cheapness and degradation.

She made her body go all rigid and tried to turn away from him. At first he thought it was just part of the game. He chuckled deep in his throat and tried to kiss her again, but she twisted further from him and pulled her head back from his.

“Let me up,” she commanded.

“What?”

“Let... let me up. I have to go now.”

His eyes went wide in total disbelief. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

She shook her head forcefully, trying to clear away the fogginess of the liquor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have been drunk, but I’m all right now. I have to leave.”

She started to sit up but his hand caught her on the point of the chin and knocked her back down to the bed.

“You little bitch,” he snapped. “You teasing little bitch! You get a guy all hot and then you think you can just pull up your pants and go home. Is that what you think?”

“I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I told you I’m sorry. But I can’t stay here.”

“You think so? Well, you got another think coming, baby. I figure on getting what I came for.”

She struggled but he forced her down on the bed and his fingers tore at her clothing. He was small but wiry and she couldn’t seem to stop him, couldn’t manage to keep him from taking her. She wanted to shout but his hand covered her mouth and prevented her from making a sound.

Suddenly, automatically, she thrust up with her knee and caught him in the groin. He let out a little tortured scream and doubled up in agony, rolling off the bed and onto the floor and holding himself where she had kicked him. She jumped from the bed and rearranged her clothing as well as she could, forcing herself to ignore the man whining and writhing in pain on the floor. Then she ran from the room and down the stairs and out to the street.

When she was in the car headed back to her home, the wind was once again playing with her long blonde hair. But this time it gave her no sensation of freedom. She felt instead only a sensation of total weakness and depression. Her body ached from the way he had hurt her and her insides hurt from a realization of what she had done and of what had almost happened to her.

Her clothes were in bad shape. He had managed to rip the blouse and skirt, and the panties were practically torn to shreds. She hoped that she could get into the house without being seen. Lizzie was out; Ronald was exhausted from his trip and probably asleep by now. If he saw her like this it would be bad.

What was the matter with her? Was she a tramp, a nymphomaniac? It certainly appeared that way, because there was certainly no reason for her behaviour, no explanation for letting the man pick her up.

Was she no better than a barroom pickup, a cheap slut? She couldn’t let anything like this happen again. She had to see Charles, had to straighten everything out and convince him to marry her.

Or else...

She forced the thought from her mind as she parked the little car in front of her house and hurried unsteadily to the door. Ronald was sleeping, so she undressed and threw her clothes down the chute, slipping soundlessly under the covers and falling asleep almost at once.

Chapter Nine

Carla woke up with an anguished moan. The ugly memory of the night before filled her with revulsion. Then another memory, even uglier, intruded itself. She tried to push it out of her mind but it wouldn’t be pushed.

She lay back on the bed and remembered. Her eyes closed softly and her head settled gently on the pillow. It had all happened so long ago, so many years and so many dollars away. But she could remember every detail as clearly as if it had all happened a few days ago, as if it was still happening for her.

Most of the time the memory disappeared. Most of the time it never came to her, never disturbed her. She could relax in her own existence without the memory to jar her.

But every once in a while, every now and then she would wake up in the middle of the night with the memory coming back like a nightmare. She would cringe against the sheets and a shiver would pass through her body. And then her mind would review the whole thing from beginning to end, scene by scene and emotion by emotion...

It was twilight and at any moment the streetlights would snap into brilliance. She was walking down Pulaski Street like a sleepwalker and her mother was holding her by the hand, making her walk faster, half-dragging her along and cursing harshly at her. She walked as quickly as she could with her hand held firmly by her mother’s and her mind foggy.

Then they were off Pulaski Street, around the corner to another street Carla didn’t recognize. She didn’t bother to dart a glance at the street sign. It didn’t matter where they were or where they were going. Nothing mattered any more.

Nothing mattered at all.

The neighborhood they had entered was even worse than the one where she lived. Those houses that still had paint on them were losing the paint quickly, and flakes of old paint fell to expose bare boards. The children playing stickball in the streets were barefoot for the most part, and the dogs that snapped at their heels were scrawny and mangy.

Almost every house along the block had one or two windows broken. Papers and trash cluttered the gutter and were blown up and down the sidewalk by a strong breeze. The whole atmosphere was more than that of poverty. It was, rather, as if no one cared any more, as if everyone recognized that this was a slum and would remain a slum. And the people were beyond caring.

Decayed, she thought. Rotten inside and falling apart like a rotten log.

She wished suddenly that she could rot inside. Anything, anything to kill what was growing within her. Anything to snuff out the life that didn’t have any right to exist.

Anything.

Her mother strode down the street with the illogically swift and purposeful stride of the old. Carla almost ran to keep up with her. She tried to concentrate as she walked but her mind flitted aimlessly from one image to another. She thought first of the boy whose seed she carried in her belly, wondering what he would say if he knew and what possible difference it might make. None, she realized. What’s done was definitely done.

She wondered about the child she carried. What might he be like? She was less than two months gone, and she might never know anything about that child. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it be strong and healthy? Would it look like her?

Or like... him?

It might be a wonderful person, she thought. It might grow up to be a beautiful woman or a strong, brilliant man. It might grow up to be President of the United States.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

No, she decided. No — it would grow up the same way everything grew up in her neighborhood: warped and bent and old before its time, tired and ugly and dead inside while it was still living and growing.

But she “would never know, never understand for certain. Because the child would never be born and never suck at her breasts and never cry or soil its diapers or be happy or sad.

The child would die within her womb.

Her mother’s hand jerked her along and lifted her out of her reverie. The child would die, the child would die, the child would die. And that was all there was to it.

They turned at last into a filthy little alley midway down one block. The condition of the alley made the street look like paradise.

If cleanliness was next to Godliness, the alley was Hell.

Rats scurried from one doorway to another, seemingly oblivious to the intrusion of Carla and her mother. Cats pursued the rats lackadaisically and dogs pursued the cats with the same purposelessness. Carla could hear babies crying in several of the rooms bordering the alley. She knew of those rooms — tiny holes in the wall where two or three families huddled together and lived or died. The rats bit the babies and even attacked the adults from time to time.

They stopped at a doorway. Once there had been a nameplate on the door; now the plate was long gone. The nails rusted and the plate fell off and disappeared into the squalor of the alley. But Carla’s mother knew that it was the right door. She knocked twice, paused, and knocked twice again.

For a long time there was nothing. No sound came from behind the door. Carla’s mother knocked again, two knocks, a pause, and two more knocks, just a bit louder than before.

Then the door opened.

The man was dressed simply in a filthy white shirt and a pair of dirty dungarees. The slippers on his feet were falling apart. He said, “Enter,” and Carla stepped back involuntarily at the odor of his breath. It stank of cheap wine and teeth rotting in his jaws. The wine was Sweet Lucy — muscatel that sold for fifty cents a quart and got a man drunk cheaper and easier.

The man was a wino. Once he had been a doctor, but that had been long ago and in another world. His office was located only a mile or so from the alley where he now lived, but that mile was the space between two altogether different worlds.

Then the man did something or had something done to him. It doesn’t much matter what the thing was. Perhaps a patient died that should have lived. Perhaps his wife left him or his son died. The thing could have been almost anything.

But after the thing happened the man began to drift across the mile from the plush office to the alley. The bridge between the two extremes was built of liquid. First it had been imported Scotch. Then, as he moved further and further across the bridge he switched to blended rye. And now it was Sweet Lucy at fifty cents a quart.

Carla didn’t want to go into the room. There was something evil about this man, something bad and rotten that went deeper than the rottenness of his teeth and the stench of the Sweet Lucy. But her mother’s grip was firm and she followed the man into the room.

“Yes,” said the man. “Yes, you are another one. You find me wherever I go, don’t you?” He spoke carefully and pronounced his words in a very cultured manner, but he spoke slowly as though he would be unable otherwise to avoid slurring his words.

The doctor’s eyes caught Carla’s and held them. “So you’re the little pregnant one, huh? Got yourself all knocked up?”

Carla didn’t answer.

Her mother said, “You can help, Doctor? You can help my girl?”

“I never help anyone.”

“But you will help my Carla? To have the baby is bad for her. A poor girl, to have the baby... ” The woman broke off helplessly.

“I never help anyone,” the doctor repeated flatly. “I do not help my fellow man. Never. It’s the hypocritic oath. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“You will help my Carla?”

The doctor heaved a sigh and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. “Madame,” he said grandly, “I will be most happy to abort your offspring.”

“You will help, then?”

He nodded slowly. “Oh,” he said, “I will be most helpful. I am a helping soul, I truly am. I am most helpful. And I shall gladly help your lovely little daughter. A pretty thing. Whoever knocked her up must have enjoyed himself immensely.”

Carla winced at his words and winced again as his gaze found her breasts and held them in a vise-like grip.

“Thank you,” the mother said.

“Don’t thank me. Please woman, never thank me. Thanks are useless and buy no wine. You should know that.”

He looked at Carla and a strange smile passed over his face and was gone as suddenly as it had come. “Remove your garments,” he ordered. “That means take off your clothes.”

Carla undressed quickly. It wasn’t right to be embarrassed at taking off your clothes in front of a doctor, and she knew that, but there was something wrong about this man. He didn’t look at her the way a doctor was supposed to look at a patient. There was a hunger in his eyes that frightened her.

When she stood naked before him she felt dirty inside, dirty to match the filth of the man and the filth of the room. It was sparsely finished, with a broken-down bed in one corner and a wobbly table in the middle of the floor. Wine bottles littered the room along with old papers and discarded clothing.

The doctor gestured to the table. “Our operating table,” he said, savoring the words on his tongue. “Lister would fall into a faint looking at it, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? Hop on.”

She clambered up onto the table and lay down on her back, feeling open and vulnerable to attack and terribly bare and unprotected.

The doctor turned to her mother. “Fifty dollars,” he said. “In advance, because I might have trouble collecting if she happened to die here, and she well might. The AMA wouldn’t approve of my collecting in advance, but there are a good many things of which they wouldn’t approve. I doubt, for instance, that they would especially approve of your daughter or yourself. So why don’t you give me fifty dollars so that I can abort your little girl in a fitting and proper manner?”

“Fifty dollars?”

“Yes — precisely.”

“They said it would be twenty dollars.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Twenty? That’s ridiculous, woman. Who told you that?”

“They said—”

His eyebrows went up higher. “They. Always the incredible and non-existent they. They said it couldn’t be done. They said the price was twenty dollars. They are wrong.”

“You want fifty dollars?”

“Yes.”

Her mother lowered her eyes. “That is too much.”

“Yes,” he said lazily. “Yes, it is far too much. So take your little girl and be gone. Let her go horseback riding or something. Let her have the brat. I don’t much care.”

“You won’t take twenty dollars?”

“No, I—” He broke off suddenly and turned to the table. His eyes ran from Carla’s face to her feet and it was obvious that the view pleased him.

“Not just twenty dollars,” he said slowly. “Twenty dollars and her.”

“You mean—”

He nodded. “That is precisely what I mean. You’re getting a bargain, and I — Well, let’s say simply that it has been a long time.”

Carla shivered but couldn’t speak. She knew what the man wanted and the thought chilled her to the bone. She tried to imagine him in her arms and his filthy body beside hers and her stomach turned over.

Her mother hesitated.

“Damn,” he snapped, “she’s hardly a virgin. She didn’t get knocked up by saying no to everybody. If you’d rather she gave birth to the brat.”

“No,” her mother said. She passed twenty dollars to the doctor and turned to the door.

“You will do what the doctor tells you,” she called back over her shoulder. “You will be nice to the doctor.”

Then she was gone.

“Come,” the doctor said. “The table is no place for this. We can use the bed.”

He led her numbly across the room and made her lie down on the mattress. The sheets were grimy and she lay there shivering. The doctor disrobed methodically and joined her on the bed. His breath was vile as his face came close to hers.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said softly. “You’re a whore and your mother is a pimp, but there’s no call to be frightened.”

Afterwards the pain came. The doctor didn’t have an anesthetic and the pain tore her apart. He put a dirty sock in her mouth so that she would have something to bite on and he tied her legs to the legs of the table. When it was over she went back to her home and collapsed into her bed and slept.

She was sick for two weeks.

But she didn’t have the baby.

Chapter Ten

The next morning was a living hell. The house was empty when Carla awoke a few minutes after ten, and it was past noon before Lizzie arrived. In the interim, for two deadly hours, Carla had her breakfast and took her shower and answered the phone half a dozen times. Each time it was Danny, driving her out of her mind with protestations of love.

She didn’t want to talk to him, not in the least. She especially wanted to avoid him after the experience of the previous night. A love affair with a stranger was not her style, that was sure. The memory of the man in the hotel room — his clumsy pawing and bad breath — was enough to discourage her from anything of that nature. The memory of the hotel room episode linked itself in her mind with the memory of the grease-room floor, and this link only served to intensify her loathing for Danny Rand.

The first time he called, she was taken by surprise. She stammered at first, then told him not to call again and rang off. His next call consisted of the same phrases on his part, but this time she didn’t bother to speak to him. He kept on calling and she continued to hang up the phone in disgust.

Worse, however, was an effect she noticed. The power and force of Danny Rand’s personality was present, and she could feel his voice drawing her and stimulating the animalism in her. It was ridiculous, she told herself forcefully. It was absurd, and Danny was certainly a man she didn’t want.

And yet there was no denying the fact that he attracted her, drew her to him with a crude and strangely powerful quality that rivalled Charles. For a moment she tried to imagine a lover who would combine Charles Butler’s suavity and skill with her raw brutality and devotion of Danny. It was an interesting picture.

When Lizzie arrived, Carla was so glad to see her that she almost took the girl in her arms. She didn’t even think of scolding her for being late. Rather, she was so relieved at no longer being alone in the large house that she started talking to Lizzie immediately.

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lizzie replied, smiling.

“I’ll bet you had a date.”

Lizzie smiled again without answering. Carla guessed that the girl had quite definitely been with a man, and that she’d enjoyed the venture a good deal more than Carla had enjoyed the scene in the Pearl Street hotel. But then it was easy to see that Lizzie usually enjoyed what she did. Carla envied her — so at ease all the time, so sure of herself. She wouldn’t be the one to get caught up in such a hopeless mess.

“Lizzie,” she said, “there’s a man trying to reach me on the phone. He’s been annoying me all morning long, and he’ll probably call again this afternoon. If he does, just tell him I’m out and you don’t know when I’ll be back. Don’t tell him anything else. If he makes a pest of himself, just hang up on him.”

The girl nodded.

“He’s just a nuisance,” Carla added. “I don’t even know him.” As she spoke, she wondered why she was bothering to explain all this to the girl. After all, Lizzie was just a servant and had no concern in her private life. But Carla had an idea that the girl knew a lot more of the situation than she was letting on. Well, it would be all right so long as she kept her mouth shut. And Lizzie didn’t appear to be a blabbermouth. On the contrary, she was the most tight-lipped and inscrutable person Carla had ever met.

But the phone didn’t ring for the next half-hour. Carla went to her room and dressed, wanting to look as perfect as possible for Charles. She had decided to drop in on him without calling, intending to force the issue to a head. Now would be the time to hit him with an ultimatum. After a night without her it should be easier to make demands upon him. She would get him to marry her as soon as Ronald’s case was over, then get her divorce and marry Charles and never have to worry about secrecy again.

She dressed automatically, donning brassiere and panties before she suddenly changed her mind and stripped naked once again. She ran her hands luxuriously over her body, stroking the smooth skin and whispering compliments to herself. No, bra and panties weren’t really necessary today. Instead she put on a tight jersey dress that hugged every swell and indentation of her body. She looked at herself in the mirror, stunned at first by the vivid color of the dress. It was a bright scarlet, and Carla hadn’t worn it since she bought it over a year ago. She didn’t realize that it was so bright.

She also hadn’t realized what a difference it made to wear the dress with nothing on underneath it. When she was in high school she had often enjoyed wearing tight sweaters without a bra and watching the reactions of the boys. But this was different: what a sweater did for the top half of her body, the jersey dress did for the entire body. Carla looked more naked than a nudist. Although the dress covered her from her neck almost to her ankles, it made her look delightfully obscene.

But she couldn’t go out of the house looking like that, no matter how much she wanted to show herself off to Charles. Fortunately she got an assist from nature. It began to rain, and a shapeless raincoat quickly camouflaged the dress. While it forced her to put up the top of the MG, it made matters infinitely easier. Then the rain miraculously stopped by the time she reached the Tiffany, so she was able to leave the raincoat in the car and walk into the lobby in full glory.

The imperturbable doorman didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.

Charles, on the contrary, raised both eyebrows. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “Carla, you’re magnificent!”

She grinned. “I’m glad you approve.”

“Approve? God, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” He ushered her into the apartment, closing the door behind her. Carla walked to the sofa and sat down, tucking her long legs beneath her. She stretched like a kitten, enjoying the way her breasts pressed against the front of the jersey dress, and pulled a cigarette from her purse. Charles held the light for her and she drew deeply on the cigarette, not speaking until she had filled her lungs with smoke and blown a thin column of smoke at the ceiling.

“If I’m that pretty,” she said carefully, “why won’t you marry me?”

Charles sat down and shook his head. “Are you going to start that again?”

“Why not?”

“What’s the matter, Carla? Aren’t you satisfied with things as they are?”

“No, I’m not.”

He lit a cigarette of his own and extinguished the match with a flick of his wrist. “Why not? Things are good the way they are. You’re married to Ronald and you have the security of the Macon name. We meet every afternoon and we have the pleasure which we give each other. Our lovemaking is a beautiful and rhythmic thing. What more do you want.”

Carla closed her eyes. “That’s easy for you to say,” she said after a moment. “You’re a man, and so it’s an easy way for you to look at things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m a woman and you’re a man. You can’t look at things from a woman’s point of view. A woman wants more than beauty, Charles. Oh, I get as much pleasure from our love as you do. I won’t argue with you on that score. But a woman needs security — not just the security of a rich husband. A woman wants her husband and her lover to be the same person.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “It’s hard to explain to a man. I know you love me, Charles, but I need a more tangible proof of your love. Marriage give a woman that sort of proof. Do you understand?”

He nodded slowly. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I know what you mean, but I’m not going to marry you.”

“Why not?”

He flicked his cigarette in a heavy copper ashtray and studied the glowing tip thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s because I’m a man,” he replied. “Perhaps it’s because I’m Ronald’s friend, and I know how much he wants and needs you. But neither of those things are the main reason.

“The big thing is the value I place on my freedom. Carla, I don’t want to be responsible for anything, and definitely not for another person’s happiness. Look at the world we live in. Our every action is in the shadow of the bomb. For God’s sake, this is the first generation which can’t expect the world to outlast its own lifetime. Any day some madman might drop a bomb and blow the world to hell.”

“I know that,” she said.

“Of course,” he said. “Everybody knows that. But you have to realize how it affects our lives. Do you think it makes sense to plan for eternity, or even for ten or twenty years? I don’t. I think a person ought to live for the moment — because the sun may not rise tomorrow, and tomorrow it’s entirely possible that we’ll all be dead. Very possible. And for that reason, and for some other reasons that are imbedded in my particular personality, I believe that a person should have as much fun as he can out of life. Why worry about the future when there may not be one? Why bother with marriage?”

Carla sank into her seat. She understood what Charles was saying, and she could appreciate his philosophy. But this didn’t alter her own situation. She didn’t want to think about living for the moment. She wanted to worry about the future, about tomorrow and the next day and the one after that. If you couldn’t plan ahead, there didn’t appear to be much sense in anything.

“Charles,” she said finally, “don’t you love me?”

He sighed. “The eternal feminine question,” he said. “The question women have asked ever since Adam berated Eve for eating the damned apple. Of course I love you.”

“Then—”

“Then what?”

“Then,” she said triumphantly, “why won’t you let me divorce Ronald and marry you?”

He waited before replying, and the only sound in the plush apartment was the rhythmic ticking of the clock. “I love you,” he said at last, “but you’re not the first woman I’ve ever loved.”

“So what? I hardly came to you a virgin.”

He held up a hand. “Wait a minute; let me finish. I’ve loved women before, and I expect to love women after you. I expect to keep on loving women until I die, or at least until I become too old to participate in active love sessions.”

Carla’s cigarette had burned down, and she put it out in the ashtray. “Every man says that,” she said shortly. “Every man thinks one woman isn’t enough for him. But do you think you can handle more loving than I can give you? I’m a fairly passionate woman, Charles.”

At any other time, Carla would have blushed upon uttering such a statement. But she was caught up in the argument now. She realized that tonight was the night, that it would end in either a proposal or a break-up, and it was no time for modesty.

“Carla,” he said softly, “you are as passionate a woman as I have ever met.”

“So?”

He shook his head slowly and there was sadness in his eyes. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said. “You’re enough woman for me, as far as that goes, but I need more than one woman. There’s something wrong with me, Carla. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had to work for anything, because I’ve always been able to get whatever I wanted. But one single woman can never satisfy me.”

“You’re just talking through your hat,” she snapped. “You don’t want anybody else after we’ve been together.”

“Carla—”

“Well? Do you?”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I didn’t want to tell you this,” he began. “I didn’t want to say anything about it, but I suppose it’s the only way to convince you. Please listen carefully, and please forgive me in advance if I hurt you.

“I told you not to come last night. I told you that I was busy. Right?”

She nodded.

“That wasn’t altogether true. I was busy, but I was busy with another woman. I had another woman spend the night here.”

“What?”

He closed his eyes, and she could see that it was hurting him to tell her. “Yes,” he said thinly. “I was spending the night with another woman.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You’re just making it up,” she said. “You’re just looking for an excuse, but I don’t believe it for a minute. Who was this ‘other woman?’”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Because she doesn’t exist?”

“No — she exists.”

“Then who was she?”

He swallowed. “Miss Lizzie Barkin,” he said. Lizzie — the girl who works for you.”

Carla was too stunned to speak.

“I called her on the phone,” he went on. “She remembered me from the time I had dinner at your house, and fortunately it was her night off. She came up here and we made love in the same bed where I’ve made love to you so many times. She—”

“You’re lying.”

“No,” he said. “I’m telling the truth.”

For a moment she was unable to reply. Charles wasn’t lying, she knew. Much as she wished he were, it was obvious that his words were true.

“Why?” she demanded at last, her voice little more than a whisper. “Why?”

“Because I wanted her.”

“You—”

“I wanted her,” he continued. “I wanted her the moment I saw her, just as I wanted you. I wanted her in my bed with the covers pulled over us, and I got her there, just as I got you there. I—”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Don’t talk like that. It’s the way I am, Carla, and I can’t help it. I told you all along that our affair was just that, an affair and nothing more. But—”

“You rotten son of a bitch!”

“Carla—”

There was a note of anger in his voice, but she ignored it. “You rotten bastard,” she said. “You miserable bastard. You let me fall in love with you and then threw me over for a cheap little—”

He slapped her across the face and his fingers left red marks on her cheeks.

“A cheap little slut. You have to go cheat on me with a little tramp of a—”

He slapped her again, harder this time, and she clutched her hand to her cheek.

“Don’t talk about her that way,” he commanded. “She’s as much of a woman as you are.”

“She’s a tramp,” Carla said. And he slapped her again, harder still, almost knocking her from her feet. It hurt and her eyes began welling up with tears.

“You bastard. I love you, you bastard.”

She went to him with her cheek still smarting from the slaps. Her arms went around him, around the maroon dressing gown, and her mouth sought his feverishly. He kissed her back and her teeth sank hungrily into his lower lip. He bent down and lifted her in his arms, lifting her easily with a strength that surprised her, and carrying her into the bedroom. While he removed the dressing gown and tossed it casually onto a chair, she slipped the jersey dress over her head and dropped it on the floor. His eyes widened in surprise at seeing that she was wearing nothing under the dress.

“Bastard,” she said.

He slapped her again. She repeated the word and he began slapping her again and again, slowly and methodically, slapping her and hitting harder with each slap. She wanted him to hurt her, wanted him to slap her again and again, wanted to force this man to master her completely. Each slap increased her passion until it welled up in her and overflowed.

With a little cry she fell against him. It was all over and she knew it was all over, but now and only for now he was right and only the moment mattered. Tomorrow everything would be past and no longer important, but now all that was important was his hands encircling her breasts and his fingers making music against her thighs.

She whispered his name over and over, the whispers rising in intensity until she was fairly screaming in his ear. Her passion mounted like a house of cards, rising higher and higher until at the final beautiful instant it collapsed and she drifted into a whirlpool of ecstatic and desperate fulfillment.

She could hear nothing, not even the solemn ticking of the clock.

Chapter Eleven

It was all over. She knew this the next day, knew it the moment she woke up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and headed for the shower. It was over and she would never sleep with Charles again, and it was over despite the perfection of their lovemaking, despite even the final beauty of yesterday afternoon.

It was a time to be sad. But, strangely, she felt no sadness. Outside of a vague emptiness and a sense of finality she felt nothing at all.

It seemed wrong. She told herself she ought to be properly grief-stricken, but there was no grief present whatsoever. And she realized that this was due to the fact that she and Charles had never really loved each other. She had needed Charles, needed him as surely as she needed a cup of black coffee in the morning, but in the final analysis he was no more irreplaceable than that cup of coffee. In fact, the coffee was undoubtedly a good deal more habit-forming.

But she couldn’t eliminate the lump that came to her throat when she went downstairs and saw Lizzie for the first time that day. The mental picture of the girl in bed with Charles was too much for her despite the fact that she and Charles had broken up. It put Lizzie in a new light and transformed the mistress-servant relationship into one of two rivals for a man’s love. It was not easy to see Lizzie in that light.

“Do you remember Mr. Butler?” she asked hesitantly.

“Mr. Butler?”

“Mr. Macon brought him to dinner a while back,” Carla prompted, marveling at the girl’s poise.

“Oh, yes. I remember him.”

“I wonder if he’ll be around again.” Carla realized suddenly that she was on shaky ground. If she let Lizzie know that she knew about her affair with Charles, the girl would realize that Carla had been playing around too.

“He seemed like a nice man,” Lizzie said easily. And Carla let the conversation die right there.

The day passed quickly. Carla relaxed for the first time in weeks and listened to records in the living-room, almost dozing off as she let herself become absorbed by the music. It was so peaceful with nothing to do but curl up in a chair and nothing to worry about, nothing at all. She knew that more problems would come to her when the physical need for a man returned but she was willing to wait until then before worrying about it. One record finished and another dropped into position on the turn-table, and so the afternoon went.

The doorbell jolted her out of her reverie. At first she thought it was a part of the music, but the second ring brought her back into the everyday world. With a sigh she got to her feet. Lizzie was upstairs, so she had to answer the door herself. She padded into the hallway in her stocking feet and opened the door.

It was Danny Rand.

He was inside the door before she could collect herself. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought I told you never to come here again.”

“I know.”

“Then—”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I called you a dozen times but you wouldn’t talk to me. There didn’t seem much point in calling up any more. So I closed up the station and came over.”

“Well, you can just hop in your car and go back and re-open the station,” she said sourly. “I haven’t the slightest interest in seeing you.”

“You don’t?”

“Definitely not.”

“That’s too bad, because you’re going to see me. Dammit, Carla, I’m in love with you!”

She closed her eyes with a sigh and permitted her shoulders to slump. “Please,” she said. “Can’t you take no for an answer?”

“I’m afraid not.” His lips tightened.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to. Because I’m not in love with you, Mr. Rand.” She used his last name purposely to stifle any familiarity between them, and she noticed how he winced at the words.

“I love you.”

She stepped back into the living-room and he followed her. “Just what do you want?” she asked. “Another grease-room scene?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

He swallowed. “I want to marry you, Carla. I want you to divorce that broken-down husband of yours and marry me. I know he’s no husband to you, for God’s sake. You can’t possibly love him.”

“As a matter of fact, I do love him. He’s a wonderful man, good in a way you couldn’t possibly understand. And how come you know so much about my life?”

“It’s natural enough,” he said thinly. “When you think about a woman all day and dream about her all night, you can’t help trying to learn a little about her.”

The words sounded corny, but there was something about the intensity of his speech and the expression on his face that kept her from laughing. She searched for a reply, and then the full humour of the situation struck her. Less than 24 hours ago she had been in this man’s position, trying to talk Charles into marrying her!

This time she couldn’t restrain her laughter. She backed away from Danny, her whole body shaking with laughter and her eyes filling with tears.

“You... want me to marry you!”

“What’s so damned funny?”

“You fool. Oh, you idiot! A starving, grimy gas-pump jockey and you want me to marry you!”

His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “I’m not a bum,” he said. “I’m not a rich punk like your husband, but I’m no bum. And when I’m finished working I can wash myself as clean as anybody else. Cleaner than some, because with me the dirt’s all on the outside. I don’t get filthy on the inside like some people do.”

She went on laughing.

“And I’m not just a poor slob with a job,” he went on. “I’m saving my money to buy the station from the company, and when I do that I’ll start making some dough of my own. A guy like me can wind up with a whole string of stations if he plays his cards right.”

Finally she managed to control her laughter. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, Mr. Rand. Now you can listen to me for a few minutes.

“I don’t know how much you managed to find out about me, Bright Eyes, but I didn’t grow up on Nottingham Terrace in case you didn’t figure that out for yourself. I grew up in a cold-water walk-up on the East Side and I had to work my tail off to get out of there. I read the right books and learned how to speak decent English and finally managed to hook the right guy. It’s not so easy to marry rich, in case you never thought of it that way.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. Believe me, it was work — but I wound up on Nottingham Terrace and that made the whole thing worthwhile. And now you come along with your stupid little dreams about cornering the market on gas stations and you expect me to run off with you. What kind of a fool do you think I am?”

“There are some things more important than money.”

She started laughing again. “There are? I don’t know any — not off-hand.”

“There’s love.”

“Love? You think that’s so important?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Well, I don’t. Besides, you don’t actually think I’m in love with you, do you?”

“I know you are,” he said. “Even if you’re not smart enough to realize it yet.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Go on; this is getting interesting. What makes you think so?”

“The... time.”

“What time?” she demanded, although she knew what he meant.

“The time at the gas station,” he said with difficulty.

Carla clasped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, no! You really make a lot out of that, don’t you? You sound as though you think it was my first time with a man.”

“I know it wasn’t.”

“For God’s sake, you act as if it was your first time! Why in hell don’t you grow up and go back to your gas pumps?”

“It meant something,” he said savagely. “It was messy but at the same time it was beautiful, and you know damn well it meant something.”

“It might have meant something to you—”

“But it meant nothing to you?” His voice seemed to dare her to answer the question affirmatively.

“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing. It couldn’t have meant less.”

“You’re lying.”

“It meant nothing,” she repeated.

“You’ve got to be lying,” he insisted. “I could feel it, Carla.”

“Look,” she said, her voice as cold as ice. “Get this straight, Mr. Rand.

“You were no more and no less than a slightly animated candle.”

He took a step toward her and she saw his hands tighten into fists. The tendons in his forearms looked like bands of steel. She stepped back involuntarily. She hadn’t wanted to talk to him that way, hadn’t wished to hurt him, but there didn’t seem any other way to get rid of him. Now that the words were out of her mouth she found herself regretting them.

“You bitch!” His voice was high-pitched and unnaturally taut.

“Wait—”

Before she could say more, his fist lashed out and sank into her soft stomach. She doubled up in pain and let out a moan which was cut short when his other fist caught her full in the face. Salty blood washed over her tongue and the tears came to her eyes.

“You little tramp,” he was saying, but she could barely hear his voice through the wall of pain that was rapidly engulfing her. She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and drew her thighs together in an effort to protect herself, but she was helpless before the violence of his assault.

She felt herself being forced back into the sofa. Rough, strong hands ripped her clothing to shreds and hurt her wherever they touched her. He was in a frenzy now and he seemed to be driven by some supernatural force. Nothing could stop him.

“Bitch!” he snarled. “You talk like a whore and you act like a whore, so that’s just the way I’m going to treat you.”

He punched her in the stomach again and she sprawled on the sofa as limp as a bunch of seaweed. The whole room spun before her eyes. The phonograph was still playing insanely in the background, but the fantastic pain made it all but inaudible.

She felt weak and powerless before him. She lay inert on the sofa while his eyes examined her minutely. The fixed stare was as painful as his fists and knees had been just moments ago.

When he took her, his fingers dug into the sore flesh of her breast and she felt like a virgin being deflowered. He raped her coldly and systematically, hurting her as much as he possibly could, and her screaming echoed hollowly in her ears.

Chapter Twelve

She was alone.

That was the first thing she was aware of. She came back to life like a sleeper coming out of a dream, her senses returning to her one at a time. Her mind began remembering the events, one after another, as if the whole scene was re-enacting itself before her eyes. Then she could hear again and the music from the phonograph seemed unbearably loud.

Finally she felt the pain that was present in every organ of her body. She sat up gingerly on the sofa, hardly conscious of her nakedness, and ran her hands over her own injured flesh. Her breasts and thighs were sore to the touch and her arms and legs ached dully when she moved them.

She dressed slowly without noticing the condition of her clothing. Then, seeing how torn and messy her clothes were, she stumbled up the stair-case to her room and changed. The pain was always present, never diminishing in its intensity. She wanted to scream her lungs out, but she didn’t even have the strength for that.

She remembered his face when it was all over — the wide unbelieving eyes and the tortured grimace. He had shaken his head several times, refusing to accept the scene before him, and then he had turned away like a dead man, staggering to the door and leaving without a word.

And now she was alone.

Her mind was racing. She wondered how a woman was supposed to feel after being brutally beaten and raped. Outraged, she supposed. Horrified and sickened and hungry for the death of her assailant.

But she didn’t feel that way.

The bruises on her breasts and belly took on the mystic significance of love-marks. Even the overwhelming indescribable pain was not merely a pain but an intangible badge of love.

He had said he loved her. Now she knew that he had been speaking the truth, and that his love was something big and powerful and important.

He loves me, she thought. He’s strong, very strong, strong enough to beat me and take me by force, but what he wants is love. She remembered the look on his face after he had finished and knew that he was unaccustomed to acting so viciously.

She closed her eyes and pictured his face in her mind. It was a strong face: that was the outstanding thing about it. It was a handsome face as well, but not outstandingly handsome like Charles was. But there was a rigid unbending strength in Danny’s features that she had never found in Charles’ face, not even when he had slapped her.

And then she realized the great difference between the two. Both were good men, and both commanded a part of her love. But there was a world of difference between them.

Silently she added up the qualities which attracted her to Charles Butler in the first place. He was suave, polite, sophisticated, handsome, and intelligent. He was the dream lover, the man who knew women as few men did and who approached them as an art-lover approached a masterpiece. And she had been attracted to Charles, not as a woman attracted to a man, but as a woman desiring a lover and seeking out the perfect representation of that category. She realized in a flash that she had never loved Charles, not in the full sense of the word. She had needed him and he was there, and that was all there was to it.

The realization was disturbing to say the least. A woman is more than upset to discover that she has made a fool out of herself for a man without even loving him in the first place. Suppose Charles had agreed to marry her? For the first time she was glad, extremely glad, that he had possessed the good sense to refuse.

Because marriage to Charles would have grown intolerable. She could see that now, and seeing it she also saw how much more clearly he viewed things. As a lover Charles was superb; as a husband he would grow dull. Repetition would make his skillful caresses and gestures seem commonplace and trivial. Domestication would remove the spirit of adventure from his love and leave only boredom.

Danny Rand.

She murmured his name softly to herself, mouthing the syllables carefully. Danny was so different, so completely different. Danny’s touch had a meaning to it, a deep and exciting meaning. He would never bore her, not in a million years, not so long as he loved her so intensely and passionately. She could visualize herself becoming accustomed to Charles Butler, but Danny Rand would always surprise her.

Was she going mad? A man came into her home, insulted her and beat her and raped her, and here she was falling in love with him! It seemed ridiculous, but a second glance showed that there was good reason for her reaction.

The insults, the beating and the rape were not the acts of a vicious, hateful man. On the contrary they were the acts of a lover, and only a lover who would treat her in such a manner could ever fully possess her. She needed a man who would dominate her, a man who would be the boss and force her to behave.

Once she reached this level of understanding, it was easy for Carla to discover a few basic truths about herself. She sat half-dressed on the edge of her bed, remembering her childhood and seeing how it fit into the total picture. The lack of a father, the absence of a strong man in her life, had left a void in her personality and caused her to seek domination while acting at the same time like a domineering woman. She needed to be mastered and loved simultaneously. She thought of her mother, realizing in a start that the beatings she received from her mother’s hairbrush were more than discipline to her — they were also a sign of love.

She finished dressing hurriedly and lifted the phone, dialing Charles’s number. He answered after two rings.

“Charles? This is Carla.”

“Oh, hello—”

“Charles,” she cut in, “I want you to listen to me. I’m not going to see you again.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry with you,” she explained. “It’s just—”

“I know. It’s that you’ve found yourself, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” he said. “I knew it would happen, dear. When I first met you, I thought of you as just another attractive woman to be taken and eventually discarded. But you turned out to be a lot more than that, Carla. You’re a good woman. Do you know what that means?”

“What?”

“A good woman is one you can spend your whole life trying to love. I only wish I could love you properly, Carla. If I were a one-woman man, I couldn’t wish for a better woman than you.”

“I think I’ve found one,” she said softly.

“A one-woman man?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m happy for both of you, and I’m glad that you wanted to tell me. And I’ll be right here if you ever need me.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you will, Charles.”

Downstairs, she shut off the still-spinning phonograph and wandered from room to room, her mind racing in circles. She felt as though she had crossed a bridge over a wide and deep chasm, and the air was indescribably fresher on the present side of the bridge. Talking to Charles had helped, besides being essential in its own right. She had needed to set things straight, to tell him just how the situation stood. But their conversation had meant more than that. It meant a clean break with his blessings. It strengthened her own convictions that what she was doing was right.

Charles was good, so good. She guessed that some day he might find the right woman for him, a woman important enough to him to conquer his bachelor spirit and tame him. It would take quite a woman.

She remembered his words of the day before. Was he right? Did living in the shadow of the atom bomb, in so insecure a world, mean that men and women should live only for the moment? She didn’t think so.

It seemed to her that the insecurity of everything made it so much more necessary for a person to work for security in his or her personal life. Love was important, and love could make the difference, the important and vital difference.

I am in love, she thought.

She had to see Danny, had to find him at once. He would be upset now over what he had done, and she had to find him and talk to him and make plans with him.

But where did he live? She thumbed through the phonebook but found no listing for him. Perhaps he was at the station; perhaps he had re-opened it for the day. She had to find him, and that was the first place to look.

She picked up her purse and dashed out the door and down the driveway to her car. Driving along, it took a great deal of effort on her part to keep from exceeding the speed limit.

The room felt like a prison cell. The closest Danny had ever been to prison was a night in the guardhouse after an exceptionally successful weekend in New York when he was stationed at Fort Dix. He could barely remember being tossed in the jug, but he could never forget the sensation of waking up the next morning, opening his eyes and staring at a barred window.

He had the same sensation now, sitting on the edge of his cot and staring out his window. The window faced the side of another building, with the effect that daylight never penetrated his room to any appreciable degree. Midnight and noon were identical to him. His window lacked bars, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be much difference between the room and a prison cell.

And why not? he asked himself savagely. He certainly belonged in prison. They ought to lock him up and chuck the key in the middle of Lake Erie, unless they decided he was out of his mind and threw him instead in a padded cell in the loony bin. How could he ever do a thing like that to a woman like Carla?

Was he a sex maniac, a pervert? Christ, he didn’t think so. He wasn’t so hard up that he had to force a woman to spread her legs for him. He wasn’t hard up at all, not after the time he spent with Carla’s maid just a day or two ago.

But he had forced her. He shut his eyes and winced at the memory of his knee sinking into her stomach and his hands hurting her. God, what was the matter with him?

It had to be more than sex. His mind combed over his past life, remembering the parade of women he had known. He remembered the first time, standing around nervously in a cathouse waiting-room while he was still in high school. He went there with his buddies, and when it was his turn he gave the frowzy redhead five dollars and undressed like an automaton.

At first nothing had happened.

“What’s the matter, honey? This your first time?”

He nodded, ashamed.

“Relax,” she commanded. “Come here and let me help you a little...”

From that time on sex had been no problem. There was a parade of girls — girls in the back seat of a car, girls on their own couches while their parents slept upstairs, girls that he seduced and girls that he paid for.

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it carelessly on the floor. The door and window of the room were closed and it was getting stuffy, but he didn’t even feel like bothering to open door or window. He stretched out on the bed and set fire to a cigarette, tossing the burned-out match on the floor.

A car horn sounded in the distance, reminding him of the service station. It was closed now. He should open it for business again, but he just didn’t feel like it.

To hell with the station! Why in the hell should he drive himself fifteen hours a day anyhow? To make more money that he wouldn’t have time to spend?

Or should he be saving up to buy the station? He had a little pile saved already, but there didn’t seem to be any point to it. What good did it do to own his own station? Would it make him happier? It wouldn’t, no matter how successful he was.

But the station could be important. If he had something to work for, some person to love and take care of, his business would mean something to him. If he could come home at night and take her in his arms and tell her his dreams, then all the hours he worked would be well-spent.

Angrily he hurled the cigarette against the far wall. Well, there was no chance of getting her now, none at all. Maybe there never was any chance, but if there had been he had shot it all to hell. Carla wouldn’t look at him now, unless it was on a police line-up with the light shining in his eyes.

And it was all his fault. What was wrong with him, anyway — falling in love with a broad who was out of his class? She had been telling the truth — he was somebody to roll in the hay with and nothing more. And he should have had the brains to realize that instead of falling over his own feet with a bushel of nonsense about love.

Carla didn’t want him. Christ, she made that plain enough! If ever a woman wanted to get rid of a man, Carla was the woman and he was the man. She wouldn’t even talk to him on the phone.

So like a first-class horse’s ass he got his head filled with a lot of garbage about love and figured she was warm for his form. He bothered her and chased her until she got desperate and insulted him just to get rid of him. And then the insult got him mad enough to... to...

He couldn’t even think about it. He lit another cigarette and threw it away after a few puffs. It tasted terrible. Probably everything would taste rotten, with the lousy taste he had in his mouth. His mouth tasted like an armpit, and he knew that all the toothpaste and mouthwash in the world wouldn’t help.

The worst thing of all was that he couldn’t get her out of his system. Dreaming about her was bad enough before, but now it was ridiculous. He didn’t stand the chance of a hemophiliac in a nest of vampires, not after what he had done.

But he still loved her. He loved her more than ever, and he knew that he was not going to be able to stop loving her no matter how hard he tried.

Before he met Carla that afternoon, Danny’s life had been pleasantly dull. He tackled his work every day with genuine vigor, and fifteen hours or more on the job left him tired enough to sleep with no trouble. The station made money, the company was happy, and his bank account grew in a jerky fashion. It hadn’t been the life of Riley, but it was better than subsistence.

He wished now that he could return to that level of existence, with no worries and no woman-trouble. But he knew that things could never be exactly the same again. He remembered a saying he had picked up in high school, something his history teacher had quoted once. It seemed to sum up the situation nicely. How did it go again?

Into the same river you could not step twice, for other and still other waters are flowing.

Yes, that was it. He turned the phrase over in his mind, testing it. It was true. A person could never go back to something he had left. What was done was done, and there was no undoing it.

He could no more get Carla back than a girl could recover a lost maidenhead.

He stared through the window at the brick wall. There didn’t seem to be any point to things, not any more. Time passed, and the more things changed the worse they grew. He wanted Carla but he knew he would never possess her.

Into the same river...

What was the point of it all? He would never get her out of his system. He could go on working forever and he would never be happy again, never be able to get over losing her.

Why go on?

He checked the door and window; both were shut tight. He picked up a pen and a sheet of paper, but decided there didn’t seem to be a hell of a lot of sense in that. He capped the pen and put it down on the table.

He turned on the gas.

He kicked off his shoes and stretched out once again on the old army cot. His eyelids were heavy and he let them drop shot. Soon it would be all over.

He was very tired.

Chapter Thirteen

She found the gas station closed. For a moment she was lost. How could she possibly find him? He wasn’t listed in the phonebook and there was no home address listed on the door of the station.

She could always wait. Tomorrow he would be back at the station and she could seek him out then and tell him how she felt. It wasn’t that necessary to get in touch with him today.

But it would be nice to see him today. He was upset over what he had done, and she wanted to tell him that it was all right, that he didn’t have to worry about anything any more. But how could she find him?

Suddenly she remembered that Ronald had a City Directory at home, a book listing everyone living in the Buffalo metropolitan area. She hopped back behind the wheel of the MG and drove home quickly, impatient to get Danny’s address and see him at once.

418 Sagerties. She found the address and snapped the book shut, and seconds later she was back in the car and driving east toward Danny’s home. The territory was unfamiliar to her but she had a vague idea where Sagerties Avenue was and she found it without too much difficulty.

418 Sagerties was a white frame house with the paint peeling from the boards. Carla experienced a momentary sensation of distaste. The house was very much like the one she had lived in a few years ago, and those few years seemed like a dozen. She wondered if Danny would have the same run-down gas stove in the corner of his room, and whether the hallway of the house would have the same indescribable odor of poverty.

She parked the car and walked slowly to the doorway. The front door was open, and Carla stepped into the hallway. The smell hit her at once — an odor compounded of equal parts of cabbage and strong soap and human perspiration. It was a familiar smell.

“Hello?”

A faded, shrunken woman appeared from a doorway and scrutinized Carla carefully, obviously taking note of her fancy clothes.

“What do you want here?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Mr. Rand. Does he live here?”

“You mean Danny?”

Carla nodded.

“Yeah, he lives here,” the woman said. “Why?”

“I want to see him.”

“You got some kinda business with him?”

“Not exactly,” Carla said.

The woman considered her again thoughtfully. “If you’re kin of his, I suppose you can go up to his room. He’s usually working this time of day but you can wait there for him.”

Carla started to tell the woman that she and Danny weren’t related but changed her mind. “That will be fine,” she said. “Do you have a key?”

“I got one, but you won’t need it. Danny never locks the door. Says he ain’t got anything worth stealing so he won’t be bothered carrying a key around. Just go up three flights and turn to your left.”

The woman vanished into her room and Carla began climbing the staircase. Every few steps a board would creak under her feet, reminding her forcibly once again of the East Side flat she used to share with her mother. The stairs always creaked there too, and her mother could always tell when she came home late or sneaked out to meet someone.

She was breathing hard by the time she reached the top of the third flight of stairs. She paused, then turned to the left and studied the door in front of her. Should she go in?

She knocked, hoping he might be home. But there was no answer.

It was silly. He was probably out somewhere having a drink or two and she would be wasting her time waiting for him. She ought to go home. She turned and took a few steps down the staircase, but something stopped her and made her climb back to the top once again. Maybe she ought to go inside his room and wait for him. He might be back soon, and she really did want to see him today.

She put her hand on the doorknob.

Should she go in or not? She had to get home soon or Ronald would miss her, and the chances were pretty slim that Danny would be back in time. She hesitated.

She turned the doorknob at last and pushed open the door. The smell of gas hit her full in the face, almost knocking her to the floor. Why, he must have left the gas on when he went out!

And then she saw him lying flat on his back on the cot. After the initial shock she didn’t stop to think any more. All of her actions were automatic and she moved quickly and easily.

She crossed the room and threw open the window all the way. Then her hand found the knob on the stove and shut off the gas so that no more could escape. Coughing, she picked up a newspaper and began fanning the gas out the window.

Then she turned her attention to the man on the bed.

He was unconscious. At first she thought he was dead, and her heart began beating wildly, but when she felt for his pulse and found it her spirits rose. She slapped gently at his face to wake him but he didn’t wake up.

She realized then that Danny had managed to breathe in a large quantity of gas. He was alive, but he wasn’t breathing and would die without help. She had to get him breathing in order to save his life. Grimly she rolled him over on his stomach and began applying artificial respiration. She learned the method in high school and hadn’t used it yet, but after the first few strokes it came back to her. Her body fell into the gentle rhythm of artificial respiration, her hands pressing the used air from Danny’s lungs and permitting them to fill again with fresh air.

He had to live. She worked feverishly, her mind churning with anger and worry. If he died, she was as responsible as if she had taken a gun and killed him. If she hadn’t been so rotten to him he wouldn’t have taken her the way he did, and then he wouldn’t have tried to kill himself.

What a strange man he was! He was such a weird mixture of toughness and tenderness, a man who could master a woman and then feel so upset over his actions that he would try to take his own life. She wanted to take his head in her lap and run her fingers through his hair, telling him, over and over that everything was going to be all right. Oh, he had to live!

After a little more than ten minutes she stopped her movements for a moment, and he began to breathe by himself. She watched carefully but the breathing continued and grew progressively stronger and more assured. A few moments later he groaned softly, and seconds later he turned his head to one side and looked into her eyes. He stared at her for what seemed hours; then his eyes closed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked weakly.

“I — You tried to kill yourself!”

“So what?”

“I saved you.”

“Why?”

“I—”

He raised himself up on one arm and looked at her again. “Why the hell couldn’t you just let me die?” he demanded hoarsely. “What did you come for, anyway? To get me arrested? Hell, you could have just let me die. That would have been revenge enough, wouldn’t it?”

“You don’t understand,” she said.

“I understand. I understand, damn it. You don’t want me but you get a kick out of driving a man mad. All right — you got me. But can’t you just go away and leave me done? I’m sorry about this afternoon, if that matters. I’m sorry, but I just flew off the handle and I couldn’t help myself. I went crazy wanting you and wanting to get even with you and I couldn’t stop. But I won’t bother you again, Carla. I won’t go near you, if only you’ll stay far away from me.”

She wanted to say something but she didn’t know where to begin. The gas smell was almost gone now, and the more familiar odor of cabbage and perspiration began to filter in through the open door. As her nostrils filled with the smell, she became aware of the room itself which she hadn’t noticed before. It was shabby, shabby and run-down and cheap. It was almost identical to her bedroom of several years ago, and despite her distaste she felt strangely at home there.

“Please go away,” he went on. “What do you want from my life? I won’t try to kill myself again, Carla. You don’t have to worry about that, if that’s what’s bugging you. But can’t you leave me alone?”

“Danny,” she said softly, saying his name for the first time. “Danny, you just don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand.”

“Will you let me explain?”

“Go ahead,” he said sourly.

“I didn’t come to have you arrested,” she begun. “I didn’t even think of that, Danny. I came because there was something very important to tell you. You may not want me in the same room with you but I’m going to tell you this and you’re going to listen. I’m a hard woman to get rid of when I get determined.

“I want to tell you that I love you, Danny.” Her voice grew husky and she felt her eyes go moist, and she reached out with one hand and let her fingers play with his hair like a kitten with a ball of yarn.

“I love you,” she repeated. “Maybe I loved you ever since I met you but I didn’t see it until this afternoon. I didn’t let myself see it, dear. I grew up in a room very much like this one and I couldn’t even conceive of loving a man who lived in this sort of place. I tried to keep myself from loving you. But I couldn’t.

“And this afternoon— This afternoon you showed me what kind of a man I needed. I suppose some women would hate a man for what you did but it made me see how much I love you. You’re the kind of man I need, Danny.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you, Danny. Now if you still want me to go, I’ll go.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then, his voice little more than a whisper, he said, “I’ll never want you to leave me, Carla.”

She moved closer to him on the bed and placed his head in her lap. Her fingers massaged the muscles in his neck and shoulders. She thought how strong he was and how easy it was to hurt him, both at once. And she thought how much she loved him.

“Never leave me, Carla.” His face was buried in the folds of her skirt and she felt his mouth against her thighs when he spoke.

“I won’t,” she said.

“We’re going to get married,” he said dreamily. “I’m going to marry you and we’ll find a decent place to live and I’m going to work hard to get you pregnant.”

“Ummmmmm.”

“That won’t be work,” he continued. “Probably be fun, a good deal of fun. I think I’ll like it.”

“Ummmmmm.”

“And I’ll work sixteen hours a day making money for you to spend and make love to you the other eight hours. That ought to be nice.”

“That’s a lot of work.”

“So what?”

“But when will you sleep?”

“In the winter.”

She giggled. “You’re a little silly,” she said. “I guess you’re a little bit nuts but it doesn’t matter because I love you. Will you really make love to me eight hours a day?”

“Of course.”

“Honest?”

“I’ll punch a time clock if I have to.”

She giggled again. “That’s a good idea,” she said.

“Carla,” he said — just her name, but he made it sound like a prayer. He reached up and took her head in his hands, his fingers entangling themselves in her long hair. She stretched out on the bed beside him and put her mouth very close to him.

“I love you,” she said.

He kissed her — not with force and fire but with a soft and beautiful tenderness she had never known. She felt her whole body begin to glow in a very wonderful way. It was not passion, but it was far more than passion. She wanted him to give her pleasure, but even more she wanted to give him pleasure, to make it good and beautiful for him. He kissed her again and his tongue was warm and delicious in her mouth.

“Danny,” she said, “be gentle with me. Don’t hurt me.

He unzipped her skirt and took it off, and she helped him slip her panties down over her hips to her knees. His hand moved from her waist to her knee and back again, and he pressed his lips to her breast and kissed her.

“Danny—”

“Sshhh,” he whispered. He removed his clothes and she saw that his body was hard and brown from the sun.

He took her, and it was brand-new and perfect and wonderful. They soared higher and higher on the crest of a magical wave, higher and higher until they reached the top and it was finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and entering Heaven and everything she had ever imagined and things she had never dared to even dream.

They reached the top of the wave together and they fell away from it together, tumbling together into an all-covering blanket of wooly blackness.

For a moment they were two people.

Then they were one, and nothing else in the whole world mattered.

Chapter Fourteen

The next two days were almost perfect. They would have been perfect if she could have spent every single moment with Danny, but they were practically perfect even though the two had only their afternoons together. Carla found an incredible plateau of peace and contentment. She was a whole woman now, and she knew the joy that comes of giving one’s self completely and withholding nothing. It was a supreme joy, an unparalleled joy. Danny was everything to her and she loved him with a fervor that never failed to surprise her.

At the same time, she realized that their arrangement could easily become difficult — if only because it forced Danny to close the station for a few hours every afternoon. If they continued that way, it would only be a matter of time before the company checked on him and found out that he was taking time off, time that belonged to the company. He was supposed to keep the station open from seven in the morning to seven at night, and he generally stayed open until ten or eleven. But now he closed up at two and sometimes failed to reopen until six or later.

She was at home now, waiting for Ronald to come home for dinner. She had a book in her lap but the print swam before her eyes and she had to read paragraphs over and over before she understood them, Her mind was on Danny, not on the book.

Danny wanted her to marry him. Marriage to Danny would be a wonderful thing, she knew, because the type of love they had between them was the type which grew and grew through exposure and development. While the novelty would wear off a little at a time, the pleasure of getting more and more attuned to a loved one would replace the loss of novelty many times over. She could tell this already, and it made the prospect of becoming Danny’s wife a very attractive one.

But when she closed her eyes and remembered the relative squalor of the little room on Sagerties Avenue, some of the splendor of the picture vanished. Of course they would not live in a place like that. Danny lived there only because he was trying to save as much of his salary as possible. But they would live in a place almost as bad, and she would not have a car to drive or a closet full of clothes to wear. She could see herself getting old while still young from sweating over a hot stove and scrubbing floors and bearing children.

If she had never been poor these things might not have mattered. But Carla had been poor, and she knew how miserable she could be under those circumstances. And for this reason she wasn’t too anxious to divorce Ronald and plunge headlong into marriage to Danny — a marriage that would constitute the end of luxury.

She hadn’t made a decision. She explained in detail about Ronald’s case — which was going before the jury the following day — and Danny understood that any divorce plans and proceedings would have to wait until the case was won or lost. He assumed that she would marry him then, of course, but she had been cautious not to say so in so many words.

When Ronald came home that evening there was a strained look about him. The rigours of the case were telling on him, and for the first time he looked acutely old to her, old and tired and worn out. He was almost silent throughout dinner, answering her tentative questions with nods or shakes of his head and an occasional grunt.

When dinner was over they remained at the table for coffee and a cigarette. For several minutes each smoked in silence and sipped at the coffee; then Ronald looked up suddenly and cleared his throat.

“Carla,” he began, “there’s something I want to discuss with you.”

She panicked momentarily: had he found her out? But then she saw from the expression on his face that it was something else that was bothering him.

He drew on his cigarette and closed his eyes for a moment. When he began talking he spaced his words carefully and spoke softly, almost in a monotone.

“I’ve been unfair to you,” he said. “I’ve expected an impossible course of behaviour from you, and just recently I’ve come too see how grossly unjust these expectations have been.

“I’m an old man, Carla. I always considered myself young and vigorous, but this damned case is telling on me. It’s gilding the lily to say that I’m not as young as I used to be; however, that’s the plain truth of the matter. I’m not.”

“I don’t see—”

“Let me finish. I like to think of myself as the successful lawyer with the lovely young wife. I am that, in a way — but there’s another side to the picture. I’m also an impotent old man, and my lovely young wife is party to a pretty damned unnatural bargain. And when I see that side of the picture — well, I can’t say I think very much of myself.”

He stopped for a moment but she didn’t interrupt. She could see how it was hurting him to say these words, how hard it was for him to talk about his age and impotence. She put out her cigarette and waited for him to continue.

“You’re a young woman, Carla. I’ve been unfair, as I’ve said. But I don’t mean to be unfair any longer. Money and clothing aren’t enough; I don’t want my wife to be kept in a damned cage all her life like some animal in a private zoo. You deserve a good deal more than that.”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you? Let me explain. I don’t want you to cut yourself off from... from sex, Carla. I want you to feel free to take a lover if you wish — in fact, I’d prefer it if you did. Perhaps you already have; if so, that’s your business. You have a right to a full life and an impotent man has no right in the world to feel cheated upon if he’s made a cuckold.

“I’m serious about this, Carla. I wouldn’t feel cuckolded, because I wouldn’t feel that you were being unfaithful to me. And I’d rather have you sleep with another man than lose you entirely, or have you grow to hate me.”

“I could never hate you.”

He smiled. “Don’t be too sure about that. But at any rate I want you to know how I feel about the situation. I have just two requests to make. First of all, I want you to be as discreet as possible about any affairs you have. I don’t suppose I have to tell you this, but it’s especially important now with the case practically on the fire. You know how quickly the case would go to hell if anything were made public.

“Secondly, I don’t want you to tell me about... whatever you do. Although I can accept and even approve of it, I’m as human as anyone else. So... don’t tell me about it.”

He broke off abruptly and looked down at the tablecloth. Carla felt the tears coming to her eyes. He was such a good man, so sincerely good. She had never fully appreciated him before, not as she appreciated him now after what he had said. She wanted to say something but she couldn’t find the right words.

“Ronald,” she said finally, “I love you very much.”

He smiled. “You’re a wonderful woman, Carla.”

“You’re pretty fine yourself.”

“I think I’m just a selfish old man,” he said. “I’m afraid of losing you.” He stood up awkwardly and walked away from the table and into the living-room. She heard him put a record on the phonograph and listened to the opening notes of a Beethoven symphony. Closing her eyes, she could picture him sitting in his easy chair listening to the music.

She had not lied. She did love Ronald, not in the same way that she loved Danny but in a true fashion nonetheless. She loved him more like an uncle than like a husband, but she loved him because he was such a good man and because he cared so deeply for her.

The full weight of his words was beginning to hit her. He didn’t mind whether or not she slept with Danny; in fact, he was in favor of it. Now they wouldn’t have to rush their time together, and they could meet at night so that Danny could keep the gas station open. And they could spend a night together now and then without worrying about Ronald discovering them.

In short, the furtiveness was now a thing of the past. They could love openly, and she would never again have to be ashamed of being unfaithful to Ronald.

Marriage now seemed rather foolish. Why should she give up her home when she could have it and Danny at the same time? Why should Danny have to support her when he was making little enough money as it was? Marriage was little more than a formality anyway, and one she could well do without.

She was in an enviable position. Ronald was an ideal husband, Danny a perfect lover. And she could have them both with no difficulty.

She could, in fact, both have and eat her cake.

Lizzie had the night off.

It was, she decided, an excellent night to have off. She never expected to get the night off, but Mrs. Macon was in an exceptionally good humour and Lizzie thus got the night off as a sort of bonus.

Evidently Mrs. Macon had had a particularly enjoyable hour or two in somebody’s bed. Lizzie pictured her mistress in bed with a man and giggled softly to herself. It didn’t seem possible for a rich woman like Mrs. Macon to crawl in bed with anybody. For some reason it was hard to think of rich people bothering with sex or enjoying it if they did.

Lizzie silently thanked whoever had coaxed Mrs. Macon into the sack that afternoon, because this was definitely a good night to have off. If she hadn’t gotten the night for herself, she’d be home in the stuffy house on Nottingham Terrace. Besides, she would never have met Lou.

Lou was an experience; Lizzie had to admit that. And there was no sense turning down an experience, no sense at all.

Lou picked her up neatly enough, picked her up right off the street, and Lizzie wasn’t that easy a girl to pick up. So that was a feather in Lou’s little cap right at the start.

And Lou’s apartment — why, that was just the end of the world. It was in the Tiffany, the same hotel where Lizzie had spent a most enjoyable evening with Mr. Butler not long ago, but Lou’s apartment was far more exciting. The furniture was delightfully extreme — it seemed to be all angles and wrought iron and sharp corners — and the colour scheme was almost shocking — pinks and loud greens and yellow and god knew what else. The pictures on the walls were loud abstracts in ornate frames, and the books in the shelves were forbidding things with esoteric titles.

And Lou was so funny, so methodical. The performance was a ritual, a regular rigamarole as spooky as a KKK meeting. First they both undressed slowly and languorously, but Lou didn’t touch her or even try to kiss her. Then Lou had her take a bath in a perfumed tub. When she came out, Lou gave her perfumes to rub into her skin, and while she did this Lou filled the tub again and took a bath.

Lizzie sat nude on the edge of the bed. Her chocolate skin felt luxuriously smooth and clean from the perfumes. The bed had silk sheets — bright green silk sheets — and they were slippery under her bare skin. She waited patiently, and after a few moments Lou appeared from the bathroom and walked to a record player in the corner. The music that played was strange but pleasant, and it fit the room and the mood. Lizzie couldn’t recognize it, but it seemed vaguely oriental.

Lizzie stretched out on the bed. It was a remarkable bed, round rather than rectangular, and a good eight feet across. Would it be different to make love in a round bed? It would be interesting to find out.

“You’re lovely,” Lou said, sitting down beside her on the bed.

“Thank you.”

“Lovely,” Lou repeated. “Fragile and doll-like, more or less.”

Lizzie didn’t answer.

“Do you like it here?”

“Yes — very much.”

“I like it,” Lou said. “I like an apartment to have some individuality, so that it’s more than just a place to live in. It should reflect the personality of the occupant, don’t you think?”

Lizzie nodded.

“But we don’t want to talk about the apartment, do we? There are better things to do.”

“All right.”

Lou’s lips were very soft. Lou’s hands were soft, too, as they held her breasts and stroked her thighs. Lou’s body was soft, and Lou’s body was delicious against hers with the perfume all around her and the sheets all silky and the weird music playing in the background.

Lou was an expert.

Lizzie opened her eyes and noticed the ceiling for the first time. It was painted blue and spangled with little dots of white, so that it resembled a starry sky. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the oriental music growing louder and more penetrating.

“Kiss me,” Lou commanded.

Lizzie fastened her mouth on Lou’s soft lips and probed the mouth with her tongue. “All over,” Lou said.

Lizzie did as she was told, and a wave of pleasure ran through her as Lou turned to a thing of fire and crystal beneath her lips.

Then Lou was caught up in a wave of passion. Lizzie was held up in two firm but soft arms and pressed between silk sheets and silken skin. The stars on the ceiling seemed to wink at her and the music grew louder and louder, wailing in her ears like a Chinese banshee. It became impossible for her to lie still. She moaned and twisted and made strange sounds deep in her throat, and the world swelled up and let her sail at the very top of it, higher and higher to a wickedly sensual climax...

Lou’s arms still held her and Lou’s mouth was still soft against hers. Lizzie felt very sleepy, sleepy from the perfume and the music and the bath and the love-making. She wanted to go to sleep, and she wanted to go to sleep right there where it was so warm and sweet-smelling. She snuggled her head to Lou’s shoulder and shut her eyes tight.

Lou kissed her ear, and the sound was very loud. Then Lou nibbled gently at her ear lobe.

Lizzie purred like a kitten.

“Are you happy, dear?”

Lizzie purred again.

“I’m glad,” Lou said. “I’m happy, too.”

Lizzie flicked her pink tongue against the smooth skin of Lou’s neck.

“You know,” Lou whispered, “this is the first time I’ve ever slept with a girl who wasn’t white.”

“That makes us even,” Lizzie murmured sleepily. “This is the first time I ever slept with a woman.”

Chapter Fifteen

The days passed rapidly for Carla. Danny was everything to her and she found a new world in his arms, a world rich in gratification and contentment. It seemed to her that her life was as perfect as it could possibly be.

The only problem she had were minor ones. Danny was a bit touchy at times, a slight bit irritable for a few minutes every once in a while. It was nothing to worry about but she found herself increasingly annoyed at his outbursts.

One evening, for example, they went to dinner at an expensive restaurant a few miles outside of town near the airport. The food was delicious, the music danceably pleasant, and the prices rather steep. Carla let him pay the check, but on the way home she offered to pay him back.

“Don’t be silly,” he snapped.

“Why not? It was expensive and—”

“I pay my own way, Carla.”

“That’s silly,” she said. “I can afford it and you can’t, so why don’t you let me take care of it? You have to save up for the station, and—”

“Dammit,” he cut in, “can’t you understand that I don’t want to be a stinking gigolo? I know you can afford to keep me but I sure as hell don’t feel like being kept!”

After that she didn’t offer to pick up a tab again. Instead, she tried to keep him from taking her to the more expensive places. And he seemed to resent this, too, as if he wanted to prove that the fact that he was not rich didn’t make any difference. He brought her presents which she knew he couldn’t afford, yet refused to accept gifts from her. He seemed to brag how little money he had, and when she made the mistake of offering a loan, he blew up in her face.

“No!” he had shouted. His face was taut with anger and she saw the muscle in his left cheek throb. “Get this through your pretty little head, Carla: I don’t want your money.”

But the irritations were minor ones, and she decided that it was only a question of adjustment. Right now Danny felt guilty about his lack of money and thus inadequate to be her lover. But he would grow out of that stage in time. He would adjust to the situation and she would be more able to know how to avoid offending him, and all the wrinkles would smooth out before long.

Otherwise everything was as good as she could possibly have wished it to be. As she had suspected, the physical side of their relationship improved continually to unbelievable perfection. Danny made her feel like a combination of Greek goddess and alley-cat, and it was a pleasant feeling. His passion was equal to hers and their bodies were completely attuned to one another.

For awhile she worried that his landlady might bother them, but this didn’t prove to be the case. Mrs. Smithers, Danny told her, was an old hag who guzzled sherry every afternoon and didn’t care if the house burned down around her as long as there was a bottle of wine on the table. The other tenants minded their own business and the pair had as much privacy as they could want.

Strangely enough, her relationship with Ronald was much better than it had ever been before. Now that she did not feel that she was cheating him or pulling the wool over his eyes, she felt much closer to him. He was working hard every day on the case, and she could see in his eyes he came home tired and not wanting to talk; other times he would be brimming, over with news and anxious to share it with her.

She listened to him carefully, happy when he was happy and sad when his spirits lagged. The emotions were not forced on her part either. She wanted him to win the case, wanted him to have the pleasure that victory would bring him.

“It’s funny,” he said one evening. “You share my joys and sorrows even if you don’t share my bed.”

The words brought a lump to her throat and she walked quickly around the table. She kissed him gently on the forehead, thinking what a kind and wonderful man she had married.

Danny sat up on the bed and began dressing. “I hate this place,” he said. “I didn’t mind it so much before, but now every day I hate it a little bit more.”

Carla hadn’t moved. She was still lying face down on the bed, her eyes closed and all the muscles in her body pleasantly relaxed. “I don’t see why,” she said. “I’m beginning to get quite fond of it.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I like what goes on here.”

“So do I,” he said. “But that’s not what I mean. I hate this room.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cheap. Because it’s cheap and crummy, and I don’t want to make love to you in a place like this. Before it was different. Hell, I don’t mind sleeping in a doorway if I have to — but you deserve more than this.”

“I don’t mind.”

He stooped over to tie his shoelaces. “It will be different,” he promised. “We’ll take a little place out in the suburbs, maybe near the station. I can swing a GI loan for the downpayment and—”

“A house?”

He laughed. “Of course a house. You don’t want to bring up kids in a flat, do you? And sure as hell not in this room!”

She realized abruptly that he still thought she was going to marry him. But what was the point of that? Their relationship was perfectly satisfactory as it stood, and marriage would mean the end of the house on Nottingham Terrace and the MG and everything else she had. And children — she had always wanted children, but in a vague and unreal sort of a way. The thought of walking around with her belly sticking out and getting up in the middle of the night to change diapers or give a baby his bottle was not at all attractive.

How could she tell him that she had no intention of marrying him? He would have to find out eventually, but she couldn’t just say “You jerk, I don’t want to marry you.”

“That’s right,” she said finally. “We’ll have to have a house, but not for awhile.”

“I guess not,” he said. “Christ, I wish that case of his would end already!”

“Those things take a long time.”

He nodded. Then he turned around, resting his weight on one arm, and looked down at her thoughtfully.

“Carla,” he said slowly, “don’t you want to marry me?”

She was so startled by his question that she almost blurted out the truth. Then she collected herself and said, “Of course I do, darling. What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “You don’t seem to care much one way or the other, that’s all. Whenever I talk about it or start making plans you act as though nothing could interest you less. You never talk about children or a house or what kind of wedding we’ll have or anything. I just don’t understand it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He waited for her to go on.

“Danny,” she said, “it’s hard for me. You’re not married and you never have been married, so you don’t know exactly what it’s like. Being married to Ronald and talking about marrying you — well, it’s hard for me to do it. I want to marry you. You know that, Danny. But I don’t want to talk about it until we can do it, without worrying about the case or anything else. Do you see what I mean?”

She waited, hoping he would accept her explanation without question.

“Sure,” he said after a minute. “Sure, I get it, honey. I guess I’ve been pressing you too hard, huh? I’m so anxious to marry you that I can’t get it off my mind. But I’ll try not to bother you too much.”

She let out a breath, realizing that she had been holding it for a long time. “Okay,” she said, grinning. “Now why don’t you show me how much you love me.

“Show you?”

She nodded.

“Hell, I just finished showing you.”

“Show me again.”

“You sure want a lot of showing, honey.”

She giggled.

“We-ell,” he drawled, “I guess I can force myself.”

He kicked off his shoes without bothering to untie them and removed the rest of his clothing. He turned to her and took her in his arms, and she emptied her mind of all thoughts and concentrated solely on him, on his touch and his kisses and the small private things he whispered in her ear.

Afterward, the thoughts all came back. The trial would end, of course, and then she would have to tell him. Everything was set for now, but her words had only made more difficult the job of telling him later. It would be hard, very hard.

But there was no way out. She would wait until the time came.

The time came.

The trial was over suddenly, over too soon it seemed to her. Ronald had won, finishing up with a closing speech that was the finest act of his career. The jury was out less than an hour before they decided in his favor. It was the triumph of his career.

She should have been elated, and in fact she did share a good deal of his triumph. She stayed home with him that night and they cracked a bottle of premium champagne, and when she got to bed she felt a little bit high from the champagne. Maybe, she thought crazily, Danny wouldn’t find out. Maybe she could tell him for years that the trial was still in progress.

The trial made the front page the next morning.

Her heart fell as she read the item. She hurled the newspaper across the room and rushed upstairs, dressing hastily. She had to find Danny at once. She had to see him, and somehow she had to make him understand that they were not going to be married. She didn’t stop to figure out just how this would be accomplished, but hopped into the car and drove at once to the gas station. Her mind was turning around in circles. How could she tell him? What could she do?

She stopped for a traffic light and waited impatiently, her hands clenched tightly around the steering-wheel. When the light turned her foot pressed down on the accelerator and the car shot forward, responding at once to the pressure of her foot on the pedal. The mid-morning traffic was fairly heavy, but the little foreign car easily dodged in and out and swerved from lane to lane.

When she reached the gas station, she made a quick left turn narrowly missing another car and pulled over to the side near Danny’s office. He was busy with another car at first and didn’t see her. Then, when the other driver had paid him and driven from the lot, Danny turned and saw her. He raced over at once, a huge smile on his face and his arms swinging at his sides. He shoved his face through the open window and she leaned forward to meet his kiss. The kiss was long and warm; under more pleasant circumstances Carla would have enjoyed it immensely, but now her mind was too confused and tormented by the situation at hand. A customer had driven into the lot and pulled up near one of the pumps, but Danny didn’t let the presence of a customer interrupt the kiss. Finally he broke off and grinned.

“I saw the news,” he said. “Christ, what a welcome headline! I’ve been looking for that little item every time I pick up a paper, and this morning it was there. I called you but you didn’t answer. I guess you were on your way here already.”

She nodded. “I got here as fast as I could.”

The customer honked impatiently. Danny started to stand up and attend to the man, then changed his mind and put his face to the window again.

“Now we can get married,” he said.

She nodded soundlessly.

“It’ll take a while,” he said. “Divorce proceedings and all — I guess they can eat up plenty of time. But we’re on our way now, Carla. There’s nothing standing between us and we don’t have to worry about anyone finding out. Isn’t it great?”

“It certainly is.” She tried to match his enthusiasm but he noticed that something was wrong and regarded her quizzically.

“What’s the matter, Carla?”

“Nothing’s the matter.”

His eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. “You don’t seem excited. Isn’t this as exciting to you as it is to me?”

“Of course it is.” When he didn’t say anything more she said, “I knew about it last night, honey. That’s why I couldn’t come to see you. Ronald wanted me to stay home with him for a celebration. Since I’ve known for over twelve hours, the excitement has worn off a little bit.”

His features relaxed into a smile. “That explains it, honey. I should have known you’d be as keyed up as I am otherwise. But why didn’t you call me?”

“I did,” she said, hunting for another lie to reinforce the one she had just told. “Some woman answered and said you weren’t home.”

“But I was home all night.”

Carla shrugged. “That’s what she told me.”

“That’s funny.” He thought for a moment. “Oh,” he said suddenly, “I know what must have happened. That old bitch Smithers pulled that once before. When she gets good and tanked up she wouldn’t move an inch to call somebody to the phone and she just gives whoever calls the “He’s not home” line and that’s all.”

She nodded gratefully. “That’s what must have happened.”

There was a squeal of rubber on pavement and Danny turned to see the car pull out of the station in a rush. “Looks like you just cost me a customer,” he said. “I better get back to work. Look, tonight we got to celebrate. You and your husband had last night together, and now it’ll be our turn. Okay?”

“Okay.” She swallowed.

“Our celebration might be a lot livelier, too. I’ll pick you up in front of your house around six and we’ll go out for dinner. There’s one place that’s been a favorite of mine and I’ve been saving it for something special. I think you’ll like it.”

“Okay,” she said lamely. “I’ll be ready.” Then, driving back to her house, she felt more confused and frightened than ever.

Most of the time when she sat alone the minutes seemed to crawl. But today was different. Today she didn’t want the time to pass, and the morning and afternoon flew by far too quickly. Indeed, Carla had the feeling that everything was happening too fast for her to keep up with it. In each conversation with Danny she felt lost and inadequate. She didn’t want to lie to him but there never was a chance to tell him the truth. He was so caught up in his own train of thought that she couldn’t possibly interrupt him, especially with something as jarring as her news would be.

She was ready at six. She said good-night to Ronald and Lizzie, telling them that she was having supper with a girl-friend. She knew that Ronald knew what she meant but it didn’t matter, and she couldn’t care less what Lizzie thought. She certainly had enough other things to worry about for the time being.

She felt strange riding beside Danny in the old Ford. It was not the first time she had driven in his car, but it was the first time she saw so thoroughly the contrast between it and her MG. It reinforced her conviction that she could never marry Danny Rand.

Never.

The place was as perfect as Danny had said it would be. It was a steak house in the Old English fashion, with clay pipes on the walls and suits of armor standing in the corners for decoration. They sat in a corner booth secluded from the rest of the diners, and the intimacy of the booth combined with the atmosphere of the restaurant to make it an ideal setting. And the food was delicious — as good a steak as she had ever eaten.

The dinner-table was no place for the words she had to say. Despite the food and the surroundings, Carla found it impossible to enjoy her dinner. Every minute was filled with apprehension at the thought of the impending scene between them. Every minute she wanted to blurt out the horrible but necessary words, and every minute they stuck in her throat, almost choking her emotionally.

Dinner, in its own quiet way, was hell.

The ride back was no picnic either. She rode with her head nestled comfortably on Danny’s shoulder, but she was by no means comfortable. Her nerves were strung tight and her muscles were rigid — all the more rigid in view of the appearance of relaxation she struggled to maintain.

While the ride and the dinner preceding it were not comfortable, she wanted them to go on forever, so that she could prolong the terrible moment of truth. But things followed the pattern of the day and went on happening too quickly for her, and almost before she knew it the car was parked on Sagerties Avenue and Danny was holding the door open for her.

He opened the door of the house as well and followed her up the stairs. The stairs were unusually steep that evening — at least they seemed that way to her. As usual he had left his door unlocked, and when she stepped into the room he walked in after her and reached to take her in his arms.

She drew back involuntarily.

“Hey!” He grinned and reached out for her again, and once again she stepped back and avoided his embrace. His features contorted into a puzzled expression.

“Danny,” she said thinly, “sit down. These’s something I have to tell you.”

He started to protest, then shrugged and sat down on the edge of the cot. Carla remained standing. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it herself, extinguishing the match with a nervous flick of her wrist and letting it fall to the floor. Then she walked back and forth in the little room while he waited patiently. Finally she couldn’t prolong the moment any further. She turned to him, trying to avoid his eyes, and spoke softly and quickly.

“Danny,” she said, “I am not going to marry you.”

She darted a glance at his face and then looked away, unable to gaze at the expression she saw there. It was composed of equal parts of disbelief and horror.

“If... if this is your idea of a joke—”

“It’s not a joke.”

He stood up and took a hesitant step in her direction. “I think you’d better explain,” he said. “I think you better let me know just what in hell you’re trying to pull.”

“Then sit down.”

“The hell I’ll sit down!”

“Well, I can’t talk with you breathing in my face, damn it.” He sat down, and she closed her eyes for a long moment. She wished that she could die, that she could just keep her eyes shut tight and quietly cease to exist.

She opened her eyes.

He was still sitting on the bed, waiting for her to speak. The vein in his left temple stood out in bold relief. His breath came very slowly.

For a second she wished that she hated him. If he were someone she hated, it would be pleasant to torture him, pleasant to twist the knife in between his ribs and watch him writhe in agony. But he was a man she loved, the man she loved, and she shared his agony.

Then, slowly and laboriously, she told him. She let him have both barrels from beginning to end and he heard her without interruption. She told him that that the expensive house did matter and the MG mattered and the clothes in her closet mattered. She told him that everything was fine as it was, that Ronald was agreeable and nobody would ever bother them, that she loved him but couldn’t he see that marriage didn’t make any sense?

She told him everything, but as she spoke she heard her words from his point of view and realized how hollow and ugly they must have been sounding to him. After she finished neither of them said a word for several minutes and the silence of the room was unbearable. At last he raised his eyes to hers and she saw that they were dead and dull, empty and vacuous.

“Get out,” he said.

“Danny—”

“Get out.”

Her temper flared. “Damn you, can’t you understand anything? Do you think I want a passel of brats in my hair all day long? Do you think all I want to do is switch one filthy slum for another?”

“Get out,’ he said when she had finished. “I made a big mistake, Carla. I fell in love with the most complete bitch that ever walked the earth.

“Get out before I throw you out.”

Chapter Sixteen

It was ten o’clock and the night was black as ink. Neither moon nor stars shone in the sky. A taxi-cab hurried along a quiet street, and the only sounds were the gentle rattling of the cab and the insistent tick of the meter as the miles rolled by.

The woman in the back seat of the taxi was huddled against the door as if she feared someone would strike her. Her brow was feverish and her hands were shaking. Her stomach felt ready to turn over any minute.

“Lady, you said I should take you to the Tiffany?”

“Yes,” the woman said. The cabby nodded shortly and revoted his attention to his driving.

The woman was Carla Macon. She was all tied up in knots — wanting to talk but having no one to talk with, wanting to cry but unable to do even that, wanting to have her cake and eat it too and discovering that such a course of action was utterly impossible.

After she had staggered blindly out of Danny’s room and down the staircase and onto the street, she walked around for several minutes looking for her car. It took her a while to remember that her MG was back on Nottingham. Then a cruising cab passed, timing its entrance perfectly, and she hailed the cab and huddled into the back seat.

For a moment she hadn’t known what address to give the driver. The thought of returning home didn’t appeal in the least. She needed someone to talk to, and no matter how understanding Ronald was this was nothing to discuss with him. And then she thought of Charles, and realized that he was the only one she could turn to.

Everything was wrong, horribly wrong. The thought of giving up Danny forever was almost more than she could bear. She couldn’t erase the memory of his tone when he told her never to come back again. Well, she had deserved it. She deserved everything he said to her. She should have told him before instead of waiting so long. Then maybe there would have been a chance; maybe she could have convinced him that marriage was senseless and unnecessary and that their relationship could continue indefinitely.

But now she had lost him. He wouldn’t take her now, not after the scene in his room. Not in a million years. She felt that she had lost something very precious, possibly the most precious thing she had ever possessed.

Would it have been worth it to marry him? She told herself no automatically, but doubts began to nag and gnaw at her mind. Could love substitute complete for money? Could she get used to living again without a full closet and a maid to clean the house?

Well, there was no sense worrying about that now. Not now, not after tonight. It would be something to think about when there was nothing else to do, but that was the only value the question would ever hold.

The cab sped on into the night. She went over the same questions and supplied the same answers, answers that left her as confused as the questions did. She was so deeply immersed in her questions and answers that the cabby had to tell her twice that she had reached the Tiffany. She got out of the cab and paid him, walking past the same impenetrable doorman and into the hotel.

Moments later she stood outside of Charles Butler’s room, hesitating before knocking. Would he be home? More important, would he have a girl with him? Knowing Charles, it was more than possible. He was the complete libertine, but at the same time he was a good and thoughtful man.

But if he had a girl in there, she would be about as welcome as a case of bubonic plague.

She gathered up her courage and knocked softly. A second later the door opened and Charles stood before her. He wore the same dressing-gown she had seen so often in the past, and he was visibly surprised to see her. Then he recovered and led her inside.

When she was seated across from Charles the words wouldn’t come. Charles seemed to sense her mood and waited silently for her to speak. Then, when she could talk at last, the words poured from her lips like water through a broken dike. She told him everything from the beginning to the end, told it in a frenzied rush with repetitions and stammering, told every bit of it until the whole bitter thing was said.

Then they were both silent once again.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Rotten.”

He nodded. “What are you going to do now?”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s nothing to do,” she said dully. “Can’t you see that? I’ve lost him and that’s all there is to it. I can’t get him back. I’m stuck. I’m up the creek in a lead canoe without a paddle.”

He smiled gently. “Can you swim?”

“No,” she said. “Not even that.”

He put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and passed one to her. She accepted it gratefully and drew smoke into her lungs.

“Look,” he said, “what precisely do you want? That’s the first thing you have to decide.”

“I want him.”

“On what terms?”

“On the same terms we had. It was good, Charles. It was wonderful, honestly it was. We were as good as married without any strings and without financial problems. It was the perfect arrangement.”

“Can you get him to return to that sort of arrangement?”

“Never.”

“Can’t talk him into it?”

She shook her head. “He’s stubborn, Charles. He’s strong and stubborn and proud. There’s not a chance in the world that he’d take me back the same way.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Then that’s out. What’s your second choice?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your second choice,” he repeated. “You can’t get him back on those terms, so you have to decide on some other solution.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you, Carla. You have to figure it out for yourself. Do you want him enough to marry him?”

No, she started to say, but she stopped before saying it. Instead she said, “I’m not sure.”

“Do you know what it would mean to marry him?”

“It would mean I’d be poor again.”

“It would mean other things, too. It would mean you’d be Carla Rand instead of Carla Macon. It would mean no more life of leisure. It would mean a good many things you wouldn’t like at all.”

“I know that,” she said. “Don’t you think I’ve figured it out a few hundred times?”

“I’m sure you have. And do you know what it would mean to lose him?”

“I—”

“It would mean hating yourself, Carla. It would mean wondering what might have been if you had married him, and that kind of wondering can go on forever.”

After a moment, she asked, “Then what should I do? I lose either way.”

He smiled sadly. “You have to make a choice, and you’re taking a fall either way, as you say. But it’s a choice that has to be made. I can’t tell you what to do.”

“Which do you think is better for me, Charles?”

“What does that matter?”

“It matters. You know me very well, and you have a pretty deep understanding of people. I think you might be able to straighten me out.”

He shook his head. “Not me, Carla. I don’t know just how deep my understanding of people may be, but you seem to give it more credit than I do. I probably appear to be a good deal deeper than I am. However, that’s neither here not there. Perhaps some people like to play God; I’m not one of them. You’ll have to straighten yourself out.

“Look at the thing this way: whichever course of action I might advise you to take would be the wrong one — simply by virtue of my advising it. The best advice is to take none. Do you see what I mean?”

“Of course. I guess I was looking for an easy way out.”

He smiled again and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He didn’t reply, and she was left alone with her own thoughts. Talking had helped, and talking with Charles had been particularly helpful. The few words he said managed to clear up a lot of things. She was still torn by conflicting desires, but now she recognized those desires and saw what two courses lay open to her. The choice was hers and had to be hers, but now she would be able to think clearly enough to make a choice.

“Charles,” she said suddenly, “didn’t you tell me how foolish marriage was? Doesn’t that show which choice you think I should make?”

“No,” he said, “not at all. I told you what marriage would be for me, not for you. The fact that you’ve already chosen Danny forever, that you want a permanent alliance in one form or another; tends to negate that way of thinking for you. The choice is completely open for you, Carla.”

They fell silent once again. Yes, she decided, he was right. She was the type of woman to be married, but at the same time she was the type of woman to be supported by a rich man. Those were the two points of conflicts, and anything else would only obscure the real issue.

“I have to stay here tonight,” she said after a few more minutes.

“Why?”

“I can’t go home. Oh, I suppose I could, but I don’t want to. Ronald’s a good man. You know what he’s like. But I just couldn’t see him tonight. I don’t think I could take it.”

“Would you like to take a hotel room? If you’re short I can float you a loan.”

“I have money,” she answered quickly. “But I don’t want that if I can help it. I couldn’t take being alone tonight, not after all this. Unless you’re expecting company or—”

“Nothing like that. I just thought you might prefer privacy.” He stood up. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

She stood up too and looked long and hard into his eyes. She realized all at once how strong he was — not strong with the rugged virile strength that Danny possessed, but strong in a different sort of a way entirely. He was a man she could always depend on, a man who would always be there when she needed him. He was a man who had complete possession of himself.

And he was a good man.

“Charles?”

“What is it, dear?”

“I was wondering. Would it bother you if I slept here?”

“Of course not.”

“I mean— Would it make you... nervous?”

His brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“Don’t you know.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see. No, I’ll be all right, Carla.”

She took a step toward him and her breasts were just inches from his chest. “If you want,” she said, “I’ll sleep with you. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He sighed and took her in his arms, holding her firmly to him and breathing very slowly. Then, suddenly, he pushed her away.

“Not like this,” he said. “Not when you don’t want to, Carla. Perhaps there will be a time for us, a time for the two of us to be together, but now isn’t the time.

“I wouldn’t want to wake up and hear you whispering another man’s name into the pillow.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You might,” he cut in. “It’s happened before. But the important thing is that this is not what you want, Carla. Is it?”

“No,” she said softly. “No, I guess it isn’t.”

“Definitely not. And I’m not quite rotten enough to make a girl give herself to me in exchange for room and board. You take the bedroom, dear, and I’ll make do on the couch.”

“Don’t be silly,” she protested. “I can take the couch.”

He chuckled. “You wouldn’t say that if you ever slept on the couch. Go on — go to bed.” He gave her a gentle shove toward the bedroom and she went in, closing the door after her.

The bed felt good — soft and warm. She didn’t think sleep would be possible for her but found to her surprise that she was almost wholly exhausted. The emotional upheaval followed by the therapeutic conversation with Charles had drawn all the tension out of her and left her as limp as a dishrag. Her head sank into the pillow and her brain whirled around in little circles.

Decisions, decisions, decisions. She couldn’t think now, not with the bed so soft and her head so light and fuzzy inside. Tomorrow there would be time, time to spare. Tomorrow there would be time for whatever thinking had to be done.

But the bed was so comfortable, so deliciously comfortable. She had been in this bed before but now it was different. Now all she wanted to do was to go to sleep for a long, long time.

Her eyes closed and stayed shut. Her mind swam.

And she slept.

Chapter Seventeen

When Carla stood at the curb in front of the Hotel Tiffany waiting for the doorman to hail her a taxi, the sun was shining down and the air was warm. The weather suited her mood. She felt good and glad to be alive. Her mind was made up, her body rested from a good sound sleep, her skin clean and fresh from the shower.

A taxi pulled up to the curb and Carla slipped a coin into the waiting palm of the doorman. Then she hopped into the cab and gave the driver her address. She rolled down the window and let the wind toss her hair a little. It felt good.

Decisions were a nuisance. She never liked them and supposed she never would. Although she appeared on the outside to be a strong woman, she knew that this was not really the case. A strong woman wouldn’t have the problems she had, and if she did she would manage to solve them quickly and expediently.

She took a deep breath of the fresh air and held it in her lungs. Decisions, decisions, decisions. They were so damned hard to make, and she went to sleep the night before with no notion in her head as to what course of action was best for her.

But when she awakened there was no decision to be made. She knew instantly what she would do.

When she told Charles he hadn’t said anything. He kept his face impassive and simply showed her to the door. But she sensed that he agreed that her choice was the wise one, the only one that would permit her to be happy.

For a second her mind clouded over with doubt. Was it definitely the proper choice? It had to be, she told herself. It simply had to be.

She leaned back, relaxed and lit a cigarette. By the time the cigarette was a stub to be thrown out the window, the cab had reached its destination. She alighted from it, paid and tipped the driver, and walked slowly to the front door of her home.

Her hand reached instinctively for the doorbell. No, she decided, leaving the bell unrung. No, she didn’t need to disturb Lizzie. She fumbled in her purse for her key and fitted it in the lock. The key turned and the door opened and she stepped inside.

It was good to be home. She opened her mouth to call Lizzie but again decided to leave the girl to her work. She hesitated in the vestibule, undecided as to what to do first. There seemed to be a million things to do and she didn’t know where to start.

Slowly she walked from the vestibule to the living-room. Her purse hung loosely at her side. She entered the living-room and started across it when her eyes suddenly darted to the large arm-chair.

Danny Rand was seated there, his eyes burning angrily into hers.

Carla opened her mouth but no words came out. She was totally stunned. What was Danny doing here? His presence in itself was alarming, and the look of hate in his eyes was overpowering.

She took an automatic step toward him. Then he stood up and his countenance was so disturbing that she withdrew a step.

“You bitch!”

For one hysterical second she was positive that he was going to kill her. “What are you doing here?” she stammered.

“What do you want?”

He only stared at her.

“How did you get in?”

“Through the front door,” he said. “The same way you got in. After you left I remembered that you didn’t have a car, so I went downstairs to take you home. By the time I hit the street you were gone.”

“I... I took a taxi.”

“That’s what I figured. Anyway, I drove over here to see you. I took a short cut and waited for the cab to get here, and after half an hour I went to the drugstore and called here.”

“I wasn’t home.”

“No kidding. So I went back where I was and waited for you. After waiting another hour I knew you weren’t coming, and then I figured out that you were already home and wouldn’t talk to me. It figured, and it was possible that the cabby beat me to your place.

“So I waited. I waited all night and I slept in the car because I didn’t feel like going back to my room, and in the morning your husband left for the office and I rang your bell. The maid let me in, and that’s when I found out.”

“You didn’t come home all night!”

Her hand fluttered to her throat. She couldn’t speak, realizing what he thought she had done. There was a lump in her throat and when she tried to swallow the lump stayed where it was.

“All right,” he repeated. “Where in hell were you?”

“Danny,” she began haltingly. “Danny, I can explain. If you’ll just let me...”

“What’s there to explain? Don’t you figure I can guess where you were?”

She shook her head desperately.

“I know where you went, damn you. You were with a man.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not what you think. If you would just let me—”

“Shut up! Can you deny that you spent the night with a man? Can you?”

“Please,” she said weakly. “Please.”

“Shut the hell up with your pleases.” His right hand had tightened into a fist and she could see the rigid tendons in his forearm. He took a step toward her and his face was inches away from hers. She wanted to run but her feet wouldn’t move from the spot.

“Well? Just answer yes or no. Were you with a man or weren’t you?”

“I—”

“Dammit, yes or no!”

She wanted to scream. If he would only let her start at the beginning she could make him understand, make him see that she stayed at the Tiffany because she couldn’t come home. But she knew that he wouldn’t understand. Danny would leap at once to the conclusion that was obvious, inevitable, and totally inaccurate.

“Yes.”

The word had tumbled from her lips almost of its own volition, and once it was said there was no way for her to recall it. She saw the way his eyes went blank and then blazed anew with increased venom, and she wished she could explain but there was no opportunity for her to do so.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course you were. Well, how was it?”

“Danny—”

“How was it?” His voice had risen to a scream.

“Danny, you don’t understand—”

“I sure as hell understand! How was it? Was he better than I was? Did you moan when he did it? Did you wriggle around under him like you used to with me? How was it?”

She shook her head soundlessly.

“The bitch crawls out of one bed and into another. Maybe this time you picked a smart guy — one who won’t make the same mistake I did. Maybe you found a guy who wouldn’t even dream of falling in love with you — much less marrying you. You won’t have to string him along like a goddamned puppet. Is that how it was?”

“No,” she stammered. “No, no, no.”

“No, no, no,” he mocked. “I bet that’s the first time you ever said no to a man since you lost your cherry. But I want to hear more about how you spent the night. Was it good? How many times?”

“Stop it,” she said. “Please.”

“How many times?” he repeated. “You better tell me all about it. Give me a good description; maybe it’ll help me improve my technique for the next round-heeled Mrs. Richbitch I meet, the next little tramp on wheels who pulls me down into the grease for a fast piece.”

She didn’t say anything, and suddenly she saw that he couldn’t hold his temper any longer. His breath was coming shorter and his fist was swinging at his side. He stepped closer and she could feel his hot breath in her face but still couldn’t do anything. She wanted to run but there was no place to go.

“Go ahead,” she said softly. “Go ahead — beat me up if you want.”

“Is that what you like? You want me to beat you around like a sadist? Are you a pervert, Carla? Is that what you want?”

He drew back his fist.

“No that’s not what I want.”

“It isn’t?”

She shook her head. “No — but go right ahead if it will make you feel better. I suppose I deserve it.” She closed her eyes then, unable to maintain an appearance of coolness any longer. Tears came to her eyes and she felt herself falling forward.

Then all at once Danny’s arms were around her and she was nestling her head to his chest. The tears flowed from her eyes and dampened the front of his shirt. He held her gently until she stopped crying, all the while stroking the firm flesh of her back through her blouse.

“God,” he whispered. “What’s the matter with me, Carla? I’m so much in love with you that I wanted to hurt you. I didn’t know what I was doing, baby. But what am I going to do now?”

He was still holding her and his voice was low and heavy. “It’s no use,” he said. “You should have let me kill myself. You should have left the gas on; it would have been a hell of a lot better that way.”

She freed herself from his embrace and stepped back, trying to speak through her tears. “If you’ll just let me explain, Danny. If you’ll just let me tell you what I’ve been trying to.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I do! You don’t understand.”

“All right,” he said. “Go ahead.”

She took a deep breath. “You should have let me start at the beginning,” she said slowly. “I stayed at a man’s apartment last night, but I didn’t sleep with him. I slept all by myself.”

“You didn’t—” His eyes were wide with shock. She could see that he wanted to believe her but that his mind had adjusted itself so completely to what he thought was the case that it was hard for him.

“No,” she went on. “I slept alone. I went to his apartment because I couldn’t stand coming back here and I didn’t want to be alone. I had some thinking to do, Danny. I had a big decision to make.

“You see, I’ve had a pretty insecure life for a long time. My childhood was pretty rotten, and I tied up all this insecurity with the lack of money. It got to the point where money became tremendously important to me. I was so convinced that money would make me happy that, when I married Ronald and had money for the first time in my life, I actually believed I was happy.”

He nodded slowly, and she could see that he was beginning to understand what she was getting at. She wanted to stop and go to him, but it was important for her to get everything out into the open. She forced herself to continue.

“Then I met you,” she said. “I fell in love with you, Danny, and for the first time I discovered what true happiness could be. But the idea of the importance of money was so deeply imbedded in me that I couldn’t get it out of my head. And when you asked me to marry you and give up Ronald’s money, all I could see was the loss of a beautiful house and a wardrobe full of clothes. I couldn’t see the other things, the plus values that make a marriage real and vital.”

She stopped to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Last night I learned,” she said. “After I left you I was so torn in half by two choices that I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t come home, Danny. I couldn’t face Ronald and I didn’t want to be in this house for a little while. And I thought I’d go crazy all by myself in a hotel. I wanted to be with you, but you said you never wanted to see me again.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I was just so damned angry.”

“I know. But I didn’t want to go to a hotel or to my home and I couldn’t see you, so I went to a good friend of mine and he let me stay there. And I managed to figure out that money isn’t as important as I thought it was. Love is more important.”

His eyes were shining. “You mean—”

“I mean that I want to marry you now if you’ll still have me.”

She turned her eyes to the carpet and heard him say, “I’ll always want you, Carla. I guess I never stopped wanting you, not from the first moment I met you.” And then his arms went out to her and held her again.

His arms were a haven — strong and protective and tender at the same time. She wanted him to hold her forever, and she knew now that she would never permit him to let go of her.

“I was stupid,” she said after a few moments. “I should have known that inside I’ve wanted to marry you all the time. I should have—”

“I’m stupid, too,” he cut in. “I kept taking you for granted, baby. I never looked at your side of things. I wanted to marry you from the beginning, and I couldn’t see how you could look at things differently.”

“We’re both a little bit stupid, aren’t we?”

He nodded. “But we’re gonna act smart from now on. You’re getting a divorce as soon as you can and the day it’s final we’re getting married. Right?”

“Right,” she said solemnly.

“And in the meantime you can give me a kiss.”

“Kiss,” she intoned, lifting her mouth to his.

“That was good,” he said. “How about another?”

“Another,” she repeated. And she kissed him again.

Then she said, “Come upstairs, Danny. I want you, and I’m not waiting until the divorce to have you.”

“Well—”

“Don’t you want to?”

He grinned. “You twisted my arm, baby. Lead the way.”

It was cool upstairs in the bedroom and the large double bed was freshly-made with clean sheets. The pair undressed slowly but surely, and when Carla stood nude before him with her breasts firm and proud and her thighs rampant with animal lust, Danny let out a small sigh and reached for her.

She stepped back teasingly and a smile played with the corners of her mouth.

“Say ‘please’” she demanded.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—” He broke off and they both laughed. Then he held out his arms and she came in between them, hugging him close and pressing her breasts against him. He pressed her back to the bed and lay down beside her.

“Eight hours a day,” he whispered. “And seven days a week. Do you think you’ll be able to stand it?”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wonder,” she said. “You might get tired of me, you know.”

“Not a chance.”

“I might bore you.”

“Never.”

“Eight hours a day?”

He nodded.

“Seven days a week?”

He nodded again.

“That’s pretty hard to believe.”

“It’s true, though.”

“You positive?”

He nodded.

“Really positive?”

He nodded again.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, giggling. “I think you better prove it to me.”

And he did.

Chapter Eighteen

The house on Nottingham Terrace was almost silent. Upstairs the vacuum cleaner droned lazily as Lizzie cleaned one of the rooms. A clock on the living-room wall ticked monotonously. A fly buzzed up against the front windows, then flew from the room and was heard no more.

Carla and Danny sat side by side in the living-room, waiting. It was late in the afternoon and Ronald would be home any minute. He would come home and they would tell him at once. His case was over; now was the time for them to put their cards on the table and get the situation resolved. Ronald would consent to a divorce, for there was nothing else he could do.

And, Carla, knew, he wouldn’t fight a divorce even if he could. Ronald wasn’t that kind of a man. He was too good, too basically unselfish for an action of that sort. He had proved that when he instructed her to take a lover, and he had proved it in every act of his existence. She knew that he would prove it once again.

At the same time she found herself dreading the moment of his arrival. In her own way she loved her husband and she knew the news would hurt him inside. He would be hurt — no matter how hard he tried to conceal the injury from her eyes. And she did not want to see him hurt.

All these thoughts were communicated soundlessly from Carla to Danny and back again. Words were unnecessary; they would have been quite superfluous. The two had reached an uncanny degree of closeness and perception to the point where thoughts seemed to be transmitted instantaneously from one to the other.

The closeness, Carla thought, was perhaps the most wonderful aspect of their love. She didn’t just love Danny, but she also loved the way she was when she was with him. And he felt the same way towards her. It was the type of relationship few people are privileged to enjoy.

Their marriage would work, she thought fiercely. She would fight to make it work. She would keep a clean house for him, a little house in the suburbs, the house he had talked about so enthusiastically. And she would be a good shopper and a good cook, and she would help him save money until he could buy the gas station.

She thought about their children and her heart grew warm. She would be proud, proud to walk around with her belly sticking out and Danny’s child growing within her body.

A car pulled into the drive-way and stopped in the garage. It would be Ronald’s car, she knew. A glance passed between Danny and Carla. I’m afraid, Carla was saying silently. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Danny was saying.

Then there was the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened and Ronald walked into the house, a brown leather attache case in one hand and his hat in the other. He came into the living-room, a smile appearing on his face at the sight of Carla and changing to an expression of puzzlement when he saw Danny.

“Ronald,” Carla began nervously, “I want you to meet Danny Rand.”

Ronald Macon acknowledged the introduction and the two men shook hands. They looked vaguely like fighters waiting for the bell of the first round.

“Danny and I... love each other.”

Donald’s face didn’t seem to change expression. “I see,” he said.

“We want to get married,” Carla continued. “I want to get a divorce and marry Danny.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“I’m positive,” she answered at once.

Ronald sat down, resting his attache case on the floor beside him and placing his hat in his lap. His fingers toyed with the brim of the hat. “Suppose you start at the beginning,” he said pleasantly. “Give me a quick run-down, will you?”

Ronald’s completely relaxed manner made things a good deal easier for Carla. It permitted her to relax and view the scene as one between three sensible adults rather than a tawdry melodrama. She started slowly but as she went along her voice picked up speed and assurance, and soon she was telling Ronald the full story of her affair with Danny, telling him how she first was physically attracted to him, how this changed to love, and how her desire for a love affair eventually ripened into a hunger for marriage, a home, and children.

As she talked she kept her eyes on Ronald’s face. It was impassive throughout, and she itched to turn and look at Danny and see how he was reacting to what she was saying. Then, midway through her monologue his hand found hers and held it and she knew that everything would be all right.

When she finished the silence was heavy and awkward. Ronald lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully, blowing great rings at the ceiling and watching them rise and then disappear. His eyes grew misty; then they were once again directed at her as he spoke.

“My turn,” he said gently. “There are some things I should have told you awhile back in all fairness, but I’ve withheld them for reasons of my own. But now it’s time for you to hear them.

“I’ve known for some time that our marriage was a mistake. The mistake was not mine, Carla, so much as it was yours. I got much more than I bargained for: a beautiful wife, an intelligent companion, and a person who actually cared for me.

“And what did you get? You got a father instead of a husband. You got money, and I presume you thought that was enough. Then you found that it wasn’t.”

It was easy to see that the words were hard ones for Ronald to say. Carla could tell that he was going through a good deal of emotional strain, but years of courtroom training kept his voice even and his bearing flawless.

“I tried to make it easy for you. I saw that I was not enough for you, and I attempted to keep you secure on a leash by allowing you a certain amount of a certain variety of freedom. I brought Charles Butler to my house not because I’m that friendly with the man but because I suspected the two of you would be attracted to one another. And I knew that I was safe if you had an affair with Charles. He’s not the marrying kind.

“You see, I tried to throw you into an affair because that seemed to be the only way to hold you. And here I misjudged you badly. It was unfair and I want to apologize for it.

“I thought an affair would be enough for you. I didn’t stop to consider the deep reservoir of love in you Carla, or to realize that you had to be not only mistress but also wife and lover in order to fulfill your inherent potential and be happy.

“And I thought my money would hold you. At first I hoped it would — then I changed my mind. I even thought of settling some money on you so that money wouldn’t enter into the decision you would have to make, but I soon saw the fallacy in that line of thought. I had to let you face the choice, or otherwise your decision couldn’t have any meaning.”

He paused and cleared his throat. “Now you have made your choice.”

Carla nodded.

“You’ve chosen love over money.”

Carla nodded again, reinforced by the pressure of Danny’s fingers on her palm. The full impact of Ronald’s words was beginning to sink in. She thought back to the night Charles came to dinner, and again to the time Ronald had told her to take a lover if she wanted one. Bits and pieces of his actions over the past several weeks were starting to fall into place. She saw her husband all at once as a benevolent giant who sat behind the scenes, pulling the strings in an effort to make her happy.

“Love over money,” he repeated. “I think it’s the right choice, Carla. At any rate it’s the choice I hoped you would make. I wanted to give you a shove in that direction but I didn’t dare. The choice had to be yours.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to lose you. Nor can I tell you how glad I am that you’ve found your proper role in life.”

He stopped suddenly, and Carla could sense that he was close to tears. She felt her eyes filling, too, and the increased pressure of Danny’s fingers told her that he too was emotionally moved.

Abruptly Ronald stabbed out the cigarette and sat upright in his chair. “Now for the details,” he said briskly. “You want a divorce, as I understand it.”

“That’s right.”

“Divorces are messy, you know. One has a choice between running off to Reno or getting a New York decree on the grounds of adultery, and neither are especially attractive alternatives.”

“Would the publicity hurt your career?”

“It might,” he said, “if I had a career. As of today I’m officially retired from private practice. I’ve had enough, and the last case was almost too much for me. It’s over and I’m done. I’m going to relax — take a fishing trip once in a while, read, putter around the house a bit. So my career has nothing to do with it.

“I was thinking more of you two. You see, with a divorce there’s a waiting period, and there’s a lot of legal rigamarole that’s pretty much of a pain in the neck, and there’s the sort of publicity that can’t do you a hell of a lot of good.”

“I understand that,” Danny cut in. “But we want to get married, Mr. Macon.”

“Of course you do — and it’s what I want for you. But a divorce won’t be necessary. You see, Carla and I have never slept together — and she can easily and quickly obtain an annulment of our marriage on the grounds that it was never consummated. This is faster, easier, and free of the stigma that some people attach to divorce.”

“I never thought of that,” Carla said, half to herself.

“Why should you?” Ronald chuckled. “I’m the lawyer, you know. And now, while I don’t suppose it’s exactly standard procedure for a husband to toast his wife and her future husband, would the pair of you care to join me in a drink?”

One drink led to another, and the two drinks loosened the trio so that conversation flowed more easily. Ronald explained the legal mechanics of annulment procedure and Carla and Danny discussed when they would marry and where they would live and how many children they would have. It seemed vaguely ghoulish to talk of such things while they sat in Ronald’s house and drank his liquor, but he had set them so completely at ease that it appeared quite natural.

“Speaking of children,” Ronald said, “I have a deal for you.”

“Let’s hear it,” Danny said.

“It’s quite simple. Perhaps I’m egotistical, but I’d like some sort of namesake to leave behind when I go. As I understand it, you need a certain sum of money to purchase the franchise for your gas station. I’ll be pleased to give you the money as a wedding present if you’ll name a boy after me.”

Carla’s eyes widened. “Oh, Ronald — that’s wonderful! Of course!”

“Mr. Macon,” Danny cut in, “I’d be very proud to have a son named Ronald Rand. But I couldn’t accept the money.”

Carla turned to him. “Why not?”

“Because I want to make my own way,” he answered. “And I want to do it all by myself. It has to be that way, Carla. Otherwise it doesn’t mean anything.”

She nodded, understanding. “Yes,” she said. “You’re right, Danny. And I’m going to let you make all the decisions from here on in.”

A few moments later Ronald excused himself and the two were left alone. Several minutes later the telephone rang, but neither of them had the slightest intention of answering it.

Content

Sheldon Lord
Carla

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen