Stranger On Lesbos (30 page)

"No time."

"Oh hell, it's a long time till morning."

Frances opened her mouth to explain that she couldn't stay until morning. There was some reason why she had to go home
she had forgotten what it was, but she knew it was a good reason. She had forgotten why she was here, too. She sat down groggily on the bed.

"Sleepy," she said.

"Whyn't you lay down?"

It seemed like a good idea. She stretched out warily, afraid of being dizzy again. But the girl was crooning to her now, little disjointed sounds and words of pleasure; her caresses were becoming more intimate and more disturbing.

Frances stirred, dimly conscious of what was going to happen. "I can't."

"What did you come up here for, then?"

She didn't know. She tried to sit up, but the room went around in slow, sickening circles. Urgent hands were on her tender flesh and there was a smell of beer and tobacco and perspiration. She tried again to sit up.

The girl slapped her, hard. She cried out in pain and surprise, putting a hand to her stinging cheek.

"I'm sorry, honey. I'm sorry I had to do that. Now be nice."

Something was terribly wrong. This wasn't Bake, this wasn't the way it had always been. She lay back against the pillow, frightened and sick. Bake, she thought. Maybe if she screamed, Bake would come and help her. But she couldn't talk, there was a hand over her mouth, and everything was getting heavier and darker. Consciousness left her in little stabs and jerks, so that between moments of black oblivion she saw the dangling light bulb above her face, the clothes heaped on the floor. Then the roaring in her ears drowned everything else out.

CHAPTER 23

”Come on, you, get up. You gotta get out of here."

Frances moved uneasily. Something was hurting her; she sensed it before she knew where she was or what was wrong. She turned her head, and pain ran in jagged streaks behind her eyes. She put out a blind, exploring hand. Someone gripped her shoulder tightly. "Come on, damn it, wake up. You want cold water down your neck?"

She sat up wincing. Hangover, she decided with the slow, careful gravity that follows unaccustomed drunkenness. She had felt slightly ill two or three times before, when she had taken too much, but this all-over sickness was new. She turned over in bed, and was at once conscious of aches and stiffnesses here and there, physical in origin and owing nothing to alcohol. At the same time her eyes began to come into focus, and she identified the plain, heavy face of the girl who had bought her a glass of beer last night.

"Come on, come on, get goin'. I got practice in less'n an hour. You want some instant coffee?"

But where were her clothes? She wore only a slip, twisted and wrinkled, the lace torn across the top. She sat unsteadily on the edge of the bed, trying to collect her thoughts. "What time is it?"

"Half-past eight."

There was something special about this day, but she couldn't remember what. She stood up, pulling down the slip and noticing as she did so the bruises decorating her legs and abdomen. There was a tenderness around her left eye. She put up a careful hand and touched a painful, puffy mound of flesh.

"I'm sorry, kid. I oughta never touch anything but beer. Wine makes me ornery." The girl stirred coffee powder and hot tap water into two plastic cups, using a nail file as spoon. "You gave me kind of a rough time, though. What happened, lose your nerve?”

Frances didn't answer.

“I mean, you musta done it before. I wouldn't be the one to bring a girl out."

The coffee was bitter and not very hot, but she drank it. It gave her enough energy to get out of bed and sort out her own clothes from the mess on the floor. Pants, bra, stockings
they were shredded; she discarded them, pulling her shoes on bare feet. Her dress was wrinkled. A slip of yellow paper fell out of a pocket; she picked it up. Sales slip, receipted.

Oh God, the beige lace dress. The wedding. The wedding was today, high noon. She looked around wildly for her purse, found it on the dresser, and handed the plastic cup back to her hostess.

"Look. I have to get home. My son's being married at twelve o'clock."

The look that spread over the heavy face was one of helpless amazement. She stood aside without a word, and Frances clattered down the dusty thin-carpeted stairs, not caring who heard or saw her.

The street was quiet. But of course, in this neighborhood people would sleep until noon, at least. She stood on the curb beside a fire plug, willing every approaching car to be a taxi. Two of the baseball girls went by, looking at her curiously, and entered the house she had just left. Finally a Checker slowed down, and she got in and gave her address.

"Lady, that's way down on the South Side."

"Oh, please. It's an emergency."

The driver looked at her doubtfully, taking in the wrinkled dress, the puffy eye, the aroma that hung around her. But the light was green, and he shifted gears.

It was not until they were speeding smoothly down the Outer Drive that she wondered if she had enough money for so long a drive. She opened her bag, quietly. Lipstick, keys, a crumpled tissue. Her billfold was gone.

She said aloud, "The bitch."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

For a moment she thought of asking him to turn back.

But the girl would be gone, and even if she was there, she wouldn't admit to the theft. Besides, Frances thought, she might have dropped it on the street or left it at The Pub. (She thought fleetingly of Bake
what happened when she woke up, and did she get home all right?) A glimpse of a clock on the dashboard drove all thought of returning out of her mind. It was twenty minutes after nine. In two hours and forty minutes Bob's wedding would begin, with the bridegroom's mother unaccountably absent.

She leaned forward. "Can't you drive faster?"

"Look, you want to end up in the hospital?"

Might be a good idea, she thought miserably. Solve everything. She sat on the edge of the seat, urging the vehicle forward with all her muscles, hating the whole human race and herself in particular.

Bill must have been waiting behind the living room curtains. He came running out before the taxi reached a full stop. She saw with rising hysteria that he was dressed for church. Gold links glittered in his cuffs, his tie was neatly knotted, his white shirt gleamed. He looked solid and solvent. She fought back a wild desire to laugh, or cry, or both.

"Pay the man, will you? I got slugged and rolled, just like in the movies."

He snapped open his billfold. "For heaven's sake, where have you been? Do you know what time it is?"

"I know. I told you, I was slugged." She didn't expect him to believe this, and it was evident from his face that he did not. After all, she had gone downtown in broad daylight, to buy a dress. "My dress! Did it come?"

"It's on your bed. If you're not ready in time Bob and I will have to go without you. Might be a good idea to gargle."

She said defensively, "I had one drink."

"I bet."

"Where's Bob?"

"In the living room, waiting to call the cops. On his wedding day."

She supposed she deserved that. Every step she took jarred her stiff muscles, made her bruises hurt more. Her back ached, and her legs were wooden. No time to think about that now. Later, if she lived through the wedding. And there was the reception too.

She moved toward the house as swiftly as she could, considering her pains. She was quite sober now, nauseated, her head aching and feeling utterly desolate. If this is how it feels to be hung over, she thought, it's a wonder everybody doesn't go out and join Alcoholics Anonymous right now.

But of course, everybody doesn't get slapped down and raped. She stood still, as the full implications of her situation got through to her.

Bill yelled, "For God's sake get moving! And do something about that eye!"

He’ll kick me out for good, she thought, forcing her shaking legs to carry her up the porch steps. I'm no good. I've disgraced him and Bob. A tramp. Well, I'll worry about that later. I've got this wedding to get through, the Congdons and their damn Gold Coast relations. The mental image of Louise Congdon, poised and critical, got her past the living-room door and up the stairs. Don't think about Bob, you'll fall apart. Don't think about anything.

As she hurried into the bathroom, she noticed that it was twenty-eight minutes after ten.

At ten minutes to twelve the mother of the groom walked slowly up the aisle of Holy Trinity Episcopal Church on the arm of the second-best usher, a rather flushed young man from Harvard who had certainly had a drink or two before breakfast. If her knees cracked at each step, if the pressure of a male hand on her beige lace sleeve made her wince, she managed to hide it. High-headed, smiling, a little too lavishly made up (she could imagine the critical judgment of the bride's aunts and female cousins on this point), with a small brown feather hat pulled down over one eye, she was certainly younger and slimmer than many mothers of marriageable sons. She thought grimly that Mrs. Congdon, watching hawk-eyed from the front right-hand pew as her opposite number was handed into the front left-hand pew, could find nothing to object to.

Unless, of course, it was the lavish hand with which dear Bob's mother had applied her perfume.

She concentrated on keeping her mouth shut, partly because the Listerine had proved only a temporary remedy for last night's breath and partly because, even though her stomach was certainly empty by this time, she felt a little uneasy inside.

Bill sat down beside her. She glanced at him, but his profile was stony. Bags under the eyes, too. He was certainly going to tell her off as soon as they got home. Maybe throw her out right away, with no money and no place to go. She guessed she had it coming.

The little rented house began to seem safe and familiar, even without a dining room.

She took a deep breath, careful to keep her lips pressed tightly together, and put the immediate future out of her mind. Nothing else mattered, if she could only get Bob married and off on his honeymoon. She could drop dead going down the church steps, and she wouldn't say one complaining word.

CHAPTER 24

She and Bill had stood up together in front of a smalltown preacher, chosen at random because they liked the looks of his small white church and matching parsonage, and because neither of them belonged to a church. Bill Ollenfield, whose job with the State Welfare Board didn't pay quite enough to support a wife, and skinny little Frances Kirby. There was a hole in the sole of her right pump, and she was afraid it would show when they knelt for the benediction. The witnesses were the minister's wife, in a housedress, and a neighbor lady who happened to be calling on her. And the wedding breakfast was coffee and hamburgers in a drugstore.

But the magic was there. Scared and guilty as she had been for the last few weeks, ever since her half-unwilling initiation into love (the hotel room was a dollar and a half, more than Bill could afford, and the night clerk had leered), when she looked into Bill's solemn face she felt untouched and bridal. For the space of a few minutes the parsonage living room was illuminated by a clear, shining light that transfigured everything. And when Bill took her cold trembling hand in his big warm one, her qualms vanished and she felt happier than she ever had before.