A goddamn, freak, sideshow, circus-fat Woman in Red.
In the nineteen eighties the sobriquet had seemed marvelously mysterious. Sick unto soul-death of the pasty lump she had been since the cradle-or since she could remember-she had grabbed onto the colorful handle as she had grabbed onto her colorful new city.
Mister Marchand had been nicer to her in those days. They’d gone to the shops on Decatur. The Quarter was rougher then; stuff was still cheap, and drugs and real sex shows could be had any time, day or night. He’d bought her everything she wanted. She’d point and he’d pay. They’d come away with armloads of bags containing red scarves, shoes, hats, dresses. The grand total had been one hundred seventy-eight bucks.
Big spender, big fucking spender, she thought as she stared into the Wal-Mart mirror on the back of her closet door. But it had been big to her then. It was the most she’d ever spent on clothes at one time in her life. Mostly, it was big because he was with her; because he’d done it to make her happy she was happy, happier than she’d ever been before or since. That day she became the Woman in Red.
The neck of the caftan was pooching out. With the flat of her hand she smacked it down. Not even tits. I’m a fat freak with no tits, she thought as she smashed the neckline down again. She’d put it on backwards and the label wouldn’t lie right. Hooking a finger under the loop of cloth, she gave it a yank to rip it out. The label held. She jerked harder. When it came free it tore the neck of the caftan halfway to her gut. White flesh rolled into the red in the mirror, limp, deflated breasts over mounds of flab.
“Fuck you!” she screamed and backed away. “Not okay. Not okay.” She crashed into the other room and began throwing things off one chair onto another, digging like a badger and chanting, “Fuck you, fuck me.” At last her hand closed on what she sought. Clutching it to her bare chest, she staggered back to the bedroom, held out the can of flat black spray paint she’d gotten to refurbish her setup, depressed the nozzle, and crying, “Fuck yoooooooooou!” sprayed the mirror and the closet door until all that remained in the looking glass was her disembodied head floating on a sooty cloud. “’Bout damn time,” she told the head. “’Bout damn fucking time.”
A sharp knock on the door froze her in her tracks.
Her hands were splotched with black paint that had leaked from the nozzle, her dress torn; mascara ran down through the thick makeup. Tonight was important, really, really important. She had to look her best, she had to be her best, but she couldn’t remember why.
Mr. Marchand.
He was here.
“No, no, no, no,” she whimpered, looking around as if there would be a new escape door, a place big enough for a circus sideshow fat woman in red to hide.
Knocking.
“Just a minute,” she sang out. “I’m coming.”
She could tell him that a man-a black man-broke in and raped her. Ripped her dress. Hit her. She could, she could… She couldn’t find her drink, her glass of bourbon.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
This time the knocking shook the flimsy wall.
Ripped her dress. Hit her…
He’d never believe it. Maybe, if she did something nice for him, something special, he would overlook her dress and her face; if he said anything it would be that she had taken good care of him and he’d had a good time. That was better than the rape story. Nobody cared whether you were raped or not.
She’d give him a blow job.
Men liked that. And it was a nice thing, easy. Most were real quick so it didn’t ruin the whole evening or anything. When business was slow, and Mr. Marchand didn’t think to send her anything, she often gave little blow jobs to keep some money in her pocket.
“Coming,” she sang with false good cheer. She grabbed the bourbon from the cupboard and took a healthy slug right from the bottle. If he didn’t want a blow job, it wouldn’t matter whether or not she was an alcoholic.
25
She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of the caftan in hopes of diluting the whiskey smell. Lipstick smeared across her cheek and chin.
“I am the Woman in Red,” she said.
Pulling from the depths of a battered past the confidence and allure that name had once inspired, she clutched the torn caftan to her shoulder in what she hoped would come across as sexy dishabille, threw the deadbolt, and opened the door.
“Why, Mister Marchand,” she said coyly. Then, “You said… ”
“Never mind what I said. What kind of woman answers the door looking like that? What happened to you?” He pushed by her and surveyed the trashed sitting room. “I’m doing the world a favor,” he muttered.
“What did you say, honey?”
He was carrying a package, a big one, like the boxes holding a dozen long-stemmed roses she’d seen delivered by bellboys in old movies. There was no ribbon on this one, and it was bigger. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been given a present. Fear that had her verging on tears was instantly ameliorated by a warm buzzing excitement.
“Honey, just let me change. This old dress tore when I was putting it on, but I didn’t want to make a guest wait on the welcome mat.” There was no welcome mat. Like much else it had turned to rags and drifted away. But it sounded nice to say it.
“Never mind that. Sit down. If you can find a place to sit.” He looked around at the rubble of her life. Without waiting to see if she obeyed him, he swept a pile of junk from an old Naugahyde recliner.
He was wearing gloves.
With clarity as sudden as it was unwelcome, she saw her home through his eyes. Filthy. Unsanitary. So disgusting it could not be touched by bare skin for fear of contamination. Before she imploded with shame, the vision blurred. “I’ve been meaning to straighten up a bit,” she said. “My knee isn’t what it used to be-you remember when I fell and twisted it?”
Of course he wouldn’t. Mostly she knew what she knew and lived with it. Tonight for some reason-maybe the gloves or the broken nail or the torn dress or the ruined makeup-she needed to believe he thought of her sometimes when he didn’t need her, that he cared she’d been hurt. He didn’t answer but kicked the crap on the floor out of the way so he could move a footstool.
He didn’t remember; she could tell by the nothing on his face. Against all reason, it hurt her-not that he didn’t remember. Who’d remember she’d been injured? It hurt her that he didn’t pretend to remember. What would pretending have cost him?
“And I’ve let the place go a little,” she finished lamely.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said kindly, the hostility of a moment before seemingly forgotten.
Relief flooded her. She was to be forgiven. “I won’t be a minute.” She again started toward the bedroom to change.
“Stay. I like it like that,” he said, and there was a spark of something in his eyes. Interest. Or humor. Maybe he was laughing at her. He did that. She’d gotten used to it; it was just his way. Still, there were times it made her feel bad. Not that he thought she was a clown or a fool, but that he didn’t care enough to hide it from her. This time, though, the spark was ambiguous. It really could be interest, the kind a man has in a woman.
It had been a long time since she’d seen anything in men’s eyes but a passing smirk, if they noticed her at all. Usually, despite the red of dress and hair and lips, they didn’t see her anymore. That spark in Mr. Marchand’s eyes thrilled her. She let the caftan slip an inch to show the top of her breast. No more than that. Mr. Marchand would not be pleased by crude behavior.
“Why don’t you pour yourself a drink?” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
Again he looked around the ruin of her apartment. This time she did not suffer the instant of clarity. The offer of a drink made her realize how much she needed a little courage, a little comfort. Careful not to seem too eager, to move too quickly, she followed the path to the cupboard. The bottle was still on top, the cap off, lost in the clutter on the floor. Shielding the bottle with her body so he wouldn’t see it was already open, she found her tumbler and poured. “Can I get you a drink, honey?”