It was almost impossible for her to calm herself down. The full reality of what had taken place was just beginning to hit her head on and she didn’t think she could take it. First she had been willing to offer herself to Stella. Then she didn’t respond. Then she refused to participate, and finally the other woman was on the point of raping her, so wrapped up in what she was doing that it became necessary to knock her on the head and race out of the room like a frightened virgin running from a sex maniac.
Well, when you came right down to it, that’s about what it had been — a frightened virgin running from a sex maniac. She herself was certainly a virgin, and there was no question about Stella’s mental normalcy.
But for Christ’s sake how had it all happened?
She stood up and walked to her door to make sure it was locked. For good measure she used the chain lock as well so that she would be able to see who was there before opening the door. But she was still tense, still tied up in knots inside. Relaxation was out of the question.
She picked up a magazine and leafed through it. It didn’t interest her in the least. She took off her dress and hung it up in the closet, then took off her underclothes and put them in her laundry bag. She was physically clean but felt dirty and took two showers in a vain attempt to wash the taste of Stella James from her skin.
After the shower she got in bed and tried to follow the lead story in the magazine. She read the same page over and over and finally gave up. It was no use.
Instead she thought about Ralph. It was obvious to her that as long as she loved him she could never enjoy sex with anybody else. As this fact sank in she began to realize just how deep her attachment to him was. With the various women she had loved she had been faithful, but she still was able to respond to other girls even if she never indulged in an overt act of infidelity. But with Ralph the thought of sexual contact with anybody else became suddenly unthinkable. She had had dramatic proof downstairs, when a desirable woman had proved totally incapable of arousing her.
This was good, she thought.
Good — because it meant that her love for Ralph was a very genuine thing. And she wanted real love, love that could last.
But not entirely good. Because the thought of intercourse was still terrifying to her, still a thing that sent her into shivers. Maybe it was something she would get over, maybe she could learn to be normal, but—
Suddenly she had a tremendous desire to see the portrait Ralph was painting of her. Maybe just a peek—
She got out of bed and walked to the easel. It was covered with a cloth, and it would be very, very easy to lift the cloth and see what he had done. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt anything; he would never find out and it wouldn’t make any difference in the world.
No. No, when he wanted her to see it he would tell her. If he trusted her not to look at it, the least thing she could do would be to respect that trust. Firmly she forced herself to return to bed. She turned out the lights and snuggled beneath the sheet.
But it was hours before she finally fell asleep.
Ralph spent the next morning at the museum again. It was a good escape for him and one that he had used often in the first year or so in New York. But this morning he was just using it to kill time. It was better than a movie, and it was even cheaper. After a breakfast of eggs and coffee at a greasy spoon on Sixth Avenue he didn’t have much money left.
He spent his last cent on lunch. That, he decided too late, was a hell of a stupid thing to do. It was a healthy walk back to the Village and the subway would have been infinitely more sensible. But the lunch — a plate of chili at a chili house on 47th Street that gave you a decent meal for well under a buck — was worth it.
And the walk, when you stopped to think about it, wasn’t such a bad idea at all. It was another time-killer, a good way to waste part of the afternoon before drifting up to see Susan for the next step in the disappointment routine. Hell, why bother to see her at all? He could walk east and then downtown and wind up on Skid Row and not have to worry about women anymore. All he’d worry about would be where he’d get the money for the next drink, and to hell with the world and Stella James and Susan Rivers.
And to hell with Ralph Lambert.
He pulled himself together and started walking south on Sixth Avenue. He walked slowly, not in any particular hurry to get any particular place. It was a nice day — sunny but not too hot, the humidity lower than usual for New York, the air relatively clean. Hell, it was a great day. But it would probably turn out to be a son of a bitch. They always did, time after goddamn time.
Sixth Avenue is a good street for a walk. At 42nd Street behind the public library is Bryant Park, with trees and benches and a drinking fountain. Then clear down to 14th Street the avenue is lined with small stores and restaurants and bars. It’s a grand old street, with lots of places to look at and enough things going on to keep a person interested.
Then, from 14th Street on downtown is the Village, and no matter how much Ralph despised the Village some of the time it was never boring. He kept on walking, taking his time, stopping to watch workmen with steam shovels sweating to lay the foundation for a new office building, just a small Village office building for dentists and doctors but an office building nevertheless. He watched kids playing ball on 12th Street and he watched a pair of men making their way into one of the myriad of gay bars.
He took his time. He relaxed.
It was almost four o’clock by the time he reached Susan’s apartment.
After he knocked she opened the door partway, then relaxed visibly when she saw that it was him. She undid the chain and opened the door the rest of the way and led him inside.
“You’re a little late,” she said.
“I was uptown. It took me awhile to walk back.”
“Why didn’t you take a train?”
He explained to her.
“That’s ridiculous,” she told him. “Why, you should have left yourself enough money for the subway. You could have taken the train straight home and I would have fixed you something to eat.”
“It’s all right. The exercise didn’t hurt me.”
“Exercise? A two-mile walk in this heat?”
“It’s not that hot.”
She shrugged. “Well, maybe it’ll be cooler after I get my clothes off.”
She undressed very quickly, very simply, not bothering to leave the room while she did so. Right away he knew that it was going to be bad this time. He didn’t feel toward her in the coldly impersonal, sexless way an artist is supposed to feel toward a model. He couldn’t see her body simply as a work of art, simply as a body to be painted. He saw her as a woman he wanted, a woman he craved, a woman he needed more than he needed anything else in the world.
She sat down in the chair and assumed the standard pose at once — feet apart, face unsmiling, her hands covering her pubic area. Breathing slightly faster than usual he mixed paints on his palette and took his brush in his hand. He uncovered the canvas and looked at it; it was almost completed, almost finished. Just another session or two and he would be done.
Tentatively he touched the brush to the canvas. He painted very slowly, so tense that he knew he would only ruin the painting if he went any faster. He worked very carefully, very precisely.
After ten minutes he couldn’t take it any longer. Every time he looked at her — her face, her legs, her breasts, the provocative position of her hands — his mind was on anything but painting. He felt himself getting weak in the knees and his hand was no longer at all steady. Once the brush slipped slightly and he cursed under his breath. He was able to rectify the slip with next to no trouble, but he was afraid the next one would be worse.