“Yes,” he said, slowly, “I think I understand that.”
They stared at each other. She dropped her eyes.
“But, you know,” she said, slowly, “I think you knew all the time.”
He said nothing. She persisted, in a low voice, “Didn’t you?”
“You told me that you weren’t,” he said.
“But did you believe me?”
He stammered: “I–I had to believe you.”
“Why?”
Again, he said nothing.
“Because you were afraid?”
“Yes,” he said at last. “I was afraid.”
“It was easier to let it happen than to try to stop it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her eyes searched his face. It was his turn to look away.
“I used to hate you for that sometimes,” she said, “for pretending to believe me because you didn’t want to know what was happening to me.”
“I was trying to do what I thought you wanted! I was afraid that you would leave me — you told me that you would!” He rose and stalked the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, water standing in his eyes. “I worried about it, I thought about it — but I put it out of my mind. You had made it a matter of my trusting you — don’t you remember?”
He looked at her with hatred, standing above her; but she seemed to be beyond his anger.
“Yes, I remember. But you didn’t start trusting me. You just gave in to me and pretended to trust me.”
“What would you have done if I had called you on it?”
“I don’t know. But if you had faced it, I would have had to face it — as long as you were pretending, I had to pretend. I’m not blaming you. I’m just telling it to you like it is.” She looked up at him. “I saw that it could go on a long time like that,” and her lips twisted wearily. “I sort of had you where I wanted you. I’d got my revenge. Only, it wasn’t you I was after. It wasn’t you I was trying to beat.”
“It was Ellis?”
She sighed and put one hand to her face. “Oh. I don’t know, I really don’t know what I was thinking. Sometimes I’d leave Ellis and I’d come and find you here — like my dog or my cat, I used to think sometimes, just waiting. And I’d be afraid you’d be here and I’d be afraid you’d gone out, afraid you’d ask me, really ask me where I’d been, and afraid you wouldn’t. Sometimes you’d try, but I could always stop you, I could see in your eyes when you were frightened. I hated that look and I hated me and I hated you. I could see how white men got that look they so often had when they looked at me; somebody had beat the shit out of them, had scared the shit out of them, long ago. And now I was doing it to you. And it made it hard for me when you touched me, especially—” She stopped, picked up her drink, tasted it, set it down. “I couldn’t stand Ellis. You don’t know what it’s like, to have a man’s body over you if you can’t stand that body. And it was worse now, since I’d been with you, than it had ever been before. Before, I used to watch them wriggle and listen to them grunt, and, God, they were so solemn about it, sweating yellow pigs, and so vain, like that sad little piece of meat was making miracles happen, and I guess it was, for them — and I wasn’t touched at all, I just wished I could make them come down lower. Oh, yes, I found out all about white people, that’s what they were like, alone, where only a black girl could see them, and the black girl might as well have been blind as far as they were concerned. Because they knew they were white, baby, and they ruled the world. But now it was different, sometimes when Ellis put his hands on me, it was all I could do not to scream, not to vomit. It had got to me, it had got to me, and I felt that I was being pumped full of — I don’t know what, not poison exactly, but dirt, waste, filth, and I’d never be able to get it out of me, never be able to get that stink out of me. And sometimes, sometimes, sometimes—” She covered her mouth, her tears spilled down over her hand, over the red ring. He could not move. “Oh, Lord Jesus. I’ve done terrible things. Oh, Lord. Sometimes. And then I’d come home to you. He always had that funny little smile when I finally left him, that smile he has, I’ve seen it many times now, when he’s outsmarted somebody who doesn’t know it yet. He can’t help it, that’s him, it was as though he were saying. ‘Now that I’m through with you, have a nice time with Vivaldo. And give him my regards.’ And, funny, funny — I couldn’t hate him. I saw what he was doing, but I couldn’t hate him. I wondered what it felt like, to be like that, not to have any real feelings at all, except to say, Well, now, let’s do this and now let’s do that and now let’s eat and now let’s fuck and now let’s go. And do that all your life. And then I’d come home and look at you. But I’d bring him with me. It was as though I was dirty, and you had to wash me, each time. And I knew you never could, no matter how hard we tried, and I didn’t hate him but I hated you. And I hated me.”
“Why didn’t you stop it, Ida? You could have stopped it, you didn’t have to go on with it.”
“Stop it and go where? Stop it and do what? No, I thought to myself, Well, you’re in it now, girl, close your eyes and grit your teeth and get through it. It’ll be worth it when it’s over. And that’s why I’ve been working so hard. To get away.”
“And what about me? What about us?”
She looked up at him with a bitter smile. “What about us? I hoped I’d get through this and then we’d see. But last night something happened, I couldn’t take it any more. We were up at Small’s Paradise—”
“Last night? You and Ellis?”
“Yes. And Cass.”
“Cass?”
“I asked her to come and have a drink with me.”
“Did you leave together?”
“No.”
“So that’s why she got in late last night.” He looked at her. “It’s a good thing I didn’t come home then, isn’t it?”
“What would you have done,” she cried, “if you had? You’d have sat at that typewriter for a while and then you’d have played some music and then you’d have gone out and got drunk. And when I came home, no matter when I came home, you’d have believed any lie I told you because you were afraid not to.”
“What a bitch you are,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, with a terrible sobriety, “I know.” She lit a cigarette. The hand that held the match trembled. “But I’m trying not to be. I don’t know if there’s any hope for me or not.” She dropped the match on the table. “He made me sing with the band. They didn’t really want me to, and I didn’t want to, but they didn’t want to say No, to him. So I sang. And of course I knew some of the musicians and some of them had known Rufus. Baby, if musicians don’t want to work with you, they sure can make you know it. I sang Sweet Georgia Brown, and something else. I wanted to get off that stand in the worst way. When it was over, and the people were clapping, the bass player whispered to me, he said, ‘You black white man’s whore, don’t you never let me catch you on Seventh Avenue, you hear? I’ll tear your little black pussy up.’ And the other musicians could hear him, and they were grinning. ‘I’m going to do it twice, once for every black man you castrate every time you walk, and once for your poor brother, because I loved that stud. And he going to thank me for it, too, you can bet on that, black girl.’ And he slapped me on the ass, hard, everybody could see it and, you know, those people up there aren’t fools, and before I could get away, he grabbed my hand and raised it, and he said, ‘She’s the champion, ain’t she, folks? Talk about walking, this girl ain’t started walking!’ And he dropped my hand, hard, like it was too hot or too dirty, and I almost fell off the stand. And everybody laughed and cheered, they knew what he meant, and I did, too. And I got back to the table. Ellis was grinning like it was all a big joke. And it was. On me.”