She could hardly keep from screaming at him, "Let's get something straight between us!"
Not long after that she decided to delay their marriage while she worked for a year in New York. At first Jim didn't take it too well; he even offered to come with her to New York and get a job there himself so they could be married right away. She stood her ground, insisting upon going it alone. Deep down, she knew that she wanted something forbidden and evil, that she had to escape from Jim's cloying goodness. But just what it was that she wanted she did not know.
The bathtub water had cooled somewhat, so that it was bearable now. Brenda began to feel better. Her body was a bright lobster pink from the burning inundation but her weak trembling had stopped. Gradually, her heart ceased its slow thudding and the sweat dried on her face. That must be what hell is like, she thought. I've been in hell's river… What is it called? The river Styx, that runs through hell, bubbling with searing brine.
It had been a kind of baptism and now she felt shriven of the sins she had committed on the floor with Harl. It didn't seem so bad now. She had come to New York for just a year, and she ought to make the most of it. It would be a last fling for her, before she got married, and every woman deserved a last fling. Most of them don't get one, she thought darkly, remembering the plump, self-satisfied wives who spent their energies on clubs full of other women. She wouldn't be like that; Jim would not make a skittish clubwoman out of her. She would have her "year" in New York, like a debutante, and then she would settle down. It would be her secret, something to warm her bones when she got middle-aged and housebound.
She washed herself with a cake of perfumed soap, feeling seductive and lethargic, her body heavy with satisfied desire. She lay back and soaked for a while, watching the wet strands of her cunt hair float near the surface of the water. How different it looked when it was wet, much longer and not kinky anymore. She touched the trailing tendrils and watched the hairs make patterned swirls in the soapy water.
Suddenly her body stiffened and she sat up, trembling. Now, instead of the intense heat, she felt cold. Crawlingly, malevolently cold. The hairs reminded her of the twining, swirling mass of forest hair in the poster.
She jumped up quickly and stepped out of the tub, reaching for one of the new white towels. She dried herself with shaking hands, her mind warding off the wailing terror that she felt with a kaleidoscope of fragmented plans. She had to get out… see the neighborhood… buy some cologne and some dusting powder. She needed some toothpaste, yes, she was sure of it. And she really ought to have some Cokes or something. I'll go out… I'll enjoy that. Yes, I'll go out.
When she was dressed she hurried out the door, turning her head so that she did not see the vixenish face in the poster.
CHAPTER THREE
The neighborhood was a crazy quilt of hippies, sailors on liberty and barefoot girls in floppy hats. It was evening; Greenwich Village had awakened with a clamorous jolt. Brenda hesitated a moment in the doorway, then stepped out onto Seventh Avenue and dogged her way into the crowds. The spring air was cool and she wore a light fuzzy sweater over her shoulders. It was not long before she felt dowdy, like an old lady in a shawl.
Two chicks loped toward her, their slender, coltish legs snugly defined by skin-tight bell-bottoms. She stared in amazement at their nearly exposed breasts under the fishnet teeshirts they wore. The round globes bounced free, innocent of bras, the pink tips poking through the loosely woven material like impudent tongues.
A tall, perfectly built boy in wet-look leather pants and shirt swiveled his tiny hips as he passed a bemused sailor, who glanced guiltily at his groin before turning pointedly away. The young boy grinned knowingly and winked, tossing his head so that the earring in his right lobe danced with a saucy, mocking invitation. Brenda looked at him in wonderment and hostility. How could he stand those pants so tight, she asked herself, remembering Harl's pained gasp: "These pants are choking my balls off." She too looked at the boy's crotch and saw his nuts pinched into a huge knot of flesh. He saw her glance and curled his lip at her in disgust, his eyes raking her body. He gave a theatrical shudder and minced past.
Goddamn him! An answering surge of femininity rose in her. She had what he would love to be able to offer to another man! Memories of her afternoon with Harl came back to her now and made her hot and itchy once again in the face of the fairy's challenge.
She came to a tiny sidewalk cafe and chose a table by the railing so that she could watch the scene go by. Now that she was sitting down, out of the teeming phalanx of people, she relaxed a little. New York! She was here at last, in the midst of the excitement and anonymity for which she had longed. A diminutive black waiter in a dashiki and a cambric apron that threatened to trip him skidded to a stop and took her order for Viennese coffee. When he brought it, she made a dunking game of the blob of whipped cream and listened to the conversations around her.
"If there a spirit present, will the table please rise?"
Brenda turned and saw a powerfully built man, his back to her, leaning forward with the tips of his fingers resting on the sticky surface of the wire table. Something about the back of his head was vaguely familiar to her. Across from him sat a long-haired brunette in a denim jumpsuit, holding a Yorkshire terrier and drawing on the place mat with her left hand, her eyes closed and her lips parted and slightly moist. Her lids fluttered with a contained excitement as the pencil scrawled in aimless lines.
The dog struggled to be free and the girl opened her eyes, putting the pencil down and soothing the animal.
"You can't break the line," the man said. "That drives the spirit away." His voice lowered to a silky, suggestive note, "We'll try it again, later, when there isn't so much of a crowd around."
"We're getting bad vibrations from the subway," the brunette purred, rubbing her nose against that of the high-strung dog.
Suddenly Brenda recognized the man. It was the rental agent who leased the apartment to her. His name was Leo… something. He was about thirty-five, with satanic good looks and straight black hair that looked like a licorice cap. His face was dark and sensual, with full red lips and a deep cleft in the chin.
Just then he turned around and caught her eye. His face moved in surprised recognition, and Brenda detected a trace of secrecy as he glanced quickly at the brunette who was cooing to the yapping dog.
"Well, hi. You getting out to see your new neighborhood?" he asked.
"Yes. I-I thought I'd get some air."
She hated herself for the hesitant, unsophisticated reply as the brunette looked up and gave her a catty smile. The long, white-polished nails looked ready and willing to scratch the eyes out of any female who encroached too far onto her territory. It was obvious that Leo was staked out, Brenda thought, but even more obvious that he wished he weren't. His black eyes flickered over her in interest, making her remember the little bodily contacts he had managed to make when he showed her the apartment. A hand on the elbow, a touch on the waist to guide her through a doorway. As he nodded in attempted casualness and turned back to his date, Brenda knew that she would see him again.