“You’re a hot little baby,” he told her. His breath was stale, a mixture of beer and cigarettes, and at first she drew away from him. Then she told herself that he was just a man, just a tool to be used for her own pleasure, and she put her arms around him and kissed him again.
He had a hand under her skirt now and was forcing it higher, touching her and hurting her. Her whole body was aching from the clumsy way he sprawled over her, his chest pressing against her breasts. His hands pulled at her panties and his breathing grew even faster, and she suddenly realized that everything was wrong.
Wrong.
With Charles her lovemaking had a beauty to it. With Danny at least there had been a genuine attraction and an animalistic drive and zest. But with this man there was nothing but raw, ugly sex.
The whole thing had no more meaning than two dogs copulating in an alley.
The realization was accompanied by a complete lapse of passion. She no longer knew anything but that she had to get away from this little man, had to get out of the dirty hotel room before she was sick to her stomach. She felt nothing at all but cheapness and degradation.
She made her body go all rigid and tried to turn away from him. At first he thought it was just part of the game. He chuckled deep in his throat and tried to kiss her again, but she twisted further from him and pulled her head back from his.
“Let me up,” she commanded.
“What?”
“Let... let me up. I have to go now.”
His eyes went wide in total disbelief. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”
She shook her head forcefully, trying to clear away the fogginess of the liquor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have been drunk, but I’m all right now. I have to leave.”
She started to sit up but his hand caught her on the point of the chin and knocked her back down to the bed.
“You little bitch,” he snapped. “You teasing little bitch! You get a guy all hot and then you think you can just pull up your pants and go home. Is that what you think?”
“I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I told you I’m sorry. But I can’t stay here.”
“You think so? Well, you got another think coming, baby. I figure on getting what I came for.”
She struggled but he forced her down on the bed and his fingers tore at her clothing. He was small but wiry and she couldn’t seem to stop him, couldn’t manage to keep him from taking her. She wanted to shout but his hand covered her mouth and prevented her from making a sound.
Suddenly, automatically, she thrust up with her knee and caught him in the groin. He let out a little tortured scream and doubled up in agony, rolling off the bed and onto the floor and holding himself where she had kicked him. She jumped from the bed and rearranged her clothing as well as she could, forcing herself to ignore the man whining and writhing in pain on the floor. Then she ran from the room and down the stairs and out to the street.
When she was in the car headed back to her home, the wind was once again playing with her long blonde hair. But this time it gave her no sensation of freedom. She felt instead only a sensation of total weakness and depression. Her body ached from the way he had hurt her and her insides hurt from a realization of what she had done and of what had almost happened to her.
Her clothes were in bad shape. He had managed to rip the blouse and skirt, and the panties were practically torn to shreds. She hoped that she could get into the house without being seen. Lizzie was out; Ronald was exhausted from his trip and probably asleep by now. If he saw her like this it would be bad.
What was the matter with her? Was she a tramp, a nymphomaniac? It certainly appeared that way, because there was certainly no reason for her behaviour, no explanation for letting the man pick her up.
Was she no better than a barroom pickup, a cheap slut? She couldn’t let anything like this happen again. She had to see Charles, had to straighten everything out and convince him to marry her.
Or else...
She forced the thought from her mind as she parked the little car in front of her house and hurried unsteadily to the door. Ronald was sleeping, so she undressed and threw her clothes down the chute, slipping soundlessly under the covers and falling asleep almost at once.
Chapter Nine
Carla woke up with an anguished moan. The ugly memory of the night before filled her with revulsion. Then another memory, even uglier, intruded itself. She tried to push it out of her mind but it wouldn’t be pushed.
She lay back on the bed and remembered. Her eyes closed softly and her head settled gently on the pillow. It had all happened so long ago, so many years and so many dollars away. But she could remember every detail as clearly as if it had all happened a few days ago, as if it was still happening for her.
Most of the time the memory disappeared. Most of the time it never came to her, never disturbed her. She could relax in her own existence without the memory to jar her.
But every once in a while, every now and then she would wake up in the middle of the night with the memory coming back like a nightmare. She would cringe against the sheets and a shiver would pass through her body. And then her mind would review the whole thing from beginning to end, scene by scene and emotion by emotion...
It was twilight and at any moment the streetlights would snap into brilliance. She was walking down Pulaski Street like a sleepwalker and her mother was holding her by the hand, making her walk faster, half-dragging her along and cursing harshly at her. She walked as quickly as she could with her hand held firmly by her mother’s and her mind foggy.
Then they were off Pulaski Street, around the corner to another street Carla didn’t recognize. She didn’t bother to dart a glance at the street sign. It didn’t matter where they were or where they were going. Nothing mattered any more.
Nothing mattered at all.
The neighborhood they had entered was even worse than the one where she lived. Those houses that still had paint on them were losing the paint quickly, and flakes of old paint fell to expose bare boards. The children playing stickball in the streets were barefoot for the most part, and the dogs that snapped at their heels were scrawny and mangy.
Almost every house along the block had one or two windows broken. Papers and trash cluttered the gutter and were blown up and down the sidewalk by a strong breeze. The whole atmosphere was more than that of poverty. It was, rather, as if no one cared any more, as if everyone recognized that this was a slum and would remain a slum. And the people were beyond caring.
Decayed, she thought. Rotten inside and falling apart like a rotten log.
She wished suddenly that she could rot inside. Anything, anything to kill what was growing within her. Anything to snuff out the life that didn’t have any right to exist.
Anything.
Her mother strode down the street with the illogically swift and purposeful stride of the old. Carla almost ran to keep up with her. She tried to concentrate as she walked but her mind flitted aimlessly from one image to another. She thought first of the boy whose seed she carried in her belly, wondering what he would say if he knew and what possible difference it might make. None, she realized. What’s done was definitely done.
She wondered about the child she carried. What might he be like? She was less than two months gone, and she might never know anything about that child. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it be strong and healthy? Would it look like her?
Or like... him?
It might be a wonderful person, she thought. It might grow up to be a beautiful woman or a strong, brilliant man. It might grow up to be President of the United States.