Because marriage to Charles would have grown intolerable. She could see that now, and seeing it she also saw how much more clearly he viewed things. As a lover Charles was superb; as a husband he would grow dull. Repetition would make his skillful caresses and gestures seem commonplace and trivial. Domestication would remove the spirit of adventure from his love and leave only boredom.
Danny Rand.
She murmured his name softly to herself, mouthing the syllables carefully. Danny was so different, so completely different. Danny’s touch had a meaning to it, a deep and exciting meaning. He would never bore her, not in a million years, not so long as he loved her so intensely and passionately. She could visualize herself becoming accustomed to Charles Butler, but Danny Rand would always surprise her.
Was she going mad? A man came into her home, insulted her and beat her and raped her, and here she was falling in love with him! It seemed ridiculous, but a second glance showed that there was good reason for her reaction.
The insults, the beating and the rape were not the acts of a vicious, hateful man. On the contrary they were the acts of a lover, and only a lover who would treat her in such a manner could ever fully possess her. She needed a man who would dominate her, a man who would be the boss and force her to behave.
Once she reached this level of understanding, it was easy for Carla to discover a few basic truths about herself. She sat half-dressed on the edge of her bed, remembering her childhood and seeing how it fit into the total picture. The lack of a father, the absence of a strong man in her life, had left a void in her personality and caused her to seek domination while acting at the same time like a domineering woman. She needed to be mastered and loved simultaneously. She thought of her mother, realizing in a start that the beatings she received from her mother’s hairbrush were more than discipline to her — they were also a sign of love.
She finished dressing hurriedly and lifted the phone, dialing Charles’s number. He answered after two rings.
“Charles? This is Carla.”
“Oh, hello—”
“Charles,” she cut in, “I want you to listen to me. I’m not going to see you again.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m not angry with you,” she explained. “It’s just—”
“I know. It’s that you’ve found yourself, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” he said. “I knew it would happen, dear. When I first met you, I thought of you as just another attractive woman to be taken and eventually discarded. But you turned out to be a lot more than that, Carla. You’re a good woman. Do you know what that means?”
“What?”
“A good woman is one you can spend your whole life trying to love. I only wish I could love you properly, Carla. If I were a one-woman man, I couldn’t wish for a better woman than you.”
“I think I’ve found one,” she said softly.
“A one-woman man?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m happy for both of you, and I’m glad that you wanted to tell me. And I’ll be right here if you ever need me.”
“I know,” she said. “I know you will, Charles.”
Downstairs, she shut off the still-spinning phonograph and wandered from room to room, her mind racing in circles. She felt as though she had crossed a bridge over a wide and deep chasm, and the air was indescribably fresher on the present side of the bridge. Talking to Charles had helped, besides being essential in its own right. She had needed to set things straight, to tell him just how the situation stood. But their conversation had meant more than that. It meant a clean break with his blessings. It strengthened her own convictions that what she was doing was right.
Charles was good, so good. She guessed that some day he might find the right woman for him, a woman important enough to him to conquer his bachelor spirit and tame him. It would take quite a woman.
She remembered his words of the day before. Was he right? Did living in the shadow of the atom bomb, in so insecure a world, mean that men and women should live only for the moment? She didn’t think so.
It seemed to her that the insecurity of everything made it so much more necessary for a person to work for security in his or her personal life. Love was important, and love could make the difference, the important and vital difference.
I am in love, she thought.
She had to see Danny, had to find him at once. He would be upset now over what he had done, and she had to find him and talk to him and make plans with him.
But where did he live? She thumbed through the phonebook but found no listing for him. Perhaps he was at the station; perhaps he had re-opened it for the day. She had to find him, and that was the first place to look.
She picked up her purse and dashed out the door and down the driveway to her car. Driving along, it took a great deal of effort on her part to keep from exceeding the speed limit.
The room felt like a prison cell. The closest Danny had ever been to prison was a night in the guardhouse after an exceptionally successful weekend in New York when he was stationed at Fort Dix. He could barely remember being tossed in the jug, but he could never forget the sensation of waking up the next morning, opening his eyes and staring at a barred window.
He had the same sensation now, sitting on the edge of his cot and staring out his window. The window faced the side of another building, with the effect that daylight never penetrated his room to any appreciable degree. Midnight and noon were identical to him. His window lacked bars, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be much difference between the room and a prison cell.
And why not? he asked himself savagely. He certainly belonged in prison. They ought to lock him up and chuck the key in the middle of Lake Erie, unless they decided he was out of his mind and threw him instead in a padded cell in the loony bin. How could he ever do a thing like that to a woman like Carla?
Was he a sex maniac, a pervert? Christ, he didn’t think so. He wasn’t so hard up that he had to force a woman to spread her legs for him. He wasn’t hard up at all, not after the time he spent with Carla’s maid just a day or two ago.
But he had forced her. He shut his eyes and winced at the memory of his knee sinking into her stomach and his hands hurting her. God, what was the matter with him?
It had to be more than sex. His mind combed over his past life, remembering the parade of women he had known. He remembered the first time, standing around nervously in a cathouse waiting-room while he was still in high school. He went there with his buddies, and when it was his turn he gave the frowzy redhead five dollars and undressed like an automaton.
At first nothing had happened.
“What’s the matter, honey? This your first time?”
He nodded, ashamed.
“Relax,” she commanded. “Come here and let me help you a little...”
From that time on sex had been no problem. There was a parade of girls — girls in the back seat of a car, girls on their own couches while their parents slept upstairs, girls that he seduced and girls that he paid for.
He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it carelessly on the floor. The door and window of the room were closed and it was getting stuffy, but he didn’t even feel like bothering to open door or window. He stretched out on the bed and set fire to a cigarette, tossing the burned-out match on the floor.
A car horn sounded in the distance, reminding him of the service station. It was closed now. He should open it for business again, but he just didn’t feel like it.
To hell with the station! Why in the hell should he drive himself fifteen hours a day anyhow? To make more money that he wouldn’t have time to spend?