On that he flinched as though hit with a whip, and screamed, “What do you mean I stink? You bitch! You—”
He had jumped up, so his face was close to hers, but I pushed him back in his seat. She went on: “That hurts, doesn’t it? First to be God’s gift to women, and then find out you make her puke.”
For some moments, there was just the sound of his panting, while she looked down at him, cold as a lizard. Then she went on: “Now about Gramie, about him being a fag...”
“Which he is all right. I ran into a guy in Japan who went to Yale with him, and the tales he told, oh brother!”
“The lies he told, I think.”
“If that’s what you think.”
“Burl, your brother’s not inny fag, and never has been one. So how do I know he’s not? He does it to me in the morning, just before we get up; then again in the afternoon, and then again all night. And why he does, he’s encouraged. He’s encouraged by me, all the time. On account that he smells so nice. Burl, he smells like a man. So don’t you come inny more. Could be I’d let you in, and then throw up on you.”
I asked her: “You done?”
“I guess so. Throw him out.”
I took him by the arm, gave a yank, and marched him to the front door. In the hall, he picked up a jacket I hadn’t seen, a gabardine thing that he’d dropped on the phone table. He started to put it on, but I told him: “You can do that outside.” He went out, and on the walk began stabbing his hand into the armhole of the jacket. “Maybe this will help,” I told him, and popped a cross to his jaw. He went down and I told him, “Get up!” and aimed a kick at his slats. He got up and I let him have it again. I was set for another kick when a hand touched my arm. She was there. “No, Gramie, no,” she whispered, very gently.
And then, to him: “Git!”
He scrambled to his feet, and she picked up the jacket and tossed it to him, making a face and saying, “Pee-yoo,” as though its smell made her sick. Then she lifted my hand to her mouth and kissed my knuckles. “You shouldn’t have,” she whispered.
“I was telling him not to come back...
“But I already had.”
“...In a way he’d understand.”
“Not that I didn’t love it. Did you hit him for me?”
“Who do you think?”
“Then, act like it.”
“Encourage me, encourage me.”
“Let’s run upstairs real quick!”
By then he’d put on his coat and got in his car, on the left side, and wound the right-hand window down. “So brother-o’-mine,” he called in kind of a singsong, “you’re a big bad two-balled studhorse from down by the Rio Grande — but that’s not how Gwenny tells it.”
“And who the hell is Gwenny?”
“Gwenn Cary. Remember?”
Gwendolyn Cary was the one who showed houses on Sunday, but I had known her as Lynn. “...Yeah? And what about her?” I asked.
“Nothing, except she came every night, every night to this house, hoping for a screw, and not once did she get it. But she finally got your number — the boxing stuff at Yale, all that tough talk with the clients, the act you put on with her, nothing, she says, but your way of pretending you’re a he, when you’re just a cocksucking fag!”
I drove at him with my fist.
He ducked and I landed on air. I grabbed and got the coat, then tried to pull him to the window, so I could swing with my other hand. But he was crouched on the seat, next to the window wind-up, and turned it without my seeing him. Suddenly the glass jammed on my arm and I was caught. He saw his chance, lurched back to the wheel, snapped his ignition on, gunned his motor and let in his clutch, all in one motion. But he had to back up, to swing clear of a car ahead, so I was jerked along the curb, and my feet went out from under me. He cut his wheel and shot ahead, but then stopped so his tires screamed. She was in front of his car, one hand on her hip, a thick look on her face. “Wind down that window!” she snapped.
“You think I will? You think I will? Out of the way, bitch, or I’m killing you! I’m driving this car right over you, I’m—”
I think he would have, but just then my hand jerked loose and I went staggering to pull her out of the way. She stepped aside and waved him on. He roared past her, like some maniac in a drag race. On one of the lawns, a colored woman was staring — on another, a gardener stood with his hose pointed at us; and in the Lieberman house across the street, I could see a face at the window. But she paid no attention. “Honey,” she asked, “are you hurt?”
“Not much. Shook up, is all.”
“He’s no one to monkey with.”
“He’s a rat, first, last, and all the time.”
“He is, but rats aren’t dumb.”
She led me inside and up to our bathroom, where she snapped on the light and looked at my hand, which was scratched from the jerk I’d given it to get clear. It bled, too. She got out the Listerine bottle, uncorked it, and bathed my hand with it. “It’ll hurt,” she said. “It’ll sting a little—”
“I can stand it—”
“But then you won’t have any infection.”
She sprayed bandage on and the bleeding stopped. Then she knelt to my leg, and for the first time I saw my knee, all bloody inside the torn slack. She stripped me down, swabbed more Listerine on, and sprayed me with bandage again. Then she led me into the bedroom, got out my pajamas and started taking my clothes off. “Hey, what are you doing?” I asked.
“You’re going to bed, Gramie.”
“What for? You think I’m sick or something?”
“You’re staying here, I’m bringing your dinner up.”
“I have a better idea.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“How about you peeling off? And coming to bed?”
“...Who was Gwenn Cary?”
“Well how would I know?”
“Who was she?”
“...Girl. Woman. Widow. Showed houses for me.”
“And came here to get screwed?”
“Ask me no questions I’ll tell you no lies.”
“Well? Did she?”
“How do I know what she came for?”
“Did she?”
“All right, then. She did.”
“And you screwed her?”
“Yes, but this was before I met you. It was before my speech at Northwestern, before I ever saw you.”
“On that bed, on our cloud?”
“But it wasn’t a cloud then.”
“But on our bed?”
“On one of these beds, I suppose.”
I picked up the phone, dialed the store where her mother worked, and asked for “Mrs. Lang, in house furnishings.” After some time she came on, and I said: “Mrs. Lang, do you remember those twin beds you sold me, for my master bedroom?” She said she did, and was startled when I asked her to send out duplicates. She kept asking if something was wrong, but I told her: “No, nothing at all, but our woman spilled furniture polish on them, and Sonya can’t get out the smell, so...”
So she took over at once, saying new mattresses would take care of that, and I had to argue endlessly that I wanted new beds, the works. At last she agreed, and had me wait while she wrote up the slip. Then: “I’ll put an expedite on it,” and I was free to hang up. I called Goodwill Industries, and asked them to send for a couple of beds, both in good condition. They said they’d do it next day.