Others as well as herself were beginning to leave the suite, heading for the outer doorway in what seemed to be a general exodus. One of the older boys whom she knew as Stanley Dixon came out from the other room. As he nodded toward the door which he carefully closed behind him, she could hear snatches of his words. ". . . girls said they're going
... had enough ... scared ... disturbance."
Someone else said told you we shouldn't have had all this . . ."
"Why not somebody from here?" It was Lyle Dumaire's voice, much less under control than it had been earlier.
"Yeah, but who?" The eyes of the small group swung around the room appraisingly. Marsha studiedly ignored them.
Several friends of Sue Phillipe, the girl who had passed out, were trying to help her to her feet, but not succeeding. One of the boys, more steady than the rest, called out concernedly, "Marsha! Sue's in pretty bad shape.
Can you help her?"
Reluctantly Marsha stopped, looking down at the girl who had opened her eyes and was leaning back, her childlike face pallid, mouth slack, with its lipstick smeared messily. With an inward sigh Marsha told the others, "Help me get her to the bathroom." As three of them lifted her, the drunken girl began to cry.
At the bathroom one of the boys seemed inclined to follow, but Marsha closed the door firmly and bolted it. She turned to Sue Phillipe who was staring at herself in the mirror with an expression of horror. At least, Marsha thought gratefully, the shock had been sobering.
"I wouldn't worry too much," she remarked. "They say it has to happen once to all of us."
"Oh, God! My mother will kill me." The words were a moan, ending with a dive to the toilet bowl in order to be sick.
Seating herself on the edge of the bathtub, Marsha said practically,
"You'll feel a lot better after that. When you're through I'll bathe your face and we can try some fresh make-up."
Her head still down, the other girl nodded dismally.
It was ten or fifteen minutes before they emerged and the suite was almost cleared, though Lyle Dumaire and his cronies were still huddled together.
If Lyle planned to escort her, Marsha thought, she would turn him down. The only other occupant was the boy who had appealed for help. He came forward, explaining hurriedly, "We've arranged for a girl friend of Sue's to take her home, and Sue can probably spend the night there." As he took the other girl's arm, she went with him compliantly. Over his shoulder the boy called back, "We've a car waiting downstairs. Thanks a lot, Marsha." Relieved, she watched them go.
She was retrieving her wrap, which she had put down to help Sue Phillipe, when she heard the outer door close. Stanley Dixon was standing in front of it, his hands behind him. Marsha heard the lock click softly.
"Hey, Marsha," Lyle Dumaire said. "What's the big rush?"
Marsha had known Lyle since childhood, but now there was a difference.
This was a stranger, with the mien of a drunken bully. She answered, "I'm going home."
"Aw, come on." He swaggered toward her. "Be a good sport and have a drink."
"No, thank you."
As if he had not heard: "You're going to be a good sport, kid, aren't you?"
"Just privately," Stanley Dixon said. He had a thick nasal voice with a built-in leer. "Some of us have had a good time already. It's made us want more of the same." The other two, whose names she didn't know, were grinning.
She snapped, "I'm not interested in what you want." Though her voice was firm, she was aware of an underlying note of fear. She went toward the door, but Dixon shook his head. "Please," she said, "please let me go."
"Listen, Marsha," Lyle blustered. "We know you want to." He gave a coarse giggle. "All girls want to. They never really mean no. What they mean is
'come and get it."' He appealed to the others. "Eh, fellas?"
The third boy crooned softly, "That's the way it is. You gotta get in there and get it."
They began to move closer.
She wheeled. "I'm warning you: if you touch me I shall scream."
"Be a pity if you did that," Stanley Dixon murmured. "You might miss all the fun." Suddenly, without seeming to move, he was behind her, clapping a big sweaty hand across her mouth, another pinioning her arms. His head was close to hers, the smell of rye whiskey overpowering.
She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but without success.
"Listen, Marsha," Lyle said, his face twisted into a smirk, "you're going to get it, so you might as well enjoy it. That's what they always say, isn't it? If Stan lets go, will you promise not to make any noise?"
She shook her head furiously.
One of the others seized her arm. "Come on, Marsha. Lyle says you're a good sport. Why don't you prove it?"
She was struggling madly now, but unavailingly. The grip around her was unyielding. Lyle had the other arm and together they were forcing her toward the adjoining bedroom.
"The hell with it," Dixon said. "Somebody grab her feet." The remaining boy took hold. She tried to kick, but all that happened was her high-heeled pumps came off. With a sense of unreality Marsha felt herself being carried through the bedroom doorway.
"This is the last time," Lyle warned. The veneer of good humor had vanished. "Are you going to co-operate or not?"
Her answer was to struggle more violently.
"Get her things off," someone said. And another voice - she thought it was from whoever was holding her feetasked hesitantly, "Do you think we should?"
"Quit worrying." It was Lyle Dumaire. "Nothing'll happen. Her old man's whoring it up in Rome."
There were twin beds in the room. Resisting wildly, Marsha was forced backward onto the nearest. A moment later she lay across it, her head pressed back cruelly until all she could see was the ceiling above, once painted white but now closer to gray, and ornamented in the center where a light fitting glowed. Dust had accumulated on the fitting and beside it was a yellowed water stain.
Abruptly the ceiling light went out, but there was a glow in the room from another lamp left on. Dixon had shifted his grip. Now he was half sitting on the bed, near her head, but the grasp on her body as well as across her mouth was inflexible as ever. She felt other hands, and hysteria swept over her. Contorting herself, she attempted to kick but her legs were pinned down. She tried to roll over and there was a rending sound as her Balenciaga gown tore.
"I'm first," Stanley Dixon said. "Somebody take over here." She could hear his heavy breathing.
Footsteps went softly on the rug around the bed. Her legs were still held firmly, but Dixon's hand on her face was moving, another taking its place. It was an opportunity. As the new hand came over, Marsha bit fiercely. She felt her teeth go into flesh, meeting bone.
There was an anguished cry, and the hand withdrawn.
Inflating her lungs, Marsha screamed. She screamed three times and ended with a desperate cry. "Help! Please help me!"
Only the last word was cut off as Stanley Dixon's hand slammed back into place with a force that made her senses swim. She heard him snarl, "You fool! You stupid goon!"
"She bit me!" The voice was sobbing with pain. "The bitch bit my hand."
Dixon said savagely, "What did you expect her to do, kiss it? Now we'll have the whole goddamned hotel on our necks."
Lyle Dumaire urged, "Let's get out of here."
"Shut up!" Dixon commanded. They stood listening.
Dixon said softly, "There's nothing stirring. I guess nobody heard."
It was true, Marsha thought despairingly. Tears clouded her vision. She seemed to have lost the power to struggle any more.
There was a knock on the outside door. Three taps, firm and assertive.
"Christ!" the third boy said. "Somebody did hear." He added with a moan,
"Oh God!-my hand!"
The fourth asked nervously, "What do we do?"
The knocking was repeated, this time more vigorously.
After a pause a voice from outside called, "Open the door, please. I heard someone shout for help." The caller's speech had a soft, southern accent.