Then he remembered the girl.
The fourteen year old one. The virgin. The girl it had been so much fun to make love to, and the girl it had been so amazingly easy to forget along with the neighborhood and the old way of life that went with the neighborhood.
Now he remembered her, remembered her and wondered what she was like now, wondered what she had been doing and how she looked and other things about her. What had her name been? Linda, he remembered And her last name had been something unpronounceably Polish, and she lived across the hall from his old room with her alcoholic mother.
Was she still there?
Probably not. But it was worth a look, he told himself. He opened the door to the building and walked into the foyer, with cooking smells hitting his nostrils instantly. It was the same building — it looked the same and it smelled the same. He climbed four flights of stairs and passed all the different odors until he was on the fifth floor. Then he found her door, stood awkwardly in front of it for a second or so, and then knocked.
He waited.
The door opened. A fat old woman with broken blood vessels in her nose opened the door and stood staring at him. She was indescribably ugly. She was also Linda’s mother.
“Wanna drink?”
He did not want a drink. “Uh... is Linda around?”
“She don’t live here.”
“Aren’t you her mother?”
“Yeah, I’m her mother. What good it is to me, I’m her mother. Yeah.”
“She moved away?”
“Ungrateful little slut,” the woman said. “She don’t live her no more.”
“When did she move?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday, a month ago, last year. I don’t know when. Go away.”
The woman’s breath was knocking him out. He moved away but kept one foot in the door.
“You know where she lives now?”
“Don’t know,” the woman said. “Don’t care. You want a drink? Get the hell out.”
He got the hell out, glad to get away from the woman. He hurried down the stairs and out of the building and wondered why he was disappointed that Linda hadn’t been around. She wouldn’t have done him any good. The only sensible thing to do with her was to take her to bed, and he couldn’t very well do that in his present state of impotence.
He didn’t have any place else to go, unless he wanted to head back to the Ruskin and call it an evening. Somehow that didn’t appeal in the least. He gave up trying to think straight and sat down on the stoop waiting for something to happen.
Something happened.
She said: “Hello, Johnny Wells.”
He looked up and saw her. It took him a minute to recognize her, mainly because he didn’t believe his eyes. She was wearing a black skirt that was tight on her hips and a white sweater that was even tighter on her breasts. A splash of lipstick reddened her mouth.
It was Linda.
“Let’s go someplace,” she said. “I don’t like to hang around the building if I can help it. I don’t want to run into the old lady. She’s worse than ever.”
“I saw her a few minutes ago.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“I was looking for you.”
“I suppose I should be flattered,” she said. “One night with me and you disappear for four months. Then you come looking for me and I should be flattered.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. You had things to do. I know all about it.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “You’ve been making the gigolo scene. Doing good at it according to what I hear.”
“How did you find out?”
“I didn’t put detectives on you. You hang around this neighborhood long enough and you hear everything about everybody. You know that. Somebody saw you and told somebody else. The word spread. Congratulations.”
“Look,” he said, “about that night. I’m sorry I left that way. It was a rotten thing to do.”
“Forget it.”
“I mean—”
“You were the first,” she told him. “You weren’t the last. So forget it.”
He didn’t say anything. They were walking east on 98th Street by now and she was holding his arm. He tried to figure her out. She was still fourteen, he remembered, but she wasn’t the way he remembered her. She seemed at least several years older. He wondered what had happened to her.
“You don’t live with your mother,” he said finally.
“Good thinking.”
“When did you leave?”
“Three weeks ago. I couldn’t take it any more. She got worse every day, drinking like a fish and hollering all the time. If I brought a guy up she raised hell. I couldn’t stand it so I cut out on my own.”
“Where do you live?”
“Another block the way we’re heading. I got a room to myself. It’s not much but it’s better than the other dump.”
“How do you make money?”
“How do you think?”
Her eyes challenged him and he turned away. It seemed somehow inconceivable, but there was one answer and only one. No wonder she seemed so much older than before.
“You hustle,” he said.
“Sure. I’m not a professional or anything. I turn a trick when I’m broke. It pays the rent and keeps me eating and that’s about all. I don’t turn more than a trick a night and I don’t work all the time. I’m not a full-fledged whore yet, is what I’m trying to say.”
He didn’t have anything to say to that. Somehow it seemed very wrong to him that she was playing the prostitute, even on a part-time semi-pro basis. He wondered what kind of a double standard he was dreaming up. If it was all right for him to make love for money, why was it wrong for her?
“Here’s where I live,” she said. “Why don’t you come up for a while?”
“Well—”
“Come on,” she said. “It’s a clean place. You won’t get your clothes dirty or anything. And if we wind up in bed I won’t charge you a penny. Old times sake and all.”
He felt that she was laughing at him. Well, maybe she had a right to. He followed her into the brownstone and up one flight of stairs to her room.
“Better than 99th Street,” she said. “No smell here. And only one flight of stairs to climb.”
She opened the door. It was a small room but she had it fixed up nice. The furniture was old but presentable.
“Nice place,” he said.
“You like it?”
“Sure.”
“But your place is nicer, isn’t it? I’m sure it is. Where are you living now, Johnny?”
He told her.
She whistled. “Fancy,” she said. “What does it cost you to hang out there?”
“Thirty-five a week.”
“It costs me ten. I guess your place must be pretty slick, huh? ’Cause this isn’t bad and yours is three and a half times as much.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Can I make you some coffee? I’m not supposed to cook here but I got a hot plate and I can make instant coffee. You want a cup?”
“If you’re having some.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just put a pot of water up. Wait a minute.”
They talked about nothing in particular while the water boiled. She spooned coffee into two white china cups, poured the boiling water into each cup and stirred with a tin spoon. She handed one of the cups to him and kept the other for herself.
“No cream or sugar. You mind?”
“I like it black.”
“Me too. You been gone a long time, Johnny. What have you been doing with yourself? You act different. You don’t fit in around here any more.”
“I know.”
“Tell me all about it,” she said. “About the places you been and the things you did.”
“It’s not much of a story.”
“But I’m interested.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”