“Oh yes,” he nodded eagerly. “I do agree.”
“I don’t,” Sam said. “I like who I am.”
“And I like who I am,” Flo said. “Besides, you can never change, really.”
“Can’t you?” Celia asked lazily. “What a drag.”
They argued the possibility of personal change, essential change. Blank listened to the Mortons’ hooted denials and sensed the presence of an obscene danger: he was tempted to refute them, calmly, a cool, sardonic smile on his lips, by saying, “I have changed. I killed Frank Lombard.” He resisted the temptation, but toyed with the risk a moment, enjoying it. Then he contented himself with an unspoken, “I know something you don’t know,” and this childish thought, for reasons he could not comprehend, made them immeasurably dear to him.
Eventually, of course, they were all talked out. Daniel served coffee, which they drank mostly in silence. At an unseen signal, Flo and Sam Morton rose to their feet, thanked Daniel for a pleasant evening, congratulated Celia Montfort on her impersonation, and departed. Blank locked and chained his door behind them.
When he returned to the living room, Celia was standing. They embraced and kissed, his mouth sticking to the thick rouge on her lips. He felt her padded ass.
“Shall I take it off?” she asked.
“Oh no. I like it.”
They emptied ashtrays, carried glasses to the kitchen sink. “Can you stay?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Good.”
She went into the bathroom. He moved around the apartment, checking windows, turning off lights, putting the iron bar on the hallway door. When he walked across the living room he saw his ghostly reflection jump from mirror to mirror, bits and pieces.
When he came back into the bedroom she was sitting quietly on the bed, staring.
“What do you want?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Oh, leave the wig on,” he said quickly. “And the brassiere and girdle. Or whatever it is. You’ll want to take off the suit and blouse.”
“And slip? And stockings?”
“Yes.”
“The pearls?”
“No, leave them on. Would you like a robe? I have a silk robe.”
“All right.”
“Is it too warm in here?”
“A little.”
“I’ll turn down the heat. Are you sleepy?”
“More tired than sleepy. The Mortons tire me. They never stop moving.”
“I know. I showered this morning. Shall I shower now?”
“No. Let me hold you.”
“Naked?”
“Yes.”
Later, under a single light blanket, she held him, and through her silk robe he felt padded brassiere and girdle. “Mommy,” he said.
“I know,” she murmured. “I know.”
He curled up in her arms, began weeping quietly.
“I’m trying,” he gasped. “I really am trying.”
“I know,” she repeated. “I know.”
The thought of fucking her, or attempting it, offended him, but he could not sleep.
“Mommy,” he said again.
“Turn over,” she commanded, and so he did.
“Ahh,” she said. “There.”
“Oh. Oh.”
“Am I hurting you?”
“Oh yes! Yes.”
“Am I Gilda now?”
“Yes. But she never would.”
“More?”
“Slowly. Please.”
“What is my name?”
“Celia.”
“What?”
“Gilda.”
“What?”
“Mommy.”
“That’s better. Isn’t that better?”
He slept, finally. It seemed to him he was awake a moment later.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
“You were having a nightmare. You screamed. What was it?”
“A dream,” he said, snuggling into her. “I had a bad dream.”
“What did you dream?”
“All confused.”
He moved closer to her, his hands on cotton batting and sponge rubber.
“Do you want me to do it again?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” he said thankfully. “Please.”
In the morning when he awoke, she was lying beside him, sleeping naked, having sometime during the night taken off her wig, robe, costume. But she still wore the pearls. He touched them. Then he moved stealthily down beneath the blanket until he was crouched, completely covered, and smelled her sweet warmth. He spread her gently. Then he drank from her, gulping from the fountain, greedy he, until he felt her come awake. Still he persisted, and she moved, reaching down under the blanket to press the back of his head. He groaned, almost swooning, fevered with the covered heat. He could not stop. Afterwards she licked his mouth.
And still later, when they were dressed and at the kitchen table, she said, “You’ll do it again?”-more of a statement than a question.
He nodded wordlessly, knowing what she meant, and beginning to comprehend the danger she represented.
“From the front?” she asked. “Will you? And look into his eyes, and tell me?”
“Difficult,” he said.
“You can do it,” she said. “I know you can.”
“Well…” He glowed. “It needs planning. And luck, of course.”
“You make your own luck.”
“Do I? Well. I’ll think about it. It’s an interesting problem.”
“Will you do something for me?”
“Of course. What?”
“Come to me immediately afterwards.”
He thought a moment.
“Perhaps not immediately afterwards. But soon. That night. Will that do?”
“I may not be home.”
He was instantly suspicious. “Do you want to know the night? I don’t know that myself. And won’t.”
“No, I don’t want to know the night, or the place. Just the week. Then I’ll stay home every night, waiting for you. Can you tell me the week?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you that. When I’m ready.”
“My love,” she said. “The eyes,” she said.
6
Bernard Gilbert took life seriously-and he had a right to be mournful. Orphaned at an early age he had been schlepped around from uncle to aunt, cousin to cousin, six months at each, and always assured that the food he was eating, his bed, his clothes-all this came from the labor of his benefactors, at their expense.
At the age of eight he was shining shoes on the street, then delivering for a delly, then waiting on table, then selling little pieces of cloth, then bookkeeper in a third-rate novelty store.
And all the time going to school, studying, reading books. All joylessly. Sometimes, when he had saved enough money, he went to a woman. That, too, was joyless. What could he do?
Through high school, two miserable years in the army, City College, always working, sleeping four or five hours a night, studying, reading, making loans and paying them back, not really thinking of why? but obeying an instinct he could not deny. And suddenly, there he was, Bernard Gilbert, C.P.A., in a new black suit, a hard worker who was good with numbers. This was a life?
There was a spine in him. Hard work didn’t daunt him, and when he had to, he grovelled and shrugged it away. Much man. Not a swaggering, hairy-chested conqueror, but a survivor. A special kind of bravery; hope never died.
It came in his 32nd year when a distant cousin unexpectedly invited him for dinner. And there was Monica. “Monica, I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Bernard Gilbert. He’s a C.P.A.”
And so they were married, and his life began. Happy? You wouldn’t believe! God said, “Bernie, I’ve been shitting on you for 32 years. You can take it, and it’s time you deserve a break. Enjoy, kid, enjoy!”
First of all, there was Monica. Not beautiful, but handsome and strong. Another hard worker. They laughed in bed. Then came the two children, Mary and Sylvia. Beautiful girls! And healthy, thank God. The apartment wasn’t much, but it was home. Home! His home, with wife and children. They all laughed.
The bad memories faded. It all went away: the cruelties, the hand-me-down clothes, the insults and crawling. He began, just began, to understand joy. It was a gift, and he cherished it. Bernard Gilbert: a melancholy man with sunken cheeks always in need of a shave, stooped shoulders, puzzled eyes, thinning hair, a scrawny frame: a man who, if he had his life to live over again, would have been a violinist. Well…