“No,” he said, “just ruthless.”
“You got yourself into this,” she said.
He could not help admiring her. She was certainly brave; she had worked out the best solution she could think of. She did not give up or break down into self-pity or sentimentality. This was something out of her own mind, from her own system.
“I’ll think it over,” he said.
She continued fixing dinner.
14
The front door of the apartment building was locked, and he knew that this was the policy of the big apartment houses. He also knew that there was a back entrance by which the women took wash down to the lines. Going around to the rear of the building, he saw the lines, the recessed garages. A flight of spindly wooden stairs led up to a door, and as he had expected the door was not locked; a housewife had blocked it open with a rolled-up copy of Life magazine.
He entered the building and went along the carpeted halls until he came to her door. Without hesitation he knocked.
“Who is it?” Patricia said from inside the apartment. “Just a minute.”
“It’s Art,” he said.
The door flew open. “What?” she said. She had on a heavy cord robe; she had been taking a bath. Her hair was tied up in a turban, and her cheeks were dark, glowing. Tightening the sash of her robe, she said, “I didn’t expect you; I thought you were going to call.” She was indecisive, and while she tried to make up her mind, he entered her apartment.
“I called,” he said. “I didn’t get any answer.”
“What about Rachael?” In consternation she moved away from him.
“She went out,” he said.
“I have to finish taking my shower. Excuse me.” She hurried into the bathroom.
Listening to the rush of water, he wondered if she had been here when the phone rang. The time was a quarter to six. “How late do you work?” he said.
“Five-thirty.”
So, he decided, she probably hadn’t been here. “Have you eaten dinner?” he said, standing by the bathroom door.
“No, I’m not hungry. I don’t feel well today. I want to go to bed early.”
Waiting for her, he roamed all around her apartment. Last night he had seen nothing of it; they had gone directly to bed, and Patricia had not even turned on the living room light. The prints on the walls interested him. And the mobile in the corner. He touched it, examined the materials, the workmanship. Handmade, he realized. From the metal strips of coffee cans, and from eggshells delicately tinted and glazed, undoubtedly by her. The furniture was low, light in color; he liked it. He tried out several chairs. Their lines were simple. He was a little awed, and at the same time he felt a full measure of confidence. This seemed to him a place where he had won out; he had nothing to fear from this room or this woman. He was excited and keyed up, but not apprehensive.
When she came out of the bathroom, he said, “Let’s go have dinner in Chinatown.” The restaurants there were cheap and the food was good. “You could maybe have some tea.” He was positive that she would want to eat.
“My head aches,” Patricia said. “Please, Art, not tonight. Okay? I just want to go to bed.” Going into the bedroom, she shut the door partly. The rustle of clothing reached his ears. In the darkness of the bedroom—the shades were down—she was dressing.
“I want to take you around,” he said.
“No,” she said. “Have some consideration. I had to work all day.”
“You’ll like this,” he said. “H-h-hey, I want you to meet some guys.” He was thinking of the loft.
Pat emerged, wearing leotards and a sweater. Her hair was still up in the turban. She looked cross and beset; she said, “Leave me alone tonight, Art. Please? As a favor to me?”
He put his arms—around her waist. She was so small and light that he had no trouble with her; kissing her tight, inactive mouth, he said, “Come on. Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to go out.”
“You want to stay here?” he said, not releasing her. In her eyes panic appeared; she darted a glance up at him, her body stiff. If he let go of her now, she would talk and keep away from him, and in the end he would be maneuvered, step by step, out of the apartment. She was on the verge of some quick flight. But as long as he held onto her, she was afraid; she was too close to him to do anything.
“If you expect to take me out,” she said between her teeth, “you have to dress better than that.”
“I look okay,” he said.
“You look like a drugstore delinquent.”
“Too bad,” he said, enduring.
“I’ll go out with you tomorrow night. I promise.”
“No,” he said. “Maybe I cant get away tomorrow night.” His arm around her, he reached to pull down the shades in the living room. “You feel like dancing?” he said. He turned on the console radio and tuned in dance music.
Still resisting, she said, “I’m no good at dancing. I hate dancing. You wouldn’t want to dance with me.” Suddenly she broke away. Before she had gone a step, he grabbed her; she fought, straining and twisting, and then gave up.
“I have nobody to blame,” she said faintly, “but myself.” He waited by the door to the hall while she got her coat and purse.
After they had eaten dinner, they remained in the curtained booth. The Chinese waiter cleared the dishes away and brought a fresh enamel pot of tea. Beyond the curtains customers and waiters stirred and made sounds; Art listened amiably.
Across from him Patricia seemed less restive. Now, pensive, she lit a cigarette with her lighter and said, “I always like Chinatown. But you shouldn’t have brought me here.”
“Why?” he said.
“You shouldn’t try to take me anywhere, Art.” She smiled. “You have a crush on me, don’t you? But I’m too old. One of these days Bob and I’ll be married.”
“I thought you were Jim Briskin’s girl,” he said, not able to understand.
She said, “I’m his ex-wife!”
“But you were going around with him.”
“What a special world you kids live in,” Patricia said. “Dates, going steady . . . do you feel you’re dating me now, is that it? Taking me out to dinner, holding doors open for me. When you take me home, are you going to kiss me good night? Or have we passed that? It seems a little misplaced . . ..”
“I think you’re pretty swell,” he said, “you know? I mean, the way you dress and look.”
“Yes,” she said, “I know, Art.” After an interval she said, “You kids are almost—what do I want to say? Archaic. So sort of formal and stilted. Old-fashioned. And they say you’re wild beasts. It’s not true. You’re courtly. Do you realize that? I suppose I like that. Last night it was fresh for me because of your preparations. You had to say this and go through that. Each step of the way. It took so long, you almost drove me crazy. But it was worth it, I thought. It made a lot of difference. Starting over again, like that. As if neither of us had ever done such a thing before . . .” She tapped her cigarette on the rim of her empty cup.
“If you were a kid,” he said, “in school, you know? You would be the best-looking. Your hair’s so nice.” He meant, by that, that she was beautifully built; he thought her body was fabulous, but he could not conceive of saying it.
“I think that’s what I responded to,” she said. “You were conscious of a lot of little things. You seemed to notice not just one thing but all the different things about me. But you have so much to learn. For instance—” She glanced up. “Never tell a woman any part of her is large. Her hands or her legs or her bosom. And for heaven’s sake, remember that you can injure a woman if you go too fast. Especially, a woman who’s”—she raised an eyebrow—“let’s say small. What I mean to say is, at that point go slow. Let her decide. Sometimes she can’t relax; she stays constricted.”