“Art listens to ‘Club 17,’ ” Pat said. “Or did. Before the blowup.”
“Oh, I see.” Bob nodded. “Well, shall we go?” To Art he said, “Can I drop you anywhere?”
From his coat pocket Art lifted out a switchblade knife which he had picked up from among the weapons at the loft. Pat saw the knife, the glow of light from the blade. “Bob . . .,” she said in a weak, constricted voice. She put up her arm, a gesture of defense. “You run along. I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“What?” he said. Bewildered, he opened and shut his mouth m exasperation. “What the hell’s happened between us?”
“Just go,” she said. “Please.” She started away from him toward the entrance of the apartment building.
“I don’t get it,” he said. Shaking his head, he stepped from the pavement to the side of his car. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Yes,” she said, “I can handle this. I’ll see you tomorrow at the station. Please?”
Still holding the knife, Art stepped after Bob Posin. He had never before carried a knife this big, and in the actions of the Organization a knife had not been a factor. Not knowing how close he had to be—he could not conceive of throwing it—he moved up to Posin and stood by him as the man opened his car door. The knife was hidden by the folds of his sport coat. In the doorway of the apartment building, Pat watched, her hand up to her face, her fingers spread apart.
“Glad to have met you, boy,” Bob Posin said sourly. “I’ll probably see you again.”
Art said nothing; he did not know if he would be able to speak. His throat was choked and he could hardly breathe.
“Well,” Posin said, “good night.” He slammed the car door, moved over behind the wheel, and waved to Pat.
“Good night,” she said. Bob Posin drove off.
Returning to her, Art said, “What do you want to do?” He closed up the knife and put it away in his pocket. The knife weighed down his coat on one side; the pocket bulged.
“Nothing,” Pat said weakly.
“Let’s go inside,” he said.
They went up the stairs to her apartment. When she had unlocked the door, she said, “What would you have done?”
“I just wanted to get rid of him,” he said.
“Would you have done anything?”
He closed the door after them.
“I’m engaged to him,” she said. “I’m going to marry him.”
“So what?” he said. “What do I care?” He walked away, from her, feeling upset and angry.
“What have I got myself into,” Pat said. Going into the kitchen, she stood by herself at the sink, her hands pressed together. She was pale, and her voice was thin and unsteady.
“How about letting me stay here tonight?” he said.
“I don’t see how you can.”
“Why not?”
She turned. “You’re nuts. You’re as bad as that queer pal of yours. How did I get mixed up with you? Christ.” She put her hands over her face. “You nutty kid. I’d give anything If I hadn’t gone there with Jim. But there’s no use blaming him.”
“I just want to stay,” he said. “What’s the matter with that? How’s that d-d-different from what we did?”
“Look . . .” She walked toward him and then over to a chair. Seating herself, she said, “I’m tired and I don’t feel good and I couldn’t go through last night again for anything. What is it, you’re all ready to start over again?” She took a deep shuddering breath. “And all I did was want to go down and buy a bottle. I didn’t even want to go down; I wanted you to go down.”
Suddenly she was on her feet.
“Stay here if you want,” she said, “I’m going.” She walked to the door without looking back.
He went after her, caught her by the shoulder, and socked her in the eye. Not making a sound, she tumbled away with her arms out; she fell against the wall and then to the floor. Her head struck and she lay with her eyes shut, one arm bent under her, both her legs drawn up. Beside her waist her purse had spilled open; lipstick and pencils and a mirror had come out of it onto the rug. He was a little amazed that she had gone down so readily; he picked her up and carried her to the couch.
Her body was limp and she did not stir. She was completely out. When he let go of her, she slumped forward; her chin came to rest against her collarbone. Curls of dark hair fell across her forehead. The flesh near her eye was beginning to swell; she was going to have a shiner. Several times in his childhood, his dad had beaten up his mother; once she had worn a shiner for a week. Once, he remembered as he stood by the couch looking down at Patricia, the police had been called in by neighbors. His parents had scrapped, month in, month out; it had been a part of his life.
Stirring, Patricia moaned. Her hand came up; the fingers groped at her forehead, her eye. “Don’t touch it,” he said.
Gradually her eyes opened. They were glazed and empty. For a long time she did not seem to see him. “What do you want?” he said.
Still her eyes were unfocused. Her nose was beginning to run; he bent down and wiped it with his forefinger. Then he went to the kitchen and fixed a cold pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. Returning, he found her conscious. She was propped up, her hands to her face.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, a quavery, almost inaudible voice. He sat down next to her and put the cold pack against her eye. Finally, she took hold of it.
“Did you hit me?” she managed.
“Yeah,” he said. “You were t-t-taking off.”
Leaning back, she rested. Neither of them spoke.
“Art,” she said finally.
“What?” he said.
She put the ice pack down on the arm of the couch. “Art, you never should hit a woman.” He said nothing.
“Bring me a mirror,” she said, “will you? From the bathroom.”
When he had brought the mirror, she examined her face; she touched herself, pressing at her, eye.
“It’s going to be b-b-black,” he said.
She put down the mirror. “How could you hit a woman?”
“You were leaving.”
“That’s the first time anybody ever hit me,” she said. “I can’t believe it.” She sat up, drawing away from him. “I just can’t believe it. My god, Art, you hit me.” Now she was staring at him; she continued to stare.
Feeling uncomfortable, he got up and paced around the room.
“I don’t see how you could do it,” she said. “I’ve never even seen anybody hit a woman. Can a thing like that happen?”
Again she picked up the ice pack and held it to her eye. The incredulous waver remained in her voice as she said, “Could you really do that? Did you ever—hit your wife? Do you beat her up?”
“No,” he said.
“Oh my god,” she said. “My good god.”
15
The alarm clock woke her. The bedroom, with its indistinct shapes, was gray with early-morning light; she struggled up and found the alarm clock and shut it off. Her body ached, and all her muscles, all her joints were sore. Her ribs—she remained motionless, wincing—felt as if they were cracked and broken. Reaching down, she massaged her waist. Her skin was tender to the touch. The night, the whole night long—they had gone on and on. And then, as she pushed the covers away, she put her hand to her face and felt the hardened, swollen ring around her eye.
Beside her, still asleep, Art Emmanual lay with his head buried in the covers. His blond hair, in the first sunlight, looked clean, bleached white, completely pure.
She did not know how she could get up. For a long time she simply, sat; she left her eye alone and tried not to think about it. At eight o’clock she at last slid from the bed, put a robe around her, and went stiffly along the hall to the bathroom. Even the soles of her feet hurt; her flesh was dry, brittle, unyielding. She was, she thought to herself; a kind of dried coin husk.