Beyond the half-opened door the parlor crowd sang “Roll Me Over in the Clover” and the name of Jimmy Needles was screamed out several times. But the women round him seemed not to hear; he hardly heard himself; the women were ganging up on him, doing a job on him. All three were noticing and he tried to pay no attention. They watched him eat. All three were smiling and taking his measure and he didn’t mind. It was Sybilline who made him use the sauce.
“Here,” reaching, tilting the thin brown bottle, “meat sauce is fine on fried eggs, Michael … didn’t you know?”
The smell of the women — girlish, matronly — and the smell of the meat sauce were the same. As soon as it spread across his plate it went to his nostrils and they might not have bothered with their clothes, with procrastination. He kept his face in the plate and kept lifting the fork that had one prong bent, a prong that stuck his tongue with every mouthful. Brown and broken yellow, thick and ovarian, his mouth was running with the eggs and sauce while the whisky glasses of the women were leaving rings.
“Fetch him a slice of bread, Sybilline, he don’t want to leave none of it on the china. …”
He shut his eyes and did not know whose hand it was, but the hand closed in a grip that made him slide forward on the chair and groan.
“You girls wait for me,” said the widow in a voice he could hardly hear. Then: “You’re a charmer, Mike!” and Sybilline was blowing him a kiss.
With his hands in his pockets, shirt collar open about the windpipe and the two muscles translucent at the back of his skinny neck, frowning and keeping his head down, he followed the swinging shawl into the din, the smoke, the noise of the piano that seemed to be playing on the strength of a grinding motor inside the box, though Larry and the jockey were still side by side on its bench. The widow stopped to fix her daughter’s skirts and he bumped against the softest buttocks he had ever known, and apologized.
“I could love you right here,” she whispered, “I really could. …”
He knew that. It was not the place for him exactly, but there was the sauce all over his lip and he thought that in another moment almost anywhere might do.
They reached the stairs in time. The corner turned, the hat tree with its multiple short arms thrust out in shadow, the carpeting, the widow’s rail, the dust and orange bulb — suddenly the bedchambers were near and he was climbing. Up how many times, how many times back down. And it was merely a matter of getting up those stairs, and taking the precautions, and tumbling in, shagging with the widow as the night demanded. He saw her at the top for a moment; stumbled and paused and, clutching the rail, stared, while beneath the bulb she stood squeezing the tiny plump hands together.
Then she took hold of him, and behind the door at the end of the hall he dropped his trousers in the widow’s sleeping chamber, heard her quick footsteps round the bed and in his hands caught the plumpness of the hips. Then under the wool those softest buttocks he had ever known. And he snapped off a stay of whalebone, flung it aside as he might a branch in a tangled wood; to his mouth drew her down and rubbed the sauce against her. She giggled and there was a dilating in the stomach.
“Go gently, Mr. Banks,” fending, giggling, “go sweetly, please.”
There was no cartwheeling now, no silk-stocking coil, no blushing or line of verse. Only the widow on the comforter and in his mouth the taste of eggs which had done the job for him. The moon had passed by the widow’s room, but a transom was opened to the orange dimness of the hall. And under her three small rocking chairs with cushions, upon her bed — it was narrow and deep — and her rack of short broad night dresses and her stumpy bedside lamp, upon everything she owned or used there fell the rusty and sedentary light that, guiding no one, still bums late in the corridors of so many cheap hotels. The drawers were all half-open in her wardrobe; a pair of silver shears and a babyish fresh pile of curls lay on a table top before which she last had been trimming her dead ends of curls.
How long were the nights of love, how various the lovers. Holding his throat, standing in bare feet and with one hand wiping the hair back from his eyes, he stared down at the widow’s cheeks again. It was her cheeks he had been attracted to and once more beside the bed he saw the tiny china-painted face with the eyelids closed, the ringlets damp across the top, the small greasy round cheeks he had wanted to cup in both his hands.
“Don’t leave,” whispering, not opening her eyes, “don’t leave me yet, Mr. Banks.”
In the hall he put on his trousers and shirt and took the stairs with caution. He was fierce now, dry but fierce. If there were prospects ahead of him he would take them up. There were shadows, tracks worn through the carpet by naked feet. More shadows, a depth of shadows, and not a vow to make or sentiment to express now on these old stairs — only the steepness and the wallside to guide his shoulder. Below, in the center of a love seat’s cushion, he could see the outline of a hat and pair of clean white gloves.
“Mister …” He stopped, leaned his head against dusty wall plaster, and saw the big girl’s figure at the start of the bannister below, made out her eyes and heard the moist and childish voice. She wore a sweater round her shoulders now. “Mister,” the voice came fearfully, “there’s someone wants to see you. A lady, Mister.”
“I should imagine so!” He waited, then descended without noise, except for the brushing of his clothes against the wall, until he was only a step or two above the widow’s girl. “I suppose you’re not referring to yourself.” He watched the loose lips, the eyes that brightened, watched the closing and opening of the sweater.
“She’s a lady, Mister. She’s at the other door. She give me half a crown to find you, and she told me not to get the whole house up, she did.”
He nodded, leaned forward, gently kissed the girl.
She did not try to move, as if he had ordered her to remain exactly there by the darkened post with grapes. He paused at the love seat and noticed the red beret beside the hat and pair of gloves. The corridor smelled of water in the bottoms of purple vases and the piano was banging just beyond this emptiness. He kicked something — a cat’s dish perhaps — and it slid down the passageway ahead of him. Then the wall was warm to his touch and he knew that behind it was the width of the kitchen chimney, briefly and in darkness saw the meat-sauce bottle and Syb’s painted nails.
He heard an engine running. He stepped into the pantry, one of several pantries, bare now without hanging goose or cutlery or stores of brandy, and faced the misty dew-drenched opening of the door. There was light coming in the windows — brass rods cut them, but they were curtainless — and he stood so that he was lighted by one of the windows just as she was visible against the sheet of fog. With a coat swinging, hair down to her shoulders, she was leaning in the doorway and her thin legs were crossed. When she heard him she turned her face, white at this hour, and dropped her burning cigarette — not outside, but into the shadows on the floor.
“Annie … good God, is it you?”
She laughed only. One long shank of the golden hair dragged across in front of her and buried the little wet coat lapel. The face then, the cheek, seemed set in gold. Arm hanging, body still tipped and ankles crossed, she made no movement other than a small twisting as if she were trying to scratch against the jamb.
“But you, Annie, I hadn’t expected you!”
“Well,” taking the hair in her fingers, holding it across her mouth, speaking through hair, “I shan’t be bad or deceitful to an old friend. But I can tell a thing or two.” And abruptly, as he smelled the dampness on her shoulders and reached for her, “You’re sexed up, aren’t you? The chap next door’s been kissing and the girl next door has found him out!” She was twenty years old and timeless despite the motor car waiting off under the trees. At three o’clock in the morning she was a girl he had seen through windows in several dreams unremembered, unconfessed, the age of twenty that never passes but lingers in the silvering of the trees and rising fogs. Younger than Syb, fingers bereft of rings, she would come carelessly to any door, to any fellow’s door.