She said, “I'm Lee.”
We stared at each other and I was aware of many things—and yet my mind seemed a blank, my thoughts scattered. There was the sharp odor about her and the room—the smell of the unwashed, the unclean. It was all over the incredibly dirty room, but it was especially strong about her. And it excited me, aroused me in a way I hadn't known for twenty years.
And there was the odd blue tattoo of a heart and an American flag on her left forearm. And she was a tall, magnificently built girl. She had on a thin, worn, armless housedress and nothing under that. Sweat stained the armpits. The dress couldn't hide any of her charms, the wonderful wide, strong shoulders; jutting breasts, firm round hips, and the oddly muscular arms and powerful legs. Her long dark untidy hair fell straight down to her shoulders, although neatly bobbed across her forehead. She wasn't a pretty girl but there was a certain unusualness about her face that made her attractive: the large eyes that stared at me with amusement, the nose that seemed to have been stuck on her face as an afterthought, maybe a plastic job, and her mouth was small, sullen, and unpainted.
The most astounding feature, outside of the tattoo, was her hands—thick, large fingers and palms, like a laborer's.
I stood there, amazed, not knowing what to say, waiting for her to speak. When she didn't say a word, for no reason at all, I turned my back on her, glanced around the room. It was an awful mess. At one time it had been a living room but now it was a miniature garbage dump. Cigarettes and piles of butts and ashes were everywhere, shoes and stockings and other clothing on the floor and the chairs, a crumpled sheet on the couch, torn pillows on the dirty floor. The place had not only not been cleaned in weeks, but on a battered coffee table there was a little heap of leftover food, parts of moldy bread, and some open cans of beans.
Above all was this odor, the sharp penetrating smell of her—a lush, personal, animal smell.
I turned and looked at her again and she hadn't moved an eyelash. For want of something to do, I took out my cigarette case, offered her one. We both lit up and she seemed to get a great deal of satisfaction out of smoking, sending out strong clouds of smoke through her nose. The silence was becoming silly and I finally said, “I'm George Jackson; I was a close friend of Hank's. I would have dropped by sooner but I was out of town. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I am hungry,” she said in the slight drawl and I wondered on what forlorn tobacco road Hank had found her.
“Well, we can certainly remedy that. Surely you have some money. I mean...” I didn't know what I meant. I'd never heard anybody say, “I am hungry,” before—and believe it.
“I have no money. I have nothing,” she said, carefully pronouncing each syllable—like a school kid. “Did not Hank tell you about me? Tell you I am not very bright?”
“No he didn't,” I said, laughing politely at what I was sure was a gag of some sort.
She suddenly laughed and it was amazing how large her mouth became. When she laughed it was a most sensual mouth with heavy sultry lips, and strong white even teeth. She said, “I have not asked you to sit down. You will excuse. Please do.”
She walked over to a dirty chair, kicked off what seemed to be a crumpled towel, sat down. She moved with a springy grace, with the wonderful suppleness of a young ballerina. I went over to another chair, but it was too dirty to sit on. It was covered with heavy stains. I stood there, noticing for the first time she was barefooted. Her feet were large and wide and ugly. I never saw such big feet on a woman before—but neither had I ever seen a woman as big as Lee. And I didn't mean fat—she wasn't even plump—but big. I said, “Mrs. Conroy—may I call you Lee?”
“Yes. I like Lee very much.”
“Lee, there's no point in our standing around. If you'll dress, I'll take you out to dinner, and we can talk about what must be done.”
She sat there, watching me, not saying a word. I asked, “Don't you want to eat?”
“Yes.”
“Then dress,” I said, feeling we were talking like idiots and not knowing what to do about it.
She stood up and walked out of the room and I pinched myself to be sure it was all real. Without her, the room looked revolting, a pig-sty with furniture. I went over to the coffee table. The food seemed days old and roaches scampered away as I watched. Large healthy roaches.
She came in from the bedroom. She had on shoes and a thin sweater that covered the tattoo on her arm. I opened the door and she walked out. We went down the stairs without saying a word.
There weren't many places to choose from, and if she was really hungry, no time to travel. (Not to mention her horrible clothes.) We went into a small coffee pot on the corner, sat at the counter. I ordered ice tea while I gave her the menu to read. When I asked what she wanted, she said simply, “Meat.”
The counterman looked at us as if we were drunk, and I ordered a steak and potatoes for her. Sitting beside her on those ridiculous stools, I realized how tall she was. Well over six feet, and no slim, delicate woman, but built like an athlete. We didn't talk and when the steak came she actually wolfed it down. I asked if she wanted another and she shocked me by saying, “Yes, thank you.”
I ordered another steak and she ate that with the same speed and zest she went at the first one. The counterman watched her, amazement and suspicion on his coarse face. Lee finished with two glasses of iced tea, which she almost filled with sugar, and some horrible-looking pie. She asked for a cigarette. We walked back to the house and people stared at us. She was sweating a little and her dress clung to her body. Her nipples were quite prominent. She walked up the five flights without breathing hard. When we were in her apartment and I had stopped puffing, I asked, “Haven't you any family, anyone you can get in touch with?”
“Family?” she repeated, as though she didn't understand me. She was sitting on one of the dirty chairs, slowly smoking a cigarette.
“No father, mother, sisters or brothers?” I asked, feeling silly.
“No. I have no one.”
“And no money? Doesn't seem like Hank to leave you...” I stopped. It was an asinine remark... Hank hadn't 'planned' to leave her.
“No money—nothing,” she said calmly.
“I'll try to find you a job. Can you type?”
“Type?”
“You know, work a typewriter.” I went through the motions of typing. I felt excited—a little rattled.
“I have seen such machines. I cannot work them. I am not bright. Hank, he did not tell you that?”
“I only saw Hank once since he came home,” I said, trying to figure the drawl and the broken English. “Mrs. Conroy—Lee .—I want to help you. Suppose for the next few months, till you get on your feet, I give you some money? Say... fifty a week.”
“Fifty doll-ars?” Lee said, showing some interest. “You are most kind, Herr...?”
“George.”
“George.” She put a lot on the 'G.' “So you will help me?”