"And I didn't even know he had a big cock because his cock was the first one I had ever seen." She was examining me closely. "I thought they were all like that."
" Lydia…"
"What is it?"
"I've got to tell you something."
"What is it?"
"I've got to go see Dee Dee."
"Go see Dee Dee?"
"Don't be funny. There's a reason."
"You said it was all over."
"It is. I just don't want to let her down too hard. I want to explain to her what happened. People are too cold with each other. I don't want her back, I just want to try to explain what happened, so she'll understand."
"You want to fuck her."
"No, I don't want to fuck her. I hardly wanted to fuck her when I was with her. I just want to explain."
"I don't like it. It sounds… icky… to me."
"Let me do it. Please. I just want to clear things up. I'll be back soon."
"All right. But make it soon."
I got into the Volks, cut over to Fountain, went a few miles, then took a north at Bronson and cut up to where the rents were high. I parked outside, got out. I walked up the long flight of stairs and rang the bell. Bianca answered the door. I remembered one night she had answered the door naked and I had grabbed her and as we were kissing Dee Dee came down and said, "What the hell's going on here?"
This time it wasn't like that. Bianca said, "What do you want?"
"I want to see Dee Dee. I want to talk to her."
"She's sick. Really sick. I don't think you should get to see her after the way you've treated her. You're a real grade-A son of a bitch."
"I just want to talk to her a while, to explain things."
"All right. She's in her bedroom."
I walked down the hall and into the bedroom. Dee Dee was on the bed in just her panties. One arm was flung over her eyes. Her breasts looked good. There was an empty pint of whiskey by her bed and a pan on the floor. The pan smelled of vomit and booze.
"Dee Dee…"
She lifted her arm. "What? Hank, you've come back?"
"No, wait, I just want to talk to you…"
"Oh Hank, I've missed you something awful. I've been nearly crazy, the pain has been awful…"
"I want to make it easier. That's why I came by. I may be stupid, but I don't believe in outright cruelty…"
"You don't know how I've felt…"
"I know. I've been there."
"Want a drink?" she pointed.
I picked up the empty pint and sadly put it down again. "There's too much coldness in the world," I told her. "If people would only talk things out together it would help."
"Stay with me, Hank. Don't go back to her, please. Please. I've lived long enough to know how to be a good woman. You know that. I'd be good to you and for you."
" Lydia has a grip on me. I can't explain it."
"She's a flirt. She's impulsive. She'll leave you."
"Maybe that's some of the attraction."
"You want a whore. You're afraid of love."
"You might be right."
"Just kiss me. Would it be too much to ask you to kiss me?"
"No."
I stretched out next to her. We embraced. Dee Dee's mouth smelled of vomit. She kissed, we kissed and she held me. I broke away as gently as I could.
"Hank," she said, "Stay with me! Don't go back to her! Look, I have nice legs!"
Dee Dee lifted one of her legs and showed it to me.
"And I have nice ankles too! Look!"
She showed me her ankles.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed. "I can't stay with you, Dee Dee-"
She sat up and began punching me. Her fists were as hard as rocks. She threw punches with both hands. I sat there as she landed blows. She hit me above the eye, in the eye, on the forehead and cheeks. I even caught one in the throat. "Oh, you bastard! Bastard, bastard, bastard! I HATE YOU!"
I grabbed her wrists. "All right, Dee Dee, that's enough." She fell back on the bed as I got up and walked out, down the hall and out the door.
When I got back Lydia was sitting in an armchair. Her face looked dark. "You've been gone a long time. Look at me! You fucked her, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't."
"You were gone an awful long time. Look, she scratched your face!"
"I tell you, nothing happened."
"Take off your shirt. I want to look at your back!"
"Oh, shit, Lydia."
"Take off your shirt and undershirt."
I took them off. She walked around behind me.
"What's that scratch on your back?"
"What scratch?"
"There's a long one there… from a woman's fingernail."
"If it's there you put it there…"
"All right. I know one way to find out."
"How?"
"Let's go to bed."
"All right!"
I passed the test, but afterwards I thought, how can a man test a woman's fidelity? It seemed unfair.
21
I kept getting letters from a lady who lived only a mile or so away. She signed them Nicole. She said she had read some of my books and liked them. I answered one of her letters and she responded with an invitation to visit. One afternoon, without saying anything to Lydia, I got into the Volks and drove on over. She had a flat over a dry cleaner's on Santa Monica Boulevard. Her door was on the street and I could see a stairway through the glass. I rang the bell. "Who is it?" came a woman's voice through a little tin speaker. "I'm Chinaski," I said. A buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open.
Nicole stood at the top of the stairs looking down at me. She had a cultured, almost tragic face and wore a long green housedress cut low in front. Her body seemed to be very good. She looked at me with large dark brown eyes. There were lots of tiny wrinkles around her eyes, perhaps from too much drinking or crying.
"Are you alone?" I asked.
"Yes," she smiled, "come on up."
I went up. It was spacious, two bedrooms, with very little furniture. I noticed a small bookcase and a rack of classical records. I sat on the couch. She sat next to me. "I just finished," she said, "reading The Life of Picasso."
There were several copies of The New Yorker on the coffee table.
"Can I fix you some tea?" Nicole asked.
"I'll go out and get something to drink."
"That's not necessary. I have something."
"What?"
"Some good red wine?"
"I'd like some," I said.
Nicole got up and walked into the kitchen. I watched her move. I had always liked women in long dresses. She moved gracefully. She seemed to have a lot of class. She returned with two glasses and the bottle of wine and poured. She offered me a Benson and Hedges. I lit one.
"Do you read The New Yorker?" she asked. "They print some good stories."
"I don't agree."
"What's wrong with them?
"They're too educated."
"I like them."
"Well, shit," I said.
We sat drinking and smoking.
"Do you like my apartment?"
"Yes, it's nice."
"It reminds me of some of the places I've had in Europe. I like the space, the light."
" Europe, huh?"
"Yes, Greece, Italy… Greece, mostly."
" Paris?"
"Oh yes, I liked Paris. London, no."
Then she told me about herself. Her family had lived in New York City. Her father was a communist, her mother a seamstress in a sweatshop. Her mother had worked the front machine, she was number one, the best of all of them. Tough and likeable. Nicole was self-educated, had grown up in New York, had somehow met a famous doctor, married, lived with him for ten years, then divorced him. She now received only $400 a month alimony, and it was difficult to manage. She couldn't afford her apartment, but she liked it too much to leave.
"Your writing," she said to me, "it's so raw. It's like a sledge hammer, and yet it has humor and tenderness…"
"Yeah," I said.
I put my drink down and looked at her. I cupped her chin in my hand and drew her towards me. I gave her the tiniest kiss.