CHAPTER 8

Walter opened the door and blinked at her sleepily. He peered at her swollen lip and drenched clothing. Then, without saying a word, he took her hand and brought her inside.

He led her into the livingroom and went to get her a bathrobe. She stood where he left her, waiting, as though unable to move by herself.

He came back and draped the robe around her shoulders. Taking her elbow, he steered her along the hall to the bathroom. "You'd better take a shower," he said. "You're a mess." He closed the lid on the toilet and sat her down.

"I'll bring you some ice for that lip."

For a while she just sat there, staring back at her reflection in the mirror behind the door, hardly recognizing the face as her own. Her hair was plastered flat to her head, trickles of water running from it over her forehead and nose, leaving gray streaks in the smudges of coal dust. Her eyes were swollen from crying, the lower lip poked out bulbously. She looked like a sad clown in black face.

When she tried to get up, her legs wouldn't hold her. She slumped back against the toilet, feeling useless, soggy, depleted.

Walter knocked and, when she didn't answer, opened the door and came in. He held out ice cubes wrapped in a clean kitchen towel. She looked at the package but made no attempt to take it.

"Here," he said. "Put your head back."

She tried to obey but couldn't move.

He propped her chin on his fist and held her head while he applied the ice.

All of a sudden, she was full of life. "Hey!" she yelled. "That hurts!" She frowned at him.

Walter grinned and removed the ice pack. "Well, at least I know you're alive. I was beginning to wonder." He handed her the towel. "You do it," he said. "It won't hurt as much that way."

Held lightly against the wound, the ice felt good. She sensed the cold spreading through her lip and down her chin, numbing them like a shot of novocain. Yet when she took the ice away, pain again flamed through her face and her teeth ached. She put it back quickly, pushing her lip out with her tongue.

Walter poked about in the medicine cabinet until he found a cotton swab and a small bottle of yellowish liquid. Then he took the ice pack away from her and set it in the sink. He held her chin while he cleansed the wound, dabbing gently with the swab.

She smelled camphor and wrinkled her nose with disgust. "What is it?"

"My grandmother swore by this stuff," he answered easily. "It'll cure anything." He snapped the stick in two and tossed it into the basket under the sink. He looked at her and smiled. "There. That ought to do it. Now, a shower."

He helped her up. She leaned heavily against his arm, feeling faint and shaky.

He steadied her with one hand and reached for the top button on her shirt.

Suddenly she was filled with rage. She did not remember that this was Walter, whom she trusted, and that he was trying to take care of her. She saw only the hand, reaching to open her shirt, reaching to fondle, reaching to touch her. Saw only the ugly little man coming toward her, pressing her down, down.

She beat wildly at his arms with her fists, her eyes closed, kicking, screaming at him hysterically.

He did not try to stop her, just waited patiently until she had exhausted herself.

She looked up at him then and began to cry. "Oh, Walter!" she sobbed. "Walter, I'm sorry."

He put his arms around her and held her gently with her head against his shoulder. "It's all right," he murmured.

"Everything's going to be all right." He stroked her hair tenderly.

When she stopped shaking and sobbing in his arms, she looked up at him and smiled wanly. "Thank you," she whispered. "I needed you."

She let him take off her shirt and slacks. He stood back and looked at her clinically, at her bruised thighs and the dirt on her body.

 

"I'll tell you later," she said. "Now, get out and let me get washed."

She stood in the shower and soaped herself lavishly, letting the hot water stream over her aching body. Everywhere she touched, she was sore. The muscles in her arms ached, barely able to lift the weight of the cloth. Yet she scrubbed vigorously, almost brutally, washing away the memory and the filth.

She felt soiled to the core of her being and no matter how she scrubbed, she could not flush away the shame.

Though she knew it was foolish, she felt as though she had been contaminated for life. Who would want her now, after he had touched her? Surely Angie would have no use for her. She hardly felt that anyone could.

How ridiculous. It was not the first time a woman had been mistreated by a man. Almost every day the newspapers carried stories very much like her own. Nobody condemned the women. Not if they had any sense. It was the men who got in trouble.

What she really had to remember was that not all men were like the one she had encountered. Some would be gentle, some would care. Try as she might, she could not really convince herself. It had been her first experience with a man and it had been hideous.

Women were never like that. Women were more sensitive. Even without love, they were not crude. The girl in the denim shirt had not been truly interested in her. Still, she had been clean and decent and, if Carolyn had let her, she would have been kind.

No matter how she tried to rationalize, she knew the experience with the man would leave a permanent scar in her memory. Whatever else happened to her, even if she died a lonely old maid, she would never put herself in such a position again.

Only one thought would she cling to, she did not want a man, any man, to touch her. Ever.

She stood on the white mat and rubbed briskly dry with a big Turkish towel.

From the kitchen she heard sounds of Walter making coffee, whistling, rattling cups into saucers. And she smiled around her puffy lip, glad for Walter and comforted to have him near. He was always there when she needed him, always happy to listen, asking few questions, doing what had to be done. She remembered how tenderly he had undressed her. Somehow it had been different with Walter. It didn't bother her that he was a man and he had touched her.

She stepped out of the bathroom swaddled in Walter's bathrobe, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Coming into the kitchen behind him, she leaned against the refrigerator and watched him pour coffee into flat white cups.

He looked at her closely, inspecting her pink, shiny face and the hair curling in whisps around her ears. Abruptly, he nodded. "You look like you again," he said. "But how do you feel?"

She smiled ruefully. "Like me. Almost, anyway." She rubbed one hand along her thigh. "I'm still a little stiff."

He took a bottle out of the cupboard and poured half a shot into one cup. "Brandy," he said. "Fix you right up." He picked up both cups and started out of the kitchen. "Come on."

She did not bother to tell him that she would be happy never to drink again as long as she lived. Instead, she followed him into the living room and sat down on the big, overstuffed couch.

She loved the furniture in Walter's apartment. He was the only person she knew who had ignored the advent of foam rubber. The shabby old couch was soft and deep. She put her feet up and stretched out with her head on the armrest, sinking into the cushions, feeling the soreness already beginning to ease from her body.

Walter set the cups on the glass-topped coffeetable and stood looking down at her. "If you turn over," he said, "I'll rub your back."

He sat down beside her and put one hand on her shoulder. She felt herself drawing away. The movement was involuntary. She knew it was foolish and that only minutes before she had not minded his touch. Yet now she felt uneasy and it was an effort to lie still.

He paid no attention to her nervousness. His strong hands gently kneaded the muscles down the back of her neck and across her shoulders. He put one hand inside the collar of the robe and worked his fingers along the spine, down to the waist.

In minutes Carolyn was completely relaxed, wondering why she had shied away. It was ridiculous ever to think of Walter as just a man. He would never hurt her. He never had.

It occurred to her that Walter had never tried to approach her as a lover. She wondered how she might respond now if he did. His hands were gentle, he would be kind. Yet she was not sure that even he could make her forget. Maybe no one ever could.

 

She felt his fingers warm against her flesh, touching her lightly now, circling, soothing her. There was nothing in his touch but the tenderness of a friend. In her heart, she thanked him for that. She needed him that way, especially now.

She sighed contentedly. "That's wonderful, Walter. I feel much better." She turned on her back to look at him. "Why aren't all men like you?"

He shrugged. "Are all women like you?"

He handed her the cup with the brandy and made a sign for her to drink it. The steaming mixture burned all the way down to her stomach, but almost immediately her nerves began to settle. She felt drowsy, pleasantly relaxed. She lay back against the cushions, as content as a cat in the sun.

Walter sat beside her, massaging her bare feet and her calves. "You've got a nasty bruise on this ankle," he said, tracing around the bone with a fingertip.

"I've got some worse than that," she answered, "but I won't show you where."

Despite herself, she could not bear the feel of his touch on her legs, moving up toward her thighs. It was too much like the memory of the man on the barge.

When he reached her knee, she put out her hand to stop him. "That's enough, Walter. I'll be asleep in a minute if you keep it up."

"What's wrong with that?" he said. "I gather you haven't been to bed yet."

She raised both eyebrows and the laugh lines crinkled around her eyes. "I suppose that's all in the way you look at it," she said.

"What?" He was frowning.

"Oh, nothing," she said quickly. "I just thought I was being funny."

She sat back in the corner of the couch and tucked her knees under her chin. She knew he was waiting for her to explain and she felt, since she had come to him for help, that he had a right to know all that had happened. Still, she hesitated. She was ashamed of her behavior, of her appearance. In all the years of their friendship, she had never disappointed Walter. She did not want to start now. But she had to tell him something.

"Walter…" she began. She stopped abruptly.

He peered at her expectantly.

She took another sip of the coffee.

"Well?"

She looked at his worried eyes and smiled. "Don't look so serious," she said. "You'll scare me.”

He laughed, but not easily.

She glanced away from him. She let her attention focus on one big toe and thoughtfully rubbed the nail with her thumb. "I hate to admit it," she began again, "but you were right about Angie. We're through."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For your sake. I know how you felt about her."

She nodded. "I still do, I guess. In a way," she added. "But there's no reason for anybody to be sorry. I'm not, really. It's been coming on for months." She sighed. "I've never been able to make Angie happy. Sometimes I don't think anybody could."

Walter had an almost complacent look on his face. "Um hmm," he said. "I know."

She saw his expression and frowned uneasily. "What do you know?"

"Oh, nothing specific, really. Just that your little friend Angie has some peculiar ideas about life, that's all." He did not look at her as he spoke. "I had a feeling something like this," he gestured at her bathrobed figure, "might happen."

For a moment she simply sat there and stared at him. Then she said, "Walter, I think you must have forgotten to tell me something."

He shook his head, still not meeting her glance. "I didn't forget."

 

"Well?" she insisted.

"Well, just remember that you asked for it," he said. He leaned back now and met her gaze levelly. "As you remember, when Angie first moved in with you, I took her out alone a couple of times, trying to make friends. I thought it would be easier for all of us that way."

She nodded. "So?"

"We came back here after a play one night and..." He hesitated, then shrugged. "Well, she tried to seduce me. I suppose that's the nice way to put it."

"Oh, Walter, she flirts with everybody," Carolyn said defensively.

"She wasn't flirting this time, Carolyn. She damned near raped me." His forehead creased reflectively. "Anyhow, she made it pretty clear," he said slowly, "that she considers sex as a sort of convenient tool to get what she wants from anybody."

He was not saying anything she didn't already know, but Carolyn was nevertheless curious to hear what he had to say. "What do you mean?"

He ground the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. "Well, for one thing, she told me she didn't want me to think she was 'queer' just because she went to bed with you." He glanced at her and his expression was sympathetic. "She said that she only did it to please you."

Carolyn flushed angrily. That was precisely the sort of thing Angie would say. "Go on, Walter."

"Well," he shrugged, "it's obvious what she was out to do, isn't it?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Is it?"

"Look, I realized right away that she didn't want me. She can't stand me," he said flatly. "But she was determined, for whatever her reasons, to keep you all to herself. I suppose she thought that if she seduced me, I'd be on her side, so to speak. And therefore no longer a threat to her security."

"A threat to... Now, wait a minute," Carolyn objected.

He held up his hand. "Just let me finish," he said. "I wouldn't make an accusation like that without any proof. When I said this to Angie, all she could do was blush. She didn't even try to deny it. But she's hardly spoken to me since.

You know that. Anyhow, I realized then that you were in for a rough time. Lots of women use sex as a weapon. And Angie's one of them."

She felt sick inside, not so much because of what he had said about Angie, but because she felt he had failed her as a friend. If he had known all this... "Walter, if you're so damned smart, why didn't you say something?"

He smiled sadly. "Would it have made any difference, Carolyn? Nobody could tell you about Angie. You know that.

You had to find out for yourself." He leaned toward her. "Let me take a guess," he said calmly. "You've been naughty and you're being punished. Angie's probably found somebody to flaunt in your face."

She felt her cheeks burn with rage and shame. She wanted to slap him. But why should she bother? It would only prove his point.

He watched her closely, his expression blank. "And you," he concluded, "ran out in the rain to find somebody and get even with her."

What could she say when he was so right? She sighed and covered her face with her hands. "You make it sound pretty stupid," she mumbled.

He laughed. "Well, isn't it?" Then his face sobered and he took her hand. "Carolyn, do you still believe that Angie loves you?"

For a moment she hesitated. She was almost afraid to answer, for fear he would laugh in her face. Then she lifted her chin defiantly and glared at him. "I know that she needs me," she said.

Walter laughed, as she had known he would. "That's not love," he said. "That's greed."

She felt suddenly as though all the air had gone out of her lungs. She folded herself together, pressing away from him. She could not deny or even argue with anything he had said. But knowing that he was right didn't help a bit.

Too much of her still belonged to Angie. She knew that much of her always would.

She heard him move. Then he was close beside her, his arms around her, pulling her against his shoulder. She did not try to resist, just let herself relax against him, needing the warmth of him to comfort her.

 

He tilted her chin up and made her look at him. "What happened last night, Carolyn?"

She tried to turn her face away.

He held her tight. "Where did you go?"

"Downtown."

"Did you find what you wanted?"

She tried to twist away from him. He held onto her arms, not hurting her, but insistent. He peered at her relentlessly.

"Did you?"

She shook her head.

He took a deep breath and released her. "I wish you had come to me," he said.

Startled and completely confused, she sat up and peered at him closely. She realized what the statement implied.

But she couldn't imagine...

"Walter?" she said weakly.

"Never mind," he said, standing. "I'll find some clothes and take you home."

"Walter..." The word was a wail.

Walter grinned. "Don't worry," he said. "It wasn't a proposition. I intend to marry you."

He went off to the bathroom and left her standing there as though he had said nothing more than a simple "good afternoon."

She had never been proposed to before, but it had certainly been different in the books she had read as a kid. She didn't expect him to get romantic and mushy all of a sudden. They had known each other too long and too well for that. He could have kissed her. The very least he could have done was wait for an answer.

Curious, almost amused, she trailed after him.

He stood at the closet, rifling through pairs of summer slacks. Lifting out a pair of faded denims, he turned to face her. "These are tight on me," he said. "They ought to fit pretty well." He held the hanger toward her.

She did not reach to take it and he laid the slacks on the bed.

She watched him open a bureau drawer and search for a shirt. His movements were precise, meticulous.

When he faced her again, she smiled. "Am I to assume that was a proposal?" she said.

He smiled back and cocked an eyebrow. "You might call it that," he answered.

"What would you call it?"

"Well," he said, "actually it was simply a statement of fact."

She nodded. "That's what I've always liked about you, Walter. You know all the answers."

He put the shirt on the bed beside the slacks. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said. "There's no rush. Even if you and Angie are finished, as you say, I don't imagine you're ready to get involved immediately. Take your time. Think all you want." He grinned. "But I still intend to marry you."

She had nothing to say. She had never dreamed that Walter felt that way about her. He had never given any sign.

He had picked a bad moment to say it. She was still miserable about the man on the barge, still confused and unhappy about Angie. Yet there was something about him now, as always, that comforted her. She did not know if it was love she felt for him. She didn't care. She needed the warmth, the comfort, the assurance he had to give her.

He came toward her and she half-closed her eyes, waiting, wanting him to take her in his arms.

When he spoke again, it was from behind her, at the doorway. "Get dressed," he said. "You need some sleep.

You've had a rough night." He went out and shut the door behind him.

 

Walter, she thought, you pick the damndest times to be considerate.

She sighed then and reached for the shirt.