“Stop!” I say.
“Shut up,” he says, and hits me again, using the back of his hand this time.
I kick up at him and he laughs. Oh dear God he’s enjoying this. He’s going to beat me and be glad. Help me! Help me, God. Please!
“Not so stuck up now, are you? Where’s that fine family of yours now? No Kellys. Only you and me. Whore. Dolly said a girl like you’d be perfect. No trouble. Dying for it. But Jesus, I’m fed up to the teeth with you and your yammering. Take off your clothes or I’ll tear them off.”
In terror now, my heart racing. He’s on the bed, kneeling over me. He slides his hand up my breasts to my throat, mocking the touches I’d responded to so many times.
“How easy to squeeze the life out of you,” he says. “Leave your body out in the gangway. Another prossie done in, the police would think. Might never identify you. Or maybe Detective John Larney, that pompous ass, would be strolling through the morgue and see you naked on a slab—‘No-nee, No-nee.’”
Mad. Mad altogether. His fingers tighten around my throat. A voice in my head tells me, Don’t whimper, don’t scream … smile. I do. Somehow I do. Then wink at him, which startles him. He lets go.
“Jesus, Tim, you would do well writing penny dreadful novels,” I say. “I didn’t know you had such an imagination.” Got to make him laugh.
But he slaps me again, harder.
“Will you never learn to shut up?”
He starts to pull at the neck of my blouse but the tip of a whalebone stay cuts his finger.
“Blood,” he says, lifts his finger to his lips and rolls onto his back.
“My best blouse, Tim,” I say. “Let me take it off.” Somehow I’m able to unfasten the top button. I sit up.
“Let me go to the bathroom to get myself ready for you. All that”—how I hate saying the words—“masculine force is very exciting altogether, Tim.”
He looks from me to his bleeding finger, and I ease myself off the bed. The toilet is in the hall. If I …
“Take off your shoes,” he says. “Leave them here.”
“Yes, Tim,” and I unfasten them.
“You can’t run from me,” he says. “I’d find you anywhere you go.”
“Then come with me to the toilet,” I say. I’m standing now, looking down at his naked body—the body I thought I’d loved. “Take your pleasure like a man,” he said. What a fool I was.
“Go. Go,” he says. “But make it fast. That fellow’ll be waiting for me.”
I get by him and I’m into the hall. Then I’m running down the stairs and into the street. Piles of dirty snow on the State Street sidewalk and I’ve no shoes, but I don’t feel the cold. Tim’ll have to get dressed. I have a few minutes. Where to go? Holy Name Cathedral. I could hide in a confessional. No, he’ll look in the church. The rectory? And explain my plight to the priest’s housekeeper? Hardly. The convent? I wouldn’t put it past Tim to come battering at the nuns’ door. Can’t go home. He’ll go there surely. Besides, I can’t run shoeless and coatless all the way to Bridgeport. Not a penny on me. I suppose a tram driver might let me on, but there’s none coming. Besides, the passengers would stare at me. What if I see someone I knew? No way to get to Mike’s or Rose and John’s. And Tim might go to their houses. The police? “Good evening, I’m Nora Kelly,” I imagine myself saying to the desk sergeant. “I’ve just been beaten up by a man I thought I loved.” Oh God, the newspaper boys have tipsters at all the police stations. A juicy story—“City Official’s Relative Attacked by Gangster Lover…”
A good three blocks away now and I stop. I haven’t noticed other people on the street, but now I look behind me, see two men I must’ve passed, standing, looking at me.
“You need help?” one asks.
“Thank you,” I start. “Maybe you could…”
But then the other says, “Lose your customer? I’ll oblige you.” He laughs.
“Go to hell,” I say.
“Only joking,”
“Shut up,” he says, and hits me again, using the back of his hand this time.
I kick up at him and he laughs. Oh dear God he’s enjoying this. He’s going to beat me and be glad. Help me! Help me, God. Please!
“Not so stuck up now, are you? Where’s that fine family of yours now? No Kellys. Only you and me. Whore. Dolly said a girl like you’d be perfect. No trouble. Dying for it. But Jesus, I’m fed up to the teeth with you and your yammering. Take off your clothes or I’ll tear them off.”
In terror now, my heart racing. He’s on the bed, kneeling over me. He slides his hand up my breasts to my throat, mocking the touches I’d responded to so many times.
“How easy to squeeze the life out of you,” he says. “Leave your body out in the gangway. Another prossie done in, the police would think. Might never identify you. Or maybe Detective John Larney, that pompous ass, would be strolling through the morgue and see you naked on a slab—‘No-nee, No-nee.’”
Mad. Mad altogether. His fingers tighten around my throat. A voice in my head tells me, Don’t whimper, don’t scream … smile. I do. Somehow I do. Then wink at him, which startles him. He lets go.
“Jesus, Tim, you would do well writing penny dreadful novels,” I say. “I didn’t know you had such an imagination.” Got to make him laugh.
But he slaps me again, harder.
“Will you never learn to shut up?”
He starts to pull at the neck of my blouse but the tip of a whalebone stay cuts his finger.
“Blood,” he says, lifts his finger to his lips and rolls onto his back.
“My best blouse, Tim,” I say. “Let me take it off.” Somehow I’m able to unfasten the top button. I sit up.
“Let me go to the bathroom to get myself ready for you. All that”—how I hate saying the words—“masculine force is very exciting altogether, Tim.”
He looks from me to his bleeding finger, and I ease myself off the bed. The toilet is in the hall. If I …
“Take off your shoes,” he says. “Leave them here.”
“Yes, Tim,” and I unfasten them.
“You can’t run from me,” he says. “I’d find you anywhere you go.”
“Then come with me to the toilet,” I say. I’m standing now, looking down at his naked body—the body I thought I’d loved. “Take your pleasure like a man,” he said. What a fool I was.
“Go. Go,” he says. “But make it fast. That fellow’ll be waiting for me.”
I get by him and I’m into the hall. Then I’m running down the stairs and into the street. Piles of dirty snow on the State Street sidewalk and I’ve no shoes, but I don’t feel the cold. Tim’ll have to get dressed. I have a few minutes. Where to go? Holy Name Cathedral. I could hide in a confessional. No, he’ll look in the church. The rectory? And explain my plight to the priest’s housekeeper? Hardly. The convent? I wouldn’t put it past Tim to come battering at the nuns’ door. Can’t go home. He’ll go there surely. Besides, I can’t run shoeless and coatless all the way to Bridgeport. Not a penny on me. I suppose a tram driver might let me on, but there’s none coming. Besides, the passengers would stare at me. What if I see someone I knew? No way to get to Mike’s or Rose and John’s. And Tim might go to their houses. The police? “Good evening, I’m Nora Kelly,” I imagine myself saying to the desk sergeant. “I’ve just been beaten up by a man I thought I loved.” Oh God, the newspaper boys have tipsters at all the police stations. A juicy story—“City Official’s Relative Attacked by Gangster Lover…”
A good three blocks away now and I stop. I haven’t noticed other people on the street, but now I look behind me, see two men I must’ve passed, standing, looking at me.
“You need help?” one asks.
“Thank you,” I start. “Maybe you could…”
But then the other says, “Lose your customer? I’ll oblige you.” He laughs.
“Go to hell,” I say.
“Only joking,”
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