and I was supporting him.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“I hope he’s dead.”
“You probably wish I was dead too,” he thought. In the silence that followed, realizing their need of each other, both now ostracized from the only exciting life they had ever known, both starved for sexual fulfilment, lost and lonely, outcasts drifting together long after the passion had passed, faced with a night of sleeping together which at that moment neither desired, they hated each other.
She glanced at her watch and said, hurtingly, “Shall we go now, or do we drink our dinner.”
He bit back the impulse to say, “Go to hell,” telling himself, “I’m going to have you, whether you like it or not.” Then managed a thin smile, saying instead, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“If you intend to get drunk you can get out right now,” she said viciously.
“I intend to take you to dinner,” he said evenly.
“The last time I saw you, you were nasty drunk. Filthy! God, you were nasty. And I wanted you so.”
He gave her a bewildered look. “What did I do? The last I remember is vomiting all over Don’s white davenport.”
“God, Ralph was mad. If you hadn’t been so drunk he would have beaten you.”
He felt acutely embarrassed. “I don’t blame him.”
“And I would have helped him.”
“But what did I do to you?”
“Jesse! If you ever…”
He had taken Roy by that afternoon for Don to see some of his etchings. That had been the summer following his visit to the big deluxe artists’ colony called Skiddoo, and he’d been sick —sick in the head. That place had made him sick like nothing else in all his life—or perhaps he’d been sick when he went up there. Perhaps it was the book that had made him sick—that second book—and perhaps all Skiddoo did was bring it out. Some day he’d have to sit down and discover why he had hated Skiddoo and all the artists there. But Roy had been the exception; he’d liked Roy and had hoped Don would buy some of his war etchings to put him on his feet. Instead of buying the etchings, Don had taken their visit as an excuse to throw a party. By six o’clock a dozen or so persons were grouped about the big circular cocktail table in the sitting-room and Don was serving one pitcher after another of a strong gin drink he called a Gimlet. The last thing Jesse remembered before throwing up all over the sofa was baiting a woman named Muriel Slater whom he despised. On entering she had dismissed Roy’s etchings and, seating herself in the centre of the floor, had taken off her shoes and launched into a loud discussion about a big black actor with whom she’d been sleeping off and on for years. She was one of those hard, brassy, over-ripened blondes, always loud-and-wrong. During the last Roosevelt campaign, when the communists and blacks had been working together again for Roosevelt’s election, she’d been employed as a party-giver by the Central Committee of the Communist Party; and after the publication of Jesse’s anti-communistic book she, as had all of his communist acquaintances and most of his Negro friends, quit speaking to him. He remembered saying to her, “Muriel baby, I know you have a beautiful, clean mind and a pure, unsullied soul, but your feet are dirty. Look at them. Really dirty, and not nearly so beautiful as your mind. Don’t you feel embarrassed on climbing into bed with some strange man with your dirty feet?” He remembered her fury, and although he couldn’t remember when Kriss had arrived, he remembered winking at her then taking another drink, and the next thing he remembered was vomiting on the sofa….
“What did I say to you?”
“Jesse! If you ever—”
“Just tell me what I said.”
“You wanted me to go to bed with you in one of Don’s rooms.” He didn’t remember that at all. “I told you I couldn’t do that. I never took anyone to bed when I roomed there, and I’d had my own apartment on 10th Street for
“What’s he doing now?”
“I hope he’s dead.”
“You probably wish I was dead too,” he thought. In the silence that followed, realizing their need of each other, both now ostracized from the only exciting life they had ever known, both starved for sexual fulfilment, lost and lonely, outcasts drifting together long after the passion had passed, faced with a night of sleeping together which at that moment neither desired, they hated each other.
She glanced at her watch and said, hurtingly, “Shall we go now, or do we drink our dinner.”
He bit back the impulse to say, “Go to hell,” telling himself, “I’m going to have you, whether you like it or not.” Then managed a thin smile, saying instead, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“If you intend to get drunk you can get out right now,” she said viciously.
“I intend to take you to dinner,” he said evenly.
“The last time I saw you, you were nasty drunk. Filthy! God, you were nasty. And I wanted you so.”
He gave her a bewildered look. “What did I do? The last I remember is vomiting all over Don’s white davenport.”
“God, Ralph was mad. If you hadn’t been so drunk he would have beaten you.”
He felt acutely embarrassed. “I don’t blame him.”
“And I would have helped him.”
“But what did I do to you?”
“Jesse! If you ever…”
He had taken Roy by that afternoon for Don to see some of his etchings. That had been the summer following his visit to the big deluxe artists’ colony called Skiddoo, and he’d been sick —sick in the head. That place had made him sick like nothing else in all his life—or perhaps he’d been sick when he went up there. Perhaps it was the book that had made him sick—that second book—and perhaps all Skiddoo did was bring it out. Some day he’d have to sit down and discover why he had hated Skiddoo and all the artists there. But Roy had been the exception; he’d liked Roy and had hoped Don would buy some of his war etchings to put him on his feet. Instead of buying the etchings, Don had taken their visit as an excuse to throw a party. By six o’clock a dozen or so persons were grouped about the big circular cocktail table in the sitting-room and Don was serving one pitcher after another of a strong gin drink he called a Gimlet. The last thing Jesse remembered before throwing up all over the sofa was baiting a woman named Muriel Slater whom he despised. On entering she had dismissed Roy’s etchings and, seating herself in the centre of the floor, had taken off her shoes and launched into a loud discussion about a big black actor with whom she’d been sleeping off and on for years. She was one of those hard, brassy, over-ripened blondes, always loud-and-wrong. During the last Roosevelt campaign, when the communists and blacks had been working together again for Roosevelt’s election, she’d been employed as a party-giver by the Central Committee of the Communist Party; and after the publication of Jesse’s anti-communistic book she, as had all of his communist acquaintances and most of his Negro friends, quit speaking to him. He remembered saying to her, “Muriel baby, I know you have a beautiful, clean mind and a pure, unsullied soul, but your feet are dirty. Look at them. Really dirty, and not nearly so beautiful as your mind. Don’t you feel embarrassed on climbing into bed with some strange man with your dirty feet?” He remembered her fury, and although he couldn’t remember when Kriss had arrived, he remembered winking at her then taking another drink, and the next thing he remembered was vomiting on the sofa….
“What did I say to you?”
“Jesse! If you ever—”
“Just tell me what I said.”
“You wanted me to go to bed with you in one of Don’s rooms.” He didn’t remember that at all. “I told you I couldn’t do that. I never took anyone to bed when I roomed there, and I’d had my own apartment on 10th Street for
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