Catching shadows the fiv.., p.9
Island, page 9
He briefed and he debriefed. Month after month. The strain of that work grew, and there was nothing to relieve it. He became listless, numb, and even lonelier than he could remember having been at college. McNally was the only man he saw anything of, but he, too, was feeling the strain and getting alarmingly cranky at odd moments. At others he seemed hungry for company. Once, during a week of particularly bad weather, when there was no air activity at all, he suggested a joint trip to London.
“What will we do?”
“Drink. Screw.”
“Screw who?”
McNally looked at him. “How the hell do I know? You look around. You screw somebody. You come back. You’ve been to London. You know the drill.”
“Not yet.”
McNally looked at him again, harder. “Fay, don’t you tease me. I’m tired and horny. I’m going to London to sleep and drink and screw. That’s what you go to London for. Everybody screws there. It’s one big screwing factory. I do it. The dogfaces do it. They pick up theirs in the street and get a dose. How many in our group do you think have been redlined this year because they caught a dose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Close to twenty. We won’t run that risk. As officers and gentlemen, we’ll hit the Savoy and a couple of other places. See what we can see.”
They saw what they could see at the Savoy and a couple of other places. And at the fourth or fifth place, two American WACs came in and McNally instantly said to one of them: “Hello, Mabel.”
“My name’s not Mabel.”
“Don’t kid me. You’re Mabel. We met a couple of weeks ago.”
“Honest, it’s not.” An overplump WAC with a round pasty face. “My name’s Alice.”
“Okay, Alice. I’m Jim and this is Fred. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Faye.”
“Okay, what’ll you drink, Scotch? Four Scotches. Here, there’s room at the bar.”
Which was debatable; the place was already jammed. But by some good-natured pushing, the girls were moved up to the bar, he giving up his place to Alice. He opened his mouth to say to the other girl: What a coincidence, my name is Fay too, but McNally had managed to get his back between them, and he was left with Alice.
If there was a rule about girls cruising in pairs, it would have to be that one was usually pretty good and the other was a dog. Alice was the dog. At first he stood directly behind her, squashed against her by the press of bodies crowding the bar. It was like being in the New York subway during the rush hour, jammed against a stranger, against hip or belly depending on which way you were facing, looking away as if to disavow that accidental intimacy. In a minute or two Alice got herself half turned around so that he was jammed against her hip. The place was roaring with noise and friendly bodies.
“What a coincidence—my name is Fay too.”
“Huh?”
“I said, what a coincidence. Your friend’s name is Faye. My last name is Fay. Kind of a coincidence.”
“That’s right—Faye.”
“Where are you from?”
“Huh?”
“I said, Where are you from?”
“Jersey.”
“What a coincidence. I’m from Jersey too.”
“What part?”
“Whittington.”
“Where’s that? Could I have another drink?” She had finished her first by swallowing it down in three or four large gulps.
“Another Scotch. The northwest. How about you?”
“Huh?”
“I said, What part of Jersey do you come from?”
“Paterson.”
The drink came. She was now facing him. He reached over her shoulder, picked it off the bar, and handed it to her. She drained about half of it and held it in her two hands against her chest, which was bursting upward in her uniform. His drink was cupped in his two hands, which were also sort of resting on her chest. Their upper parts were separated by their hands and their drinks, but down below they were approaching a subway togetherness.
“How long since you made captain?”
“What?”
“I figure you just made captain. Your bars are so shiny.”
“That’s right. Two months ago.”
“Here’s to you. I like captains.” She downed the rest of her drink, and he got her a third. Their faces were so close together that he couldn’t focus clearly on her except by drawing his neck back like a stork’s. She had nice brown eyes but a big pudding face, and there was a dew of perspiration across her forehead. She hoisted her third drink, took a good pull, then the glass slid from her hand and a good deal of its contents ran down inside her uniform.
“Ooooh.”
He reached over her shoulder again to put his own glass on the bar and tried to get his hand down to his pocket for a handkerchief.
“That was cold.”
He located his handkerchief. Simultaneously she located his hand and guided it upward. “Here’s the wettest.” In the cleft between. With her other hand she had unbuttoned the top buttons of her WAC uniform, and she pushed his hand and handkerchief in. Right there in the bar! He looked wildly around, his hand imprisoned. Nobody was paying the slightest attention. McNally and Faye were deeply occupied with each other. Meanwhile Alice guided his hand with little dabbing motions across her left breast and held it there. He could feel a nipple under the nylon, dimpling his palm.
Desperately: “Have another—for the one you dropped.”
“Unh unh. We already had a couple before we came.” She put an arm around his neck. “You’re okay, Captain. I like captains.” She pulled his face down to hers and splashed a long sopping kiss diagonally from his nose across the far corner of his mouth. He kept his lips shut, but she had a hard questing tongue and managed to get it in against his teeth. Her eyes were closed. She seemed totally oblivious of her surroundings and worked his mouth over with evident pleasure. Now she had both arms around his neck. His hand was still clutching her breast but seemed reluctant to let go.
“Captain, you’re a nice captain. What did you say your name was?”
“Fred.”
“Captain Fred, from Whatzzit, New Jersey.”
“Whittington.”
“Whippington. I’ll have that other drink now. It’s so hot in here.”
It came.
“Let’s not spill any this time, Captain Fred.”
“No.”
“You got my—uh, you know—my fluffies kind of wet that last time. So you drink half and I’ll drink half.” He took a good pull, and she drained off the rest as if it had been water and again dropped her glass. And she kissed him again a couple of times and he opened his mouth and let her tongue in, relishing the intimate sensation of her tongue roaming about in his mouth, suggesting things to him that no tongue had said before. This was the first woman he had ever kissed. Drunk as he was, he enjoyed it, and he decided to notch up the enjoyment another click with another drink apiece.
The room got noisier and hotter, and they stood locked together, moving gently like seaweed in the tidal surge along the bar, crunching bits of the dropped glasses as they shifted their feet to keep their balance. Self-consciousness, whether driven by drink or by desire, receded. This big soft body occupied him now. He had her backed firmly against the bar, and he pressed hard against her. He got his knee between her legs, which parted cordially, and he worked himself against that broad soft midsection.
“Mmmmmm.”
He shut his eyes—to blot out the surging, shouting, drinking, kissing, goosing crowd around him, and also to banish Alice’s face, which was getting increasingly sweaty and not something to dwell on. But he wanted to drive ahead anyway, press into her. He got his hands behind her wide buttocks and pulled her tighter against himself. And he wanted to do other things, but this was hardly the place, so he said into her ear:
“Where do you live, Alice?”
She looked at him glassily, perspiration running, her brown eyes out of focus, dark crescents showing under the armpits of her uniform as she kept her hands laced behind his neck.
“Let’s go somewhere,” he said.
“Okay, Captain Whipperwhipper.”
“Your place.”
“Okay, Whipperwhipper. My place. My place is your place.”
He pried her loose to pay for the drinks, and her knees seemed to sag. She looked pretty disheveled. The buttons of her uniform were unfastened, and there was a monumental bosom back in there.
“Better button yourself up.”
She looked down at herself. “I’m unbuttoned.”
“Right. Cold outside. Button up.”
“Whappersnapper, you button me up. You unbuttoned me down.”
He did. She surveyed his work with interest. “You’re a good buttoner upper, Whapper. Button now. Then unbutton. Right, Whapper?”
“At your place. Let’s go.”
“Where’s my cap.”
He steered her toward the door.
“My cap.”
It was hanging on a peg. She leaned against the wall while she adjusted it slowly and carefully, tucking in strands of sweaty hair. He opened the door, and she went out of that steam-bath pandemonium into the chilling London blackout night and fell flat on her face in the street.
He tried to pick her up. She was enormously heavy.
“Having trouble, mate?”
“Yes; just give me a hand.” Together he and the obliging stranger got her into a sitting position on the sidewalk. He examined her face as well as he could. Miraculously, it seemed to have survived her fall.
“Okay now, mate?”
“I guess so. Alice, where do you live?”
“Hello, Captain Whapper”—she had the hiccups—“snapper.”
“Come on, Alice. Get up.”
“No, Whapper. You sit down.”
“Get up, Alice.” He tugged at her arm.
“Dizzy, Whapper. I don’t want to get up. You sit down.”
“Alice, for Christ’s sake.”
“Nice Whapper.”
He crouched next to her and took her hand. “Alice, where do you live?”
“In a nice place.”
“Where is it?”
“With a nice big bed. Cold here.”
“We’ll get warm there. Where is it?”
“Keith Terrace.”
“Where’s that?”
“Over thataway.” She waved her arm.
“Alice, we can’t sit here in the street all night. We’ll freeze. Let’s go to your place, where it’s warm.”
“Where we’ll whapper whapper.”
“Yes. Just tell me where Keith Terrace is.”
“Whapper.” Eyes closed.
He went back to the club. McNally and Faye had disappeared. He asked the bartender where Keith Terrace was.
“Right around here somewhere, mate. I know that name. It’s not far from here. I know the name well.”
“Where?”
“Just nearby, mate. Around the corner, like.”
“Which corner?”
“One of those right about here.” He turned to a man. “Alfred, you know Keith Terrace? The captain wants to know the location of Keith Terrace.”
“I do.”
“Right in this general neighborhood—right, Alfred?”
“Yus.”
He got Alfred’s arm and dragged him into the street. Alice was still sitting on the sidewalk. “Show me.”
Alfred pointed. “Tuw dahn. Turn roight. One over.”
“Alice.”
No answer.
He knelt and opened the pocketbook that was still hooked over her arm. It was so dark in the street because of the blackout that he had to go back into the club to examine its contents. Inside was an ID card: Alice Ponderville, 6 Keith Terrace. He went outside. Alfred was scratching his head and looking at Alice. “She’s ’ad a bit.”
Sobering up now, with threads of desperation beginning to run through him: “Look. You know where Keith Terrace is. Help me get her there, and I’ll give you a pound.”
“Roight.” Alfred straddled Alice, bent down, locked his arms around her, and, although he appeared actually to be smaller than she, suddenly straightened up with her. Each of them took an arm over a shoulder and walked her down the street. She stumbled along willingly for two blocks, then began dragging her feet.
“Come on, Alice, walk.”
“Have to wee-wee.”
“You can do that at home. Only a block to go.”
“Have to wee-wee now.”
“Walk faster.”
“Going to wee-wee.”
“Your trick, mate,” said Alfred, letting go of Alice. “Oi’ll not be sploshed.”
“Okay, hold it, hold it. We’re stopping.” He propped her against the side of a flight of stone steps. With some difficulty she hoisted her skirt and staggered out of her underpants as if she were trampling grapes.
“Help me down.”
“What?”
“Can’t wee-wee standing up.”
He dug into her armpits and lowered her to the edge of the bottom step. In the silent street the soft whbssshh, clearly audible, began. “They do piss a great lot,” said Alfred. “I’ll ’ave me quid now, Keith Terrace bein’ just there.” He paid Alfred.
“All right, Alice. Up.”
“All through, Whapper.”
“Good girl. Now get up.” But she couldn’t make it on her own, and his first attempt to follow Alfred’s method landed him on top of her on the steps.
“Ow.”
“Come on, Alice.”
“I hit my head.”
“Okay. Here, let’s stand up.”
“My head.”
“Come on.” He gave her another hoist, and off they went to No. 6. He dug in her handbag for her key, but it wouldn’t fit in the keyhole.
“God damn it, how do you work this thing?”
“My panties.”
Her office key? He fumbled for another. There was no other.
“Left my panties.”
“I’ll get your panties. How do we get in here?”
“Other door.”
“What other door?”
“Down there.”
She lived in a basement room with its own door under the front steps. It was as black as a closet down there, and the stone wall was like ice as he felt his way along to the door. The key fitted. “Okay, Alice. Down a step.”
“Down step.”
He found the light.
“Beddy.”
It nearly filled the room. He aimed her toward it, and she fell on it like a demolished building. In the rear was a closet with a basin and toilet, where he relieved himself and washed his face and hands, suddenly feeling inordinately dirty.
“Alice?” He gave her a gentle shake, then a harder one. She did not respond.
He looked around the room. It had one small window up near the ceiling, and a heavy curtain, which he drew carefully. He then took off Alice’s shoes and rolled her over on her back. She lay there, her mouth open. He unbuttoned her uniform again and stared at her breasts, now horizontal and flattened and flowing out in all directions from under the edges of her bra. He looked at her skirt and remembered that she had nothing on under it. And he had a profound desire to see that, and he realized that this would be the time, the safe time, the first time, with no possibility of rejection or resistance or even knowledge from this unconscious woman. As a starter, he slid his hand under her bra and rolled it around in the center of her breast. But the heat had been left back at the club, and there began to be something revolting about this great clammy breast in which he could almost bury his hand, and he took it away and looked at his watch. It said two-thirty, and he realized how cold and tired he was, and he had just enough energy left to drag the comforter out from under Alice and cover the two of them with it.
He jumped awake at six, wondering how he could possibly have slept through the snores erupting next to his ear. Long tearing snorts, each ending with an abrupt choking gulp. She sounded as if she were strangling. He slid out of the bed and into a street that was just beginning to turn gray. After a long time he found his way to the railway station, where he sat, huddled and shivering and hungry, waiting for a train to take him back to Bedford. His mind kept skidding away from Alice; he was too miserable himself to feel sorry for her.
“Where the hell were you?” said McNally. They had agreed, in case they got separated, to meet the following afternoon in Willow Run, the big officers mess in London, and drive back to the base in McNally’s jeep.
“Things didn’t work out. I came back early on the train.”
“What do you mean, they didn’t work out? The last time I saw you, you were giving somebody’s tit a pretty good workout.”
“She got drunk. She passed out.”
“They’ll do that on you. You shouldn’t let them drink too fast. Fay, you lack experience.”
“I guess so.”
“Fay, listen to me. Never load liquor into a woman faster than you load it into yourself. That’s just plain unintelligent.”
“Good thing to remember.”
“The capacity to absorb liquor is a function of the size of the body. Take your little namesake we met in that bar. Very small. I figured one for her for every two for me. We made out fine.”
“Lucky you.”
“Yes, a firecracker. She works in the Transport Command records section, and I’ve got her number. I promised her the next time we got weather I’d go down for another whack. Come along. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“Maybe.”
9
BUT HE DIDN’T GO BACK. WHAT HE DIDN’T CARE TO explain to McNally was his woeful inexperience with women, which, with nothing to balance it against, had made the recent encounter so shocking. It still sickened him. He kept putting it out of his mind, but it kept coming back. When he was supposed to be working, sudden images would slam into focus: massaging an ugly fat woman’s breast in a public bar, watching her squat on a stone sidewalk with a puddle spreading between her legs. He was frightened by the dark and driving desire that made him want to fondle such a breast, revolted by the memory of wanting to feel her up when she lay unconscious on her bed, bothered most of all by the residual prickle of heat that that memory stirred in him even now—and revolted him again. There was no composing the picture he had of great pasty Alice with the things he wanted to do to her. Sometimes he felt really dirty. Meanwhile listlessness spread over him like scum.
