“Mornin’,” said Karras to Eleni’s back. Eleni turned her head and smiled, then went back to the bread she was soaking in a bowl filled with egg yolk beaten into milk.
She tossed her mane of brown hair. “I’m makin’ a little French toast, honey.”
“Okay by me.”
“Pete?”
She wanted something. He could tell it by the singsong way she said his name.
“What, sweetheart?”
“You think we might be able to sneak out to a picture this weekend?”
“To see what?”
“There’s this movie called The Boy With Green Hair, it’s opening down at the Keith’s.”
“What’s it about?”
“Robert Ryan’s in it.”
“I like Robert Ryan. Ryan’s the McCoy. But I didn’t ask you who was in it. I asked what the picture was about.”
“There’s this little boy, see, and he wakes up with a head of green hair. People treat him differently because of it, like he’s some kind of freak—”
“Sounds like a million laughs. I don’t think so, baby.”
“You never wanna take me out.”
Karras checked out his wife’s backside. She hadn’t lost much of the weight she had put on from having the kid, would probably never lose it now. And he had been warned about her ankles. He could remember when he just got back from the war, when he had brought her over to meet the folks. His father had taken him aside, made some negative comment about her family, the village they had come from, what they had not amounted to, like that. Then his father had gotten to the real point.
“And one more thing,” Dimitri Karras had said. “She’s got them fat ankles.”
“So what. Pop?”
“You marry a girl with fat ankles, the rest of hers gonna get fat, too, goddamn right.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes.”
“I’m serious, boy. Acous? You marry a girl, there’s a good chance she’s gonna get fat anyway, they all gonna get fat, nothin’ you can do about that. But why you wanna marry one you know’s gonna get fat? Huh?”
Karras married her, and she had put on the weight, and she had kept it on, and that had been fine with him. He liked a woman with a little something on her. Anyway, he liked it on Eleni. She carried it well, her big-boned legs firm and strong, her breasts full and unsagging. Eleni, standing there in that red rayon robe he had picked up for her at Morton’s for three and change — yeah, she looked pretty damn good. Karras began to imagine her beneath the robe, caught the dryness in his mouth, looked away. He knew he ought to save it for later in the day.
Karras picked the Times-Herald up off the kitchen table, glanced at the front page. The Reds in Hungary had kicked out Selden Chapin, the American foreign minister, after Chapin had gone and stuck his nose in the Cardinal Mindszenty affair. The Soviets had given the Catholic cardinal a life stretch for his anti-commie activities, but Karras thought, so what? Let the cardinal rot there, if it would keep a country of boys out of another war. If there was a God, and this God had any justice in Him, wouldn’t saving young lives be His racket? Wouldn’t that be what He would want?
“Take these empty bottles out, will ya, honey? The milkman’s gonna be here soon.”
“Sure thing,” said Karras, not glancing up from the paper.
Below the fold, a story appeared about the new lead on the latest prosti killing, the third in as many years. This one had died like the others, a razor cut from throat to groin. The lead was a phony, a plant from a department eager to convince the public that they were on the case — Karras knew as much from a conversation with Jimmy Boyle. Karras wondered when the blueboys would figure this one out; overworked and plain stumped by the seemingly motiveless intensity of the killings, and not used to a repeat-murder case remaining unsolved for such a long period of time, the detectives appeared to be chasing their tails. At least it looked that way to Karras. And Boyle had told him that the department had nada.
“These bottles, honey.”
Karras looked up at Eleni, standing there holding the empty bottles. Her robe had opened a little, giving to a view of the tops of her breasts. Goddamn her, she never wore a brassiere underneath that robe.
“Oh, what the hell,” said Karras.
Karras went to the record player, took the Hutton off the platter. He found Stan Kenton’s “Artistry Jumps” in the stack, put that on, let it spin. He limped across the room, doing a stutter step to the tune. Dimitri bounced up and down, holding the netting of the playpen walls. Karras moved toward Eleni.
“What’s got into you, anyway?”
“Just feel like cuttin’ the rug this morning,” said Karras.
“We don’t have any rugs, Pete,” said Eleni, her nose crinkling from the repressed smile. “And you never could dance.”
“Come here.”
Karras took the bottles from Eleni’s hands, placed them on the kitchen table. He danced her a couple of steps around the room, opened his robe, pushed himself against her and gave it some friction as he kissed her softly, running his tongue along her gums. Eleni’s breath smelled of coffee.
“Pete.”
“Aw, shut up.”
“I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”
“Shut up, baby.”
They moved to the living room, where Karras fell back into an overstuffed lounge chair. He drew her down to him.
“Mom,” said Dimitri from the playpen. He began to cry.
“The pethi.” Eleni’s breath had become short.
“He’s all right.”
Karras fumbled at Eleni’s robe, opened it. He pinched the nipple of her right breast, kissed her roughly on the mouth. She pushed herself against him. He freed his cock, rubbed the head of it against her damp panties. Eleni bucked, made a grunting sound, pulled the fabric of her panties aside.
“Esi eise etimi,” said Karras.
“Ella, Pete.”
She made a small wave of her hips, forward and down again to let him in. And then he was in, deep into her pussy, which was wet and always hot.
“Um,” she said.
“Quit complainin’,” said Karras.
She threw her head back; a string of saliva dripped from the side of her mouth onto Karras’s chest. The Kenton band kicked it in the room, the sound drowning out the boy’s crying. Karras watched Eleni’s right leg convulse, watched it beat against the side of the chair.
Karras laughed. “Just look at you, baby. You’re kickin’ like a mule.”
“Scase, Pete.”
Karras did as he was told: He shut his mouth and closed his eyes.
“Hey, Pete,” said Eleni. “Where you goin’, all dressed up like that? You’re not wearin’ that suit to work, are you?”
Karras had taken his shower, dressed in his blue, chalk-striped, double-breasted suit. He stood in the kitchen buttoning the jacket.
“I guess I forgot to tell you. The new kid is handling lunch today. I’m gonna go in after that.”
“The Polish kid?”
“Yeah, Mike Florek. It’s only been a week, but he’s catchin’ on pretty good.”
“You better look out. He might catch on good enough to bounce you out of your job.”
“I’m not worried. There’s plenty of customers now to keep all of us busy. Anyway, Nick’ll always treat me right.”