Her fingers reached up and touched his face. Moving toward him, she brought her lips close to him; he felt the pressure of her mouth, the hard, sharp pressure of her teeth as she kissed him. Her breath smelled of flowers and cinnamon. As he put his arms around her, he heard the rustle of her clothes and the faint giving of muscles and ligaments and joints, the stirrings of her body. Her sleeve brushed his eyes; she was clinging to him, resting her head against his neck. How heavy, her head was. She lay on him, breathing shallowly. Panting, he thought . . . not moving—but content to lie against him with her eyes shut, her arm up so that her fingers curled into his hair. She was discouraged and lonely, and he knew what she wanted: she wanted to lie close to him, turning her face up to be kissed. He held her face between his hands and lifted her; at once she let her lips slacken so that he could find her mouth. She was back into the past, living out her own young days. She was with him, in the romance and excitement of a first date, wrapped up in his arms on the front seat of a car, parked at the side of the road above the lights of the city, overlooking the darkness, the night and fog. In other cars other boys held their girls and petted them and kissed them; he ran his hands along the fabric of her blouse, along her shoulders and arms. He avoided her breasts because that was not what she wanted. Holding his mouth against hers, he poured out of him and into her the love she wanted; he lost nothing and yet he felt her fill out and become powerful with it. She had to take it from him. But . . . he had it to give her.
“I love you,” he said.
She sighed. She said nothing. Her face lay pressed to his shoulder, time passed and she did not stir, and at last he realized that she had fallen asleep.
Gently, he lifted her back until she rested against the door. Then he covered her with her coat. Starting up the engine, he drove down the hill, back into town.
As they drove among the lights of Van Ness Avenue, she stirred a little, sat up, and then said, “Do you know where I live?”
“No,” he said, “but we’re not going there; we’re going back to Fillmore.”
“Take me home,” she said. “You can call your wife from my place. Please.”
He had been wrong. “Tell me where,” he said. He felt leaden, but he did as she said; he could not back out. Beside him she was opening her purse to get out her cigarettes. Neither of them spoke, and then she said, “rum right here.”
He turned the car.
“What are you going to tell her?” she said.
“I don’t know. I’ll tell her something. I ran into these guys. Grimmelman, maybe.”
“You’ve never done anything like this before, have you?”
“No,” he said.
“Do you want to? You don’t have to. I won’t make you do it.”
“I want to,” he said. And he did want to. “You’re really cute,” he said. “You’re really pretty.”
“Thank you, Art.” she said. “I know you mean it. You wouldn’t say so if you didn’t.” She seemed calm, at this point.
10
After her husband and Pat had left the apartment to go to the liquor store, Rachael went into the kitchen and washed dishes . . .. Ten or fifteen minutes passed, and then she dried her hands and walked to the front door.
“They’re not coming back,” she said, standing at the door. Jim Briskin was slow to agree. “Sure they are,” he said.
She shook her head. “I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. But I thought it would be with the different guys . . . Grimmelman and those people.”
Jim opened the door and started up the steps. “They must have gone off in her car.”
“Where are you going?”
“Hell,” he said, “I’ll try her apartment.”
“Let him go ahead,” Rachael said. Her eyes were dry; he was amazed at her self-control. “She’s very lovely and look how grownup she is. If he wants to, then he should. What difference does it make if they go ahead or not? I couldn’t keep him here . . . could you have kept her here?”
“No,” he said. But he did not come back inside. He remained on the steps, the door open behind him . . ..
“You can’t control other humans,” Rachael said. “You can talk to them, but it doesn’t make any difference. Maybe in little things, or if they believe it already. Anyhow, I’m glad she’s so nice.”
He said, “I’ll kill her.” He meant it; he could feel her neck between his hands.
“Why? You know she’s had a lot to drink. You know Art and I have had trouble . . . he wanted to go out. There’s so many things he hasn’t done and he wants to do them. He’s too young. I was the only girl be dated. I guess I’m the only girl he ever—however you say it. People say it different ways. I don’t know any good way.”
“There isn’t,” he said, “not in a situation like this.” He blamed himself. It was his fault. “Rachael,” he said, coming back into the apartment, “I did it. I brought her here. And I knew she was in a state; I knew she was ready to try anything. We both were.”
“It’s a bad thing for you,” Rachael said, “since you’re in love with her.”
“Look.” He picked up his coat from the chair. “You stick around here. I’ll go over to her place and try to round them up. I’ll see you later.” Without waiting, he left the apartment and went along the path to the sidewalk. Pat’s car was gone, all right. He hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of her apartment.
The lights in her windows were off, and nobody answered his rings. Another tenant entered the building using his key for the main door, and Jim went into the lobby behind him. Upstairs, at Pat’s door, he knocked and then tried the knob. Still there was no answer. He listened, but he heard nothing.
Going back downstairs to the street, he searched in vain for a sign of the Dodge.
They were not here at her apartment. Where else, then? The only remaining place was the radio station.
The time was twelve-thirty, and Hubble would have locked up; Pat had a key, and she and Art would have the station to themselves.
Again he flagged a cab. As it took him, toward Geary Street, he thought to himself that at least he could pick up his car; it was still parked in the cab stand in front of the station.
When he had paid the driver, he saw that his car was gone. The cab stand was empty. And, peering up, he saw no lights in the top-floor windows of the McLaughlen Building. He walked around to the parking lot and still there was no sign of his car and no sign of Pat’s Dodge.
A drugstore down the street was open. He entered it and, in a phone booth, called the station’s number. The phone rang on and on; at last he gave up. They were not there either.
He located the number of the Kearny Street police station and called. “My car’s been stolen,” he said. “I left it parked in front of where I am and now it’s gone.”
“Just a moment,” the police voice said. Clicks deafened him and then, after an endless pause, the voice returned. “What is your name?”
He gave them his name. “It must have happened within the hour,” he said. He felt absolutely futile. “The make and license number?” He gave that, too.
“Just a moment, sir.” Again there was a wait. “Your car was towed off,” the police voice said. “It was parked in a hack stand, and the cab company phoned in a complaint.”
“Oh,” he said, “then where is it?”
“I don’t know; you’ll have to enquire about it tomorrow morning. Be here at Kearney Street at ten-thirty and arrangements will be made to return it to you.”