Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

His voice was mild and squeaky, but when I tried to walk past him, he blocked the way, said, “I'm the super of the house. They—she—owes rent... last month.”

“I'm not sure Mrs. Conroy wants to keep the apartment any longer.”

He pushed back his battered felt hat, rubbed his thin hair.

“Have to talk to the agent about that. They—she—has a lease.”

I rested the clothes on the stairway railing, pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket. “Look, if you don't hear from Mrs. Conroy within the next week, evict her. And forget you ever saw me.” I slipped him the ten.

He hesitated a moment, pocketed the bill. “You her brother?”

“No. I'm a friend of the Conroys. All this has been a severe shock to her, naturally, and Mrs. Conroy may leave the city. But forget you saw me.”

“It's okay with me, mister. But the agent will want last month's rent and you can't break a lease by...”

“Stop it. Clean and paint the place, fix up the furniture a little, and the agent will get a couple hundred under the table—again, like he did from the Conroys. But remember, wait a week, in case Mrs. Conroy changes her mind.”

As I went down the stairs I heard him mumble. “Okay with me, but them people sure caused us plenty trouble...”

I took a cab uptown and the sour smell of her things made me want her. I left the clothes in a dry-cleaning place on the corner, brushed myself off, and walked over to the house. Slob was sitting outside and I picked him up as I unlocked the door, said, “What's the matter, boy, bit shocked at my having a girl around?”

Inside, he jumped out of my hands, made for the kitchen. I called out, “Lee? Lee?” but there wasn't any answer. For a moment I had the uncomfortable feeling that she had left me. But the night before I had undressed her in the living room, and her dress was still across the couch, her sweater on the floor where she had dropped it, and in the bathroom doorway I could see her shoes. I called her name again, ran into the bedroom.

She was sprawled across the bed, and I swear that she hadn't moved an inch since I'd left her in the morning. She was staring up at the ceiling, as if in deep thought, didn't even look at me. My note was still on the night table, but the five dollar bill was gone.

I sat on the bed, stroked her hard thigh. “Hello, Lee honey. Haven't you been out?”

She didn't answer, still examined the ceiling.

“Anything wrong? I phoned twice but you must have been out...” I stopped. Remembering her clothes in the living room, I damn well knew she hadn't left the house.

She didn't pay the slightest attention to me and I sat like that for a moment, wondering what I'd done. Perhaps she felt guilty about spending the night with her dead husband's best friend. Perhaps... I said, “I was down to your place, put your clothes in the cleaners. You'll have to decide if you want to keep the apartment. The janitor was asking about it.” This didn't get a rise out of her, and for want of something more to say, I asked, “Would you like to eat?”

She sat up, stared at me. I noticed she'd been smoking in bed—there were ashes and a few crushed, blackened butts on the sheet beneath her. She said, “Ja, essen.”

“What? Look, are you hungry?”

“Yes. I am very hungry,” she said, like a kid in an elocution class.

She was looking at me, but in an odd manner, as though I wasn't there.

I stood up. “Why didn't you go out and shop?”

She didn't answer and I playfully reached down and shook her. With cat speed she moved away from me, to the other side of the bed, her eyes alert, watching me. When she moved I saw all her muscles and I'll swear she was actually muscle-bound.

I sat down on a chair, didn't talk for a minute. Then I asked, “Lee, is something the matter? Why didn't you get up? Why didn't you shop?”

She relaxed, stretched with sensuous ease on the bed, her big body inviting. She giggled.

“What's the joke?”

She said, “Where is the money?”

“What money?”

“You said fifty dollars. I find only this.” The drawl was back in her voice. She reached under a pillow, waved the five spot I'd left in the morning.

“I'll give you the money tomorrow. I have to go to the bank. And you'll need clothes, I'll buy a wardrobe,”

She looked puzzled, as if she didn't understand a word I said. I got up again. “Look, bathe and dress, I'll shop.” I reached over for the five dollars, but she coyly pulled away, put the bill under her. I was too hungry to play, so I said, “Get dressed,” and went out. In her dirty dress I didn't want to be seen with her in any restaurant. As I walked down the street, Henderson waved to me from his window.

I bought a lot of food and when I returned she was still in bed. I got angry, said, “For Christ sakes, get up and cook.”

“Cook?” she repeated, as if mocking me. She shook her head. “Lee not bright—no cook.”

“Oh, save the baby talk.” I took off my coat and tie, went into the kitchen. I gave Slob some milk and meat, made ham and eggs for supper. The smell of food aroused Lee. She stood in the doorway, watching me, still in the nude. She looked like a heavyweight champion with breasts.

I pointed to her clothes in the living room, then to the bathroom. “Wash and dress—if you want to eat.”

Like a child, she turned and did as I told her, although she didn't put on her shoes. At that moment I realized what I was up against. If I had been smart (or if I hadn't been so damn sure I was smart), I would have rushed her back to her place, given her the seven thousand, and washed my hands of the whole mess. Only it isn't easy to put that kind of money or her kind of body out of your life.

We ate in silence and when she finished she picked up Slob, began to stroke him with her big hands. He switched his tail nervously, finally jumped out of her hands, and up and out of the kitchen window. I lit a cigarette for her, took out my pipe, and asked, “Will you wash the dishes?”

She sat there, elbows on the kitchen table, watching the smoke she was blowing out of her odd nose. Finally I got up, stacked the dishes in the sink, washed them. All she did was stare at the ceiling, knock her ashes on the floor. I swept up the living room, cleaned up the bedroom, changed the linen, washed the bathroom. All the time she sat in the kitchen. I went back there, pointed to the ashes on the floor, the butt she had crushed on the table. “Look, Lee, I don't know what this all means, but I won't live in a pig-sty. Pick that up.” I sounded exactly like a father scolding his little girl.

She picked up the ashes and butt, dropped them in the sink instead of the garbage pail. I gave up, went into the living room and turned on the radio. She came in, sat opposite me. She didn't have a thing on except her dress, and just looking at her, her huge bare feet, annoyed me. To get a rise from her, I said, “Damn it, stop lounging around like a big whore.”

The words had absolutely no effect on her and I wondered if she was deaf. But I could tell she was listening to the music on the radio. I went over and shook her. “Did you hear what I said?”

She looked up at me, her face blank. When I shook her again she smiled, put her strong arms around me, pulled me down to her. I was aware only of her breasts gently digging into my chest.

Whatever was wrong with her, she knew what I wanted most.

I looked at my watch and it was absurd being in bed at six o'clock. As usual, she was staring at nothing, at the ceiling. I got up, poured myself a good hooker, asked if she wanted one.

She said, “Yes,” and I told her to get out of bed and get it. She didn't move and I put the bottle away. I sat down and tried to think. Hank and Marion had called her crazy and I'd only thought it a figure of speech. There was no doubt she was backward, to put it mildly, and God knows where or why Hank had taken up with her.

I knew I should get rid of her, yet I couldn't. I had this silly idea I was in the driver's seat—I was keeping her with her own money. That struck me as such a hell of a clever idea, I was so pleased with it, I simply couldn't give it up. Then of course there was the added point of her wonderful body.

I gave her all sorts of crazy excuses: she was merely in a mood, maybe she was recovering from a long binge, maybe she was ashamed of living with me... maybe... maybe. I gave up. But I was seriously considering getting rid of her, at the moment, but what followed changed all that.

I put on my sweat suit, tap shoes, went downstairs to dance. I had to do something to relax. I'd danced through two Earl Hines' records, was in the midst of a corny soft shoe dance to Me and My Shadow, when I noticed her sitting on the steps, watching me with great interest. She had my bedroom slippers half on her wide feet.

I asked if she wanted to dance and she said, “I know Pistol-Packing Mama and song— Deep in the Heart of Texas,” and she began to sing in a horrible monotone and clap her heavy hands.

I said, “Good God,” and burst out laughing. She smiled and I took her in my arms and started dancing. She was very awkward and after stumbling around for a moment, I left her and danced solo. The record changed to one of Charlie Barnet's loud and fast-numbers, and as I whirled around the room, the rhythm suddenly got her. She kicked off my slippers and started to dance.

Her movements were clumsy, and lacking in any grace or smoothness, yet there was something fierce and savage and original about them. Mostly she seemed to fling herself around the room, dancing with her arms and shoulders, and bumping a good deal—like an inept burlesque dancer. But there was no doubt she felt the movements, and there was a certain charm to their very simplicity. I danced around her, doing whatever I felt like.

On the slow record, a waltz, she merely walked around the room with slow, even strides, while I glided around and around her. On the fast, hot jazz numbers we both danced like mad—and I mean mad. Except for a break when I put on a new stack of records, we danced for nearly an hour, and I was the exhausted one. I was impressed with her stamina, and mad or not, it was delightful to dance with some one. I never had the nerve to show any girl—or male—my dancing. Not even Flo. I suppose this was partly modesty, plus the fact that I hate to make a spectacle of myself and my dancing was my own, meant to please only myself. And now I had a dance partner, a silent one, whose dance interpretations were also strictly her own. Lee danced with no special expression on her face, and I could never tell if she was enjoying it or considered it all a form of exercise. I suppose the fact that I danced before her was an acceptance on my part that she was backward—her opinions didn't matter. Whatever the reasoning, I was happy to have her dance with me.

When we went upstairs she headed directly for bed—wet with sweat. Like taking a kid's hand, I had to lead her to the bathroom, put her under the shower. When I turned on the sun-lamp, motioned for her to lie under it as we dried off, she shook her head violently, ran to the bedroom. I turned off the lamp and found her cowering under the sheets. “What's the matter?” I asked.

She merely turned her back to me, fear on her face.

When I got into bed, she turned so she was facing me. She lay there for a while, to see if I wanted her then, like an animal, turned over and fell sound asleep.

I was pleasantly tired and as I went into the luxurious state of contentment we call “dozing off,” I lazily wondered what Lee's mental age was, where in God's name Hank had found her, and why he had ever married her. I knew I was letting myself in for something, that I should get out from under now, fast... but I could only think how clever I was, getting Lee as a bed and dancing partner, and all on the cuff—her cuff.