Other people

Three Francine Widmer

I wanted to tell it all in a breath, but Thomassy slowed me down immediately.

"What day of the week was it, Francine?"

"Monday."

"A work day."

"Yes."

"What time did you leave work?"

"About an hour earlier than usual, say four-thirty. I'd been fighting a three-aspirin headache. My work was finished. I decided there was no point in hanging around. If I drove home early, the traffic would be lighter."

"Go on. I won't interrupt any more."

When I got home, I told Thomassy, I stepped out of my shoes, pulled my dress off, slipped a caftan over my head, and stretched as if to let the acid in my arm muscles drain out of my fingertips. I sat staring across the Hudson out of the wide window. The choppiness of the water was barely discernible, ridges of tiny whitecaps undulating. The distant, rhythmic motion mesmerized me. On the long slope between my house and the water, I could see the lemon-yellow stalks of untrimmed forsythia hinting at spring. Now that the headache was gone, I could have dropped off to sleep. I was at peace.

The doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone.

My mood slipped. With a shrug, I pushed my hair back and went to the door.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Mr. Koslak."

The name didn't register.

"From upstairs."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

I expected to see the man who, when I passed him on the stairs, always wore black-grease-smeared striped coveralls — I thought of them as convict coveralls — with some name, his name? over the pocket in red script. When I slipped the chain and opened the door, he was standing there wearing a white, horizontal tooth-smile, a white T-shirt, and jeans that looked brand new. He seemed younger, clean, thirty-five perhaps. I was struck by how short he was; this was the first time we were on the same level. His hand thrust forward an empty cup.

"Excuse me," he said. "This sounds nuts, but my wife's cooking up something and she's run out of sugar."

"Come in, come in," I said. "Of course," and as I went to the kitchen with his cup the thought flitted through my mind, "Why hasn't he tried the Italians across the hall?" Perhaps he had and they weren't home. Maybe his wife had quarreled with the Italian wife, you never know.

I handed him the cup, and then noticed he had closed the door behind him.

I'm proud of the way Harry's made a real go of the gas station in just four years. I had no idea he'd turn into a terrific businessman. I've been in the office part of the station, watching out through the glass as all these people drive in, sometimes two and three waiting for a pump, and while the kid fills 'em up, they're talking to Harry, this and that, like they was friends not customers. I asked him how much he was making a week now and he said it'd blow my mind. I don't know where he keeps his cash. As long as I get my hundred fifty a week for shopping, I don't care. Truth is I'm putting some of that in my ha-ha rainy day fund. I keep the passbook in the bottom of the Kotex box in the drawer.

You'd have to know Harry for years to see how much he's really improved. When he worked for Pete's Sunoco, he'd blow up every other day, at Pete, at me, he just couldn't stand anyone telling him what to do. I'm glad he got the lease on the Esso. It's not just the money he makes working for himself, it's his temper.

He's not perfect, I mean I wished he was better with Mike and little Mary. They may be kids, but they're human beings, you gotta say something more than hello and goodbye. He ought to play with them like a father, you know what I mean?

Anyway, I ain't getting pregnant any more. The minute it shows, Harry changes. Instead of poking me every chance he gets, he just treats me as if I was off limits. He said he didn't like the idea of poking me with a kid inside. I asked the doctor. I told him the doctor said he can't do any harm, I'm only four months gone. I don't know what Harry does when I'm pregnant. Anyway, three kids is plenty, don't you think?

It's funny how quick the time has passed since I met Harry. I had this girl friend Roseanne who's going with a guy called Lefty and she calls me to double-date on this Saturday night because Lefty's got a friend named Harry, and I says sure, and she, Roseanne, says Harry's short, and I say does he look all right, and Roseanne says she seen him and he looks fine, just he's short. Well I'm not one to make a thing if someone's short, am I?

Harry's thing then was to tell jokes. He had a whole repertory and he told them good and Roseanne and I laughed a lot, though Lefty said he'd heard them. I could tell Harry took to me from the way he kept looking me over, not just when we were introduced but like afterwards. He referred to my tits as headlights, which Lefty and Roseanne thought was funny.

I could tell he was sensitive about being short. "Nobody's short lying down," he said that first night. He called me up the next day and asked for a date, just with me.

I never thought he'd marry me. That first time in his car when he bought that used car, I said I didn't want to, he said I was lying I did want to. How do you argue that? I didn't know what I thought. I said what I was supposed to say, no.

Then we were up in Lefty's apartment, and Lefty and Roseanne were in the bedroom. You could tell they didn't want company. We were in the other room necking, you know, nothing special, when Harry asks me to look at his thing when it was hard. I didn't have experience to compare him with, you know. It came up at an angle, the way they're all supposed to, and just a bit over to the side, that was what he said was different. He said the kids in high school had made fun of his dick because of the angle, and I said what were the kids in high school doing looking at his dick, and he said he and them, there were five or six, would get theirs hard, then corner some girl and all at once show her all those hard dicks, scare the hell out of her. Men are like boys about their things. I can't imagine girls doing the same, can you?

I liked Harry. I certainly didn't want him to feel bad. I said something nice about his dick, and he said could I touch it, and one thing always leads to another, doesn't it?

Well, he did marry me, surprise. I remember he looked shy and said "I love you" and I said "I know" and he said "How'd you know?" and I said "You made love to me, didn't you?" and he said "Oh" or something idiotic like that. When I was a kid I used to daydream about marrying somebody a lot taller than Harry, but you got to be realistic, don't you? Only I worry that Mike and Jean and whatever I got in the oven will all be short like Harry instead of tall like my father, but my mother said you got to be realistic, so I was.

Harry wanted us to go to Las Vegas. I said, "Las Vegas on a honeymoon?"

"What's wrong with Las Vegas?"

So I say, "You can't lie on the beach, you can't swim, you can't enjoy yourself."

He asks me didn't I like gambling.

I tell him we ought to get to know each other on a honeymoon, something like that.

"Okay," he says, "we'll go to the other place."

That's how we got to go to Miami. I got my first bikini to take with. Harry got used to the stares quick enough. I think he likes it when they stare. Even if they make remarks, he never picks a fight. My figure was like Ava Gardner's. I hadn't had the kids yet.

What I was really getting to was that first night, when it was official and okay. We'd sobered up from the wedding champagne on the ride to the airport. We ordered drinks on the plane, what the hell I'm scared of flying and who wants to be sober. Well, we're allowed two drinks each, so Harry orders four scotches, gives me one, and drinks three himself. He kept reaching across me for a magazine or a paperback out of the bag I was carrying, but what he wanted was a quick feel. Even though we were married I guess the idea of fooling around on an airplane surrounded by people was exciting, I don't know.

So we get to the hotel and he orders up a bottle of scotch, and I say what's that for, you could order a couple drinks but a bottle? He says it's cheaper by the bottle and you don't have to wait around for room service. I'm unpacking and he's drinking and pretty soon he's singing, you know, he's got a pretty good voice, and he tells me I should have a drink, and I tell him we have to go out to dinner, don't we, and before I know it he's flopped on the bed, sloshed.

"Come on," I tell him, "we got to go down to dinner soon."

He's not out, just sleepy, so trying not to get him mad I say, "Come on, you'll sleep later, Harry. Want to take a cold shower?" He mumbles but I can't make out what he's saying, if he's saying anything. I'm thinking this is supposed to be our honeymoon. Anyway, I figure he needs some time, so I take myself a shower, it was hot on the plane and in the cab from the airport, and I take my time dolling myself up, figuring it'll give Harry time to recover. I come out to the room and wouldn't you know he's out cold and snoring?

My mother told me to always be patient with a man, and I love him don't I, so I'm the good one, I undress him. Boy was that work. I try to get the new silk p.j.s on him — do you know how hard it is on an uncooperative nearly dead body? Well, I did it, and I decide it's no use my sitting there in the chair watching him, so I put the screw top back on the scotch, what's left of it, and stick it in the closet under some of my things, and then I go to bed too, thinking some wedding night.

In the middle of the night, I'm asleep, I wake up because Harry's corpse is awake and he's shoving it to me like a loan he forgot to pay, but before I can really wake up, bang, he's finished. It was like nothing, and he's snoring again. I hate to tell you what my thoughts were for the next hour, lying there, in Florida, wondering had I made the most colossal mistake of my life. When I woke up in the morning, he was dressed and shaved and had ordered up breakfast for me in bed, he kissed me on the cheek, told me how happy he was, okay.

We had a terrific day on the beach, Harry overtipped the blond boy who brought the deck chairs and towels, we ran into the ocean holding hands, we had clam chowder my favorite for lunch, then we walked looking in the stores, and I'm afraid to say I like this or that because if it isn't something super expensive he goes in and buys it for me and I think how stupid I was to worry.

My luck, by dinner time I got the curse. Here comes the second night of the honeymoon, the first really, you can't count what happened the previous night, I told him we should have gone with the wedding date I picked out because I had my days figured, but he insisted on the date his mother picked, she didn't know when my time was. His eyes are bullets. He doesn't want me criticizing his mother.

After dinner we get back to the room and he's coming at me, it isn't even bedtime yet, and I remind him, but he just pushed me down, practically pulls my clothes off, the blood excited him like crazy the way he went at it. What a mess for the chambermaid the next day!

From that time on it's like he waits for my time to get really excited and I got a new worry which is if I get pregnant I won't have my period for nine months. I actually talked to my doctor about it, but all he says it's perfectly all right to have sexual relations during the time if it doesn't bother either party. Bother? He loves it!

I don't want to make it seem that Harry is a kink or something. We have sex between times, too. But I learned quick that if I put on a sexy nightgown and strut around he won't take his eyes off the TV but if I want it, what I got to do is the opposite, make believe I don't want to, that I don't feel like it, try to talk him out of it, and he gets those raunchy twitches in his face and practically forces me, but try to understand. He's not really forcing me, I'm setting it up so he thinks he is because that's what he likes and as long as I'm in control of the situation, who cares?

Harry can be tender, like on my birthday he will pat my hair and kiss me and bring me presents, and now we got kids, he's a marvelous father to them, sweet, even if he doesn't spend time with them. He says when they get older he will, right now they're boring to him, he can't wait till Mike is old enough to go hunting with him. It takes a lot out of a man to own his own gas station, the hours are long, you got to keep open when it's raining or snowing, and I don't blame him for wanting to plop in front of the TV and not move except to snap open another beer can. It's just the romantic side of me feels left out now and then.

I knew he was in a mood when he left this morning, I mean the kind where he'll come home at night and get a bit rough and stick it to me. What I do is call the station to say some nice things, just friendly remarks, so maybe he won't go the black-and-blue route when he gets home, but when I called he said, "Oh it's you, don't have time to talk" and hung up. You see, when he's in this kind of mood, he doesn't take off his overalls when he comes home. He doesn't even wash the grease and dirt off of himself. He pours a shot glass, chases it with a beer, then another, then here we go. So you can imagine how glad I was when he comes home and goes into the shower and then puts on his brand new T-shirt and fresh pants and gets that cup out of the kitchen and goes out the door saying, "I'll be back."

I know lots of husbands what ain't as good providers as Harry. He's a terrific bowler. When October comes and he puts on his red mackintosh and goes off hunting with his guys, it's a week's vacation for me, too. I take the kids places he'd be bored to go. I see my mother. I buy myself things. He never complains about what I've bought when he comes home from hunting.

What would he want with a cup? I'm glad he took a plastic one in case he drops it. I'd hate to break the china set Aunt Louise gave us, it's not open stock.

I'll give him an hour before I get mad.

"You've fixed up this apartment real nice," Koslak said to me.

"Thank you."

"I saw it previous, when the other people was here. You got a real eye for decoration."

Be neighborly, I thought. Don't look bored.

I said, "If your wife needs anything else, just let me know. If I've got it, it's yours."

Koslak laughed.

"I got the Esso station," he said.

"I know," I said. "You filled me up yourself the first time I was in there."

"Oh was you? I don't remember."

"It was raining. You were wet and looked like you wanted to be somewhere else."

"Yeah, inside," he said, laughing again. Then, "I got two kids pumping gas now so I don't get to see all the customers the way I used to.

I wished I weren't wearing the tent. I felt naked underneath.

"You got a broom? I don't mean I want to borrow it, I want to show you something."

I brought the broom from the kitchen. He hadn't moved.

"Let me show you." He took the broom from me, stood on a chair, and thumped the ceiling once. "If you have any trouble from anyone, just do that and if I'm home, I'll come down and help, right?" He laughed. "I wonder what Mary'll think I'm doing banging on the ceiling like that." He looked sheepish for a moment. "Mary's the wife. Mrs. Koslak."

"I think I've seen her." When will he leave?

I turned to the window. I was going to ask him if he liked the view as much as I did since they obviously saw the same thing from their apartment upstairs, in fact they were higher, when I turned and noticed that he was still holding the cup of sugar in one hand but with the other had opened his fly and his cock in full erection was in his other hand.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

My heart was pounding. I had imagined other situations and how I might handle them, but I hadn't realized how much the fear choked off thought. He wants me to be scared. Suppose I just calmly go to the phone…

"What're you doing?"

What is he doing?

"No phoning," he said. "Just do what I say."

I waited.

"You're staring at it."

"I'm not staring at it." I noticed him putting the full cup of sugar down. He held on to the other thing.

"Go into the bedroom."

I could kick him just below it, in the balls. Or in the shin, hard. I don't have my shoes on.

I went toward the chair by the picture window where I'd dropped my shoes.

"Don't move," he said. "If I break your arms, I won't have to tie them."

"You don't have to break anything," I said. "Just tell me what you want."

"I want you in the bedroom."

Who would hear a scream through the closed windows? Maybe he wants me to be afraid. He could hurt me badly. He might kill me by accident if hes deranged. He's got to be crazy to do things like this.

I went into the bedroom. When I turned to face him, I noticed that he had let go of his thing and it had gone part way down. He wont be able to.

"Put it in your mouth," he said.

I shook my head vigorously. Did my disgust show?

"Put your hand on it."

Scream now. Why cant I scream?

He unfastened his jeans the rest of the way, let them drop. I went toward him as if I was going to obey, then darted for the open bedroom door, saw him scramble to get his pants back up, ran through the living room for the door into the hallway, got my hand on the knob, remembered I had to turn the latch he had locked, and suddenly he was behind me, grabbing my arms, forcing me back from the door.

"You'll be sorry you did that," he said.

"You're hurting my arms."

He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a rope. He brought it with him. He planned all this.

I felt him get the loop over my left wrist, pull hard, then he tied it around my right wrist. I tried to wrench away. I had to keep my hands free. He forced me to the ground face down, put his knee in my back so hard I thought my spine would crack. He tied my hands together. I had to remember that the important thing is not to die.

I turned my head enough so that I could see him standing over me.

"Now you'll have to suck it," he said.

"I'll choke."

"Nobody chokes from sucking."

"I'll do it with my hand if you'll untie me."

"You tried to get away."

What would he believe?

"I just wanted to make sure the front door was locked so nobody would come in."

"I locked it."

"I didn't see you lock it."

"You saw. Now be nice. No use getting hurt, is there?"

"Can we talk?" I asked. My tied arms hurt.

"About what?"

"You want to… have sex, don't you?"

"I didn't come here to play marbles."

"I mean your wife upstairs, what about her, having sex with her, wouldn't that—"

"I don't want you talking about my wife."

"Okay."

"Get back in the bedroom."

"Sure." Got to keep him talking. "What kind of sex do you like?"

"What do you mean what kind?"

"You know what I mean. If it's different kinds and—" Mustn't mention his wife. "There are prostitutes who will do anything. I'll give you the money." I knew it was the wrong thing the instant I said it.

He slapped my face. "I don't need your money. I got all the money I want."

It came out of me like a wail. "Why me??"

He smiled.

He actually smiled. "I been watching you. You got class."

"There're supposed to be a lot of call girls with real class."

"Where'm I supposed to call them? The gas station? My house?"

"I'd let you use my apartment," I said eagerly.

"I'm using your apartment right now."

There must be something I can do. "You could go to jail," I said. "It isn't worth it, is it?"

"Let's find out. Take that thing off."

"I can't. My arms are tied."

"Unzip."

"It won't come over my arms."

"Lie down and pull it up. All the way up."

I sat down on the bed. "You don't want to go to jail."

He slapped me across the face, harder this time. "I'm not going to no jail."

"That hurt."

"Good. Nobody goes to jail if nobody talks. You're not going to talk. I live right upstairs. You do anything I don't like and you're finished, see?"

Koslak pushed me, swung my legs up on the bed, tugged at my caftan, pulling it up.

Kick him? Is it worth getting killed resisting? I pressed my thighs together.

"No you don't," he said, taking his pants off. "Spread. I want to see it."

"There're plenty of magazines with pictures," I said.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head.

He's not removing his shorts. His thing isn't hard, that's the problem. I'm safe as long as…

He had picked up the sewing scissors from the dressing table. "You gonna spread?"

I did as I was told.

"Real nice," he said, dropping the scissors on the table. He was rubbing his thing through his shorts, desperately I thought. Then he reached out with his left hand. "You're dry," he said.

The idiot expects me to be excited.

I had an idea. "I'll make it easier," I said. "See that jar?"

He glanced over at the dressing table, as if expecting a trick.

"The cold cream," I said.

He opened the jar, dipped two fingers in it.

"Not on me," I said. "On you."

He took his shorts off, put the cold cream on his thing.

"Rub it," I said. "Put your hand around it and stroke it."

At least, I thought, I won't have to put it in my mouth.

He stopped stroking when it was half erect again.

"Want me to help?" I said. It might work.

He smiled. A bit suspicious yet, but smiled.

"Untie my arms so I…"

"No funny stuff."

"Promise."

When he had untied me, his thing had lost most of its rigidity. Have to go through with it, I thought. This way is better.

I pulled the caftan completely off and let his eyes inspect me. The circulation was coming back into my hands. Think of it like a chess game. I took his thing and started stroking it. It was quickly erect, with that funny angling over to one side, as it was when I had turned from looking out of the window. With my left hand, I held his balls from underneath, stroking with my right.

"Okay?" I asked.

He nodded.

Find his rhythm and keep to it.

Suddenly he wrenched away from me. "You're trying to make me come!"

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Lie down!"

The scissors on the dressing table. Could I plunge it deep enough to kill him? Even if I stabbed him, it might not kill him. He could wrench the scissors away, kill me with them.

I closed my eyes. Don't close your eyes, remember something to describe him afterwards. The small tattoo on his right arm, what was it, why was it so small? Mary. No arrow, no heart, just Mary.

I closed my eyes again as he mounted me, thinking of the movie I had seen just a year ago when I had closed my eyes in the movies in the rape scene because it repulsed me so, and then I knew he was in me and thrusting, and I tried to think of him as something inanimate, a machine, it would only take a minute more, and it would be over, over, over. It was an accident that my eyes opened,)ust a slit for a second, and I saw his face. He had a desperate, wild, anguished expression. It was grotesque to call this making love.

I hadn't felt his orgasm, but when my eyes opened, he was standing at the bedside, detumescent now.

It was over, thank God, it was over.