The Woman Aroused

Chapter 4

I AWOKE AT nine the next morning and had to rush. Lee was sprawled across the bed, sleeping heavily, and she certainly was the largest and best-shaped woman I'd ever seen. I dressed and showered quickly, and the sight of this Amazon in my bed pleased me. Without thinking it out very much, I was impressed with my own cleverness—I was keeping Lee with her own money!

I left a note that I'd be home by six, told her where to shop, and put a five-dollar bill beside the note. I took a cab to the office, didn't have time to stop for my scratch sheet or even breakfast. I felt in top spirits.

Shortly before noon I called the house, but there wasn't any answer. I supposed Lee was out shopping for supper. Joe lunched with me, was full of chatter about the television set Walt had bought, and what a sharp character the kid was. “Believe me, Georgie, that kid has something on the ball. Army was the best thing in the world for him. Why he even hit the daily double Saturday—only paid thirty-four bucks, but that's some picking: He's looking the package-store deal over carefully. Seems not all these liquor stores are making dough. And he's going to school—one night a week—Columbia. Taking an extension course in the principles of merchandising, so he can run his store right. And you should see the dolls he has up to the house. Fact is, I'm spending most of my nights in the Turkish baths. Kid wants me to share his dolls, but I don't think that's right. Although some of them are real fine sex-boats. How about going to the baths with me tonight?”

“Sorry, I'm busy.”

Joe gave me a shrewd look. “Oh—Flo back again?”

I shook my head. “Another girl. Talk about sex-boats, this one's a whole fleet.” I called for the check.

Joe looked at me pop-eyed. “Tell poppa all about...”

“Some other time, perhaps,” I said, as the waiter came over.

During the afternoon I kept thinking about the way I'd left her sprawled across the bed. I was too restless to work, so I told Harvey I had a headache, took off. I called the house again and there wasn't any answer.

I took a cab to her place on 29th Street. She had left the door unlocked and I went in. The place was so dirty and smelled so badly, I nearly gave up. I wondered if Lee had been too grief-stricken to do any housework, although she hadn't been too deep in sorrow to sleep with me. As I looked around the apartment I was nearly overcome with a feeling of guilt: with poor Hank dead a month I already had his money and his wife. But it wasn't any of my doing—he had given me the money—to hold—and Lee had been the one to volunteer herself.

There wasn't much in the flat, the furniture scratched and stained. I went through her closet and drawers, gathered her clothes. (There were a few suits—Hank's no doubt—that gave me quite a start.) I took whatever clothes she had that weren't too dirty or torn. She didn't have much, there wasn't a decent pair of stockings, for instance, nor did I see any heavy or winter coats. I made a bundle of her stinking clothes and as I started out of the apartment, I almost walked into a little rat-faced man standing in the hallway. He had on work clothes and nodded at the stuff in my arms, asked, “What you doing here, mister?”

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.

I awoke at seven, feeling very rested. Lee had a sheet carelessly over her, was staring at the ceiling again. I showered and shaved. As I dressed I told her to clean up the house, that there was sufficient food in the refrigerator for supper and she might make an attempt at cooking... and while I was talking she closed her eyes and went to sleep!

As I walked to the newsstand for my paper, I met Mr. Henderson coming back with his papers. I asked him what he was doing up so early and he said, “Too muggy to sleep. George, you know I'm not a busybody, but this is really troubling me. Is there a woman in your place?”

“I don't see what business....”

He put a wrinkled hand on my arm. “Come George, you know I don't mean it that way. It's merely... well, like the man downstairs, in the old joke, who's waiting for the other shoe to drop... you know how I like watching the street from my window. I saw you come in with her, but I'll be damned if she's left.”

I laughed. “To ease your mind, she's still there. Keeps to the house, shy type.”

“A remarkable girl, strapping... eh... piece. This will be in the nature of a great surprise to Flo.”

“I imagine it will. Truth is I haven't thought much about Flo's reactions. Well, have to be on my way to the office.”

“Poker this Saturday? Haven't had a game in some time—I miss Joe's money.”

“Maybe. I'll see what Joe says,” I said, waving and walking on.

There was a horse in the seventh race called Hill Gal, and since I was convinced Lee was from some wide-spot in the road, I played the nag across the board. It was a wrong hunch—the horse ran out of the money. I skipped my pre-supper cocktail and when I came home at about six, I found Lee sitting in a chair—in the nude-r-staring at the rug as if in deep thought—or in a trance. The bed was unmade and judging from the kitchen, she had eaten some milk and cake during the day. Slob was back in the house, sitting on the rug not far from Lee, watching her.

At lunch-time I'd drawn some money from “her” account. I'd meant to take out only the fifty dollars I'd promised her, but took out a hundred. I decided then and there that I'd dip into the money whenever I felt like it. Of course I rationalized things by calling it “our” money. I gave her five tens and counted the money slowly, didn't say a word. I told her, “Why don't you get dressed? It doesn't look right... sitting around like this.”

She didn't answer me and I got her dress and threw it at her, then went into the kitchen and made a simple supper. When it was ready, I called her, and she came in, the dress on. She didn't have the money in her hands, and since the dress had no pockets and she hadn't moved from the chair, I wondered what she had done with the five tens, but I didn't ask her. We ate in silence, smoked several cigarettes, and the only interest she showed was when I got out my pipe and my blending bowl, mixed some tobacco. She ran her fingers through the tobacco in the open cans, said, “Plenty tabek.”

Cigarettes, tobacco, seemed to be a big deal in her life. Lighting my pipe, I washed the dishes, gave her a towel, and she dried. She moved very slowly, mechanically, and I took another towel and we finished the few dishes.

I turned on the radio and she sat on the couch, lost in thought or whatever strange world she was lost in. I read my Times, then finished the evening paper, thought about my horses for the morning, and finally—at eleven—we went to bed.

A quiet and peaceful evening in the new life of George Jackson.

I was becoming tired of my own cooking and the next afternoon I stopped at the cleaners, took out her dresses and things. When I came home she was in bed, but smiled when I hung up her clothes in my closet. I ran her bath, practically guided her into the tub, made her comb her hair. I actually rouged her lips, then picked out a dress and underthings, and watched as she dressed. I said, “You ought to go to a beauty parlor. There's one around the corner on Lexington Avenue. Shall I make an appointment for you?”

She didn't answer.

Dressed, she looked passable enough to get by in a restaurant. I went to the Campfire Inn on the corner, and we both had a heavy Hungarian meal... in silence. I ordered for both of us, and Lee seemed to enjoy the meal, although she enjoyed anything she could eat. We walked up Lexington Avenue and when we passed a beauty parlor I asked, “Would you like to go in and make an appointment for your hair and nails?”

She looked puzzled, so I pointed to her hair then to one of the horrible wax mannikins in the window. She still didn't understand, and we went inside. A woman was having her nails done and Lee seemed interested in that. Several other women were sitting under hair dryers, idly looking at us. Women seem to have an absolutely useless look when sitting under hair dryers, all trussed up like vain hens. The elderly blonde who managed the place came forward, said, “Yes?”

“My... wife would like to get her hair and nails done,” I said, realizing how odd it must seem that I did the talking.

“Tuesday afternoon is the first open date I have.”

“How about Tuesday evening, about this time?”

“Why, yes. I can take her at seven.”

“Will that be all right, Lee?” I asked, turning to find her gone. I looked around, saw her standing outside. I walked out and I could hear the women tittering.

“What's the matter?” I asked, angry.

“Machine on head, no. No! But I like red on nails.”

“The machine only dries your hair after they wash...”

There wasn't any point in talking, Lee had walked on. It was a mild night and we walked over to 5th Avenue and sat in the park. I put my arm around her and she leaned against me, and I suppose we looked like any other couple.

When we came home, I asked if she wanted to dance, but she merely undressed, letting her clothes stay where they fell, and went to bed. I went downstairs and danced through a few records, expecting Lee to come down as soon as she heard the music. But she didn't and I used the sun-lamp for a while, took a shower, and went to bed. She seemed to be sleeping but as soon as I touched her, she put her arms around me like a robot, pulled me to her.

On Friday I decided to take Lee shopping the next day. I made out a check for two hundred, changed it to five hundred—to really feel the power of money. (Or, that's what I told myself.) For the hell of it I played three horses across the board and one of them came in, making me only a dollar or two loser. Then before I went home I ordered two custom-made shirts, bought a pair of twenty-five dollar shoes, and a couple of Barzoni ties. As an afterthought I got her a bottle of blood red nail polish.

The next morning I cooked breakfast, made her bathe and dress in her best, I painted her nails—which seemed to please her very much—and left her practically propped up in a chair like a big doll, while I bathed and shaved. It was a hot, end-of-August day, and we took a cab down to Saks Fifth Avenue, the first store that came to my mind. I was a bit nervous, wondering how she would react in the store, but it came off quite well.

Lee was impressed by seeing so many things, and her eyes lit up, but she didn't say a word. I did all the talking and choosing, and if the sales girls thought it was odd, they didn't show it. One girl looked a little bug-eyed when Lee was trying on a blouse and her tattoo came to light. We bought two light suits, several dresses, underwear, stockings, blouses, and two skirts... all in the latest style. I was rather pleased with my knowledge of style—thanks to Flo. I insisted the clothes be sent by special messenger late in the afternoon. Aside from feeling the material now and then, Lee was the perfect clothes horse, waiting patiently as I picked her clothes. We took a cab down to Slater's for shoes, stopped for lunch, bought some perfume, and finally went to Barney's over on 8th Avenue (not the calling-all-men place) where I bought her ballet slippers and a couple of rehearsal outfits.

I'd spent all “my” cash, so I stopped at my bookie's and had him cash a $100 check—which he did nervously.

It was pathetic the way Lee followed me around like an obedient child, and since it was still early in the afternoon, I walked her down Broadway and into the Paramount. The stage show was the usual corn, but she enjoyed it, hunching forward in her seat, at least showing interest. The picture had a Paris background and I was astonished to see her mumbling in French.

When we were in a cab going home, I asked, “Do you speak French?”

“Oui.”

“You speak some German, too. Where did you learn languages, in school?”

She didn't answer. Jokingly, for I don't speak anything except American—and that not too well—I asked, “Fraulein, where did you learn?”

The words had a magic effect on her: she turned quickly, almost in fear, gave me a long look, and to my amazement broke into tears. I held her tightly, wondering what it was all about.

By the time we reached the house, her mood had changed, and she was a blank again. The packages began arriving and I hung the clothes away while she sat in a chair, playing with Slob, who didn't seem too happy to be within her powerful hands.

I undressed her, put on the blue rehearsal shorts, a white silk T-shirt that showed off her firm breasts, and ballet shoes. As she stood there dumbly, I walked around her and she looked so much like a dancer I was fit to burst with pride. I stripped and got into my sweat suit, said, “Come, darling, we'll dance,” and covered her face with kisses.

The kisses must have confused her, for she took my hand and led me to the bedroom. She looked so healthy and strangely beautiful that in my mind I was going to bed with a young ballerina, and we forgot about dancing.

After supper we listened to the radio, and at nine I told her I was going out for a while. She didn't react to this, one way or another, and I kissed her, told her not to wait up for me, and to turn the radio off when she went to bed. She mechanically stroked my head as I bent over to kiss her. I went upstairs and played stud poker wildly, staying every hand. I lost about fifty dollars to Joe, Henderson, and some loud-mouthed friends of Joe's. I returned to my place at two in the morning: the radio was on and Lee was sitting in the exact position I'd left her. We washed up and went to bed. In a sense it was a relief to have a girl who didn't talk or demand explanations.

On Sunday, after a leisurely breakfast, I dressed Lee in her new clothes, asked if she wanted to go to church. She said no, and we walked along 5th Avenue, and Lee looked like any of the other tall, smartly dressed women strolling along—showing off their clothes.

The new clothes made things work out smoothly. Every night I'd rush home, have Lee bathe and dress, and then we'd go out on the town. We went to the different restaurants about New York—the Jewish ones on the lower East Side, ate Italian food in little Italy, Spanish dishes in Lower Harlem, Swedish, East Indian, Russian, and French food. I bought her several evening gowns and long gloves—to cover the tattoo on her arm—and we made the rounds of the night clubs. Lee held her liquor well, even though I tried several times to get her drunk, and her dancing had improved to the point where I enjoyed dancing with her. Since money wasn't any object, we were a perfect couple: rarely talking, never arguing about price, and having a good time. At least I did.

The one odd experience was the time I took her to a German restaurant in Yorkville. She became very nervous as we entered, kept watching everybody in the place, and was so upset she refused to eat. Muttering something to herself in German, she rushed out of the place. I threw some money on the table, ran after her. Of course it was useless to ask her what was wrong, she sat in the cab in stony silence, ignoring me. Time and again I'd plead with her, tried to be tender and endearing, asked to be a part of her life, attempted to dig beneath her surface of absolute indifference to everything. I told her I loved her, begged her to talk, tell me about herself. All I ever got was either silence or her tiny odd smile as she said, “Lee is not bright.”

In my own way I tried playing detective. I took her to every foreign movie in town, and while she never talked, I knew she understood German, Italian, and French. For a time I thought she must have had more of an education than I imagined. Then one day I realized what a fool I'd been: Hank had taken her overseas with him, and of course that was where she had picked up the languages.

Aside from trying to get her real drunk, without success, I set all sorts of absurd traps for her: I put thread across the door, arranged my shoes around the bed—to see if she ever moved from her bed, or went out of the house while I was at the office. She never left the house and on most days never got out of bed it seemed—not even to go to the bathroom. Also, from Henderson's questions now and then, I knew he'd only seen her with me, for being such a busybody he would have rushed to tell me if she had any visitors.

She was an absolute slob, yet once I returned to find the place spotless, she had moved everything, cleaned, dusted, and waxed the floors. When I asked her why, she said, “Lee work.”

Another puzzling feature was the money. Every Tuesday I gave her a hundred dollars. (It had started out as fifty, but I doubled it once to see her face light up, and it had remained a hundred a week after that. I was extremely generous—with her money), but what she did with the money was a mystery. Once I gave her the money I never saw it again, although she never carried any money—even change—on her. The pocket-book she had taken from her 29th Street place was also hidden. Somewheres around the house she was hiding the money, like an animal storing up food.

September was a cool month and I found she loved heat. I kept the oil burner up, for she wanted the house warm enough to walk about in the nude. At night when I insisted on keeping the windows open, she piled blankets on the bed till it was uncomfortably warm, and I'd have to fold the blankets so they were only on her.

Living with Lee was dull, crazy, comfortable, and sometimes wildly ethereal. Sometimes I had a sense of esoteric power that bordered on the insane—it seemed to me Lee's sole purpose on earth was for my pleasure, a kind of sex machine I owned outright. I admit such thoughts frightened me—later—but they also gave me a queer sort of satisfaction.

On the first of September when Henderson paid his rent, I sent the money to Flo without a note. We hadn't seen each other since Southampton, and I suppose Flo was getting a bit frantic. The possibility of her coming to the house, using her key, slipped my mind—in fact I had hardly thought about her. One night as I was coming home from the office, thinking I'd take Lee to the Petitpas on 29th Street for a good French supper, Henderson called out from his window that I'd better come upstairs.

I thought Lee had either raised some kind of hell, or even blown her top, and I ran up the stairs, brushed past Henderson as he opened the door. Flo was sitting there, crying hysterically.

She had on a very colorful strapless summer dress that looked like an evening gown, and the contrast was something—for her nose was bloody and she had the damnedest black eyes I've ever seen. Both her eyes were actually swollen and turning blue and purple. Her lipstick was a red smudge against her pale face.

I didn't have to ask what had happened. I put my hand on her shoulder, said, “Flo—I'm sorry.”

“You!” she screamed, jumping to her feet. “You and your fine manners, the great gentleman—keeping a goddamn slut, a she-cat in my house!” She was so mad she tried to kick me in the groin and very happily only hit my thigh.

I backed away and she put a dainty handkerchief, now blood-stained, to her battered nose, yelled, “I'll divorce you! We're done—I'll never speak to you again. You... you... bastard!”

“Flo, we are divorced,” I said gently, knowing just what she meant. For some people a marriage certificate is merely a formality, a scrap of paper: they are married whether they have the paper or not. With us, our divorce paper was like that, a meaningless legal document. This was the first time Flo had ever seen me with another woman.

She fell into a chair, sobbing and cursing me. Henderson motioned for me to leave but I went over to Flo, put my arms around her—careful to stand behind her—pinning her to the chair. She struggled and screamed and I said, “Slow down, baby. Listen to me. Flo, we've had our ins and outs, if that's the correct phrase, or maybe it's a pun. But I think we've always loved each other, in our own odd way. Maybe we didn't know how to love enough, maybe we aren't capable of real love. What I'm trying to say is, I still love you. This girl downstairs... I'm mixed up with her... accidentally. It's a sort of mess, not that I couldn't have escaped it, but... Well, understand that.” I didn't know exactly what I wanted to say, and I certainly wasn't saying anything that made sense.

Flo's sobbing was quieter now, and as I let go of her she held her head in her hands. I bent over and kissed her neck. “I am sorry, Flo. And I still love you. This is, well, really, one of those things.”

I still wasn't making sense and Henderson kept motioning me to leave. I walked to the door, and the old man stepped out into the hallway with me, said, “Leave her alone. She'll get over it, time and all that. Quite a bad shock, and her nose may be broken. God knows what happened. I saw her go in—before I could call out to her—and then she came running out, all within a few seconds, her face bloody.

“Poor dear Flo,” I said, sincerely feeling sorry for her and at the same time realizing what a bastard I was, for I also had a tiny, smug feeling of elation. In all our petty battles, our small victories and defeats, I had at least finally scored the big crushing victory.

I went downstairs, unlocked my door. Lee was sitting in the big chair, nude as usual, and I could picture the nightmare Flo had walked into... seeing this naked giant who probably went at poor Flo without a word of warning.

Poor Flo, if her nose hadn't been hurt, I would have burst out laughing.

Lee had that small smile on her face instead of a blank look. I sat down beside her and she took my hand. I asked, “What happened?”

She didn't answer. I asked, “Tell me, did you have a fight?”

“Fight?” she repeated.

I knew it wasn't any use, and besides, she wasn't at fault. “Get dressed and we'll eat. Are you hungry?”

“Lee sure hungry as all stuff,” she drawled, grinning at me.

I witnessed three other demonstrations of Lee's fighting prowess. (The third time I was her opponent.) I don't know if she had a lot of man in her, or what, but she was a solid 180 pounds, packed a real punch.

One evening, about two weeks after she had kayoed Flo, we were walking in the park after supper. It was a warm night, and as we strolled along, I stopped to watch a squirrel scamper up a tree. Lee kept walking, was about 200 feet ahead of me, walking with long, strong, graceful steps.

A young fellow in a polo shirt was sitting on a bench and I suppose he thought she was walking by herself. He whistled at Lee, started to follow her. I ran up feeling quite alarmed—I never was much of a brawler, even though dancing has kept me in shape. The fellow came alongside Lee, made some joking remark. Lee suddenly turned and swung... actually swung her fist in an overhand punch. There wasn't anything feminine about the blow. It hit the young man flush on the face, staggered him. Before he could fall, Lee grabbed him and threw him into the bushes lining the walk. I ran up and took her arm and we kept walking—fast. There wasn't any expression on her face, except her eyes had narrowed a little. When I looked back the young man still hadn't got on his feet.

Lee never said a word about it and I was too amazed to speak.

Harlem was the locale when Lee next swung into action.

Now and then I went up to the Apollo Theatre on 125th Street, where they still have vaudeville, and some of the best (and almost unknown) Negro dancers, especially tap dancers. One Friday night I took in the show and Lee was with me. With her drawl I was curious to see what her reaction would be to Negroes. She didn't show any reaction, being neither interested nor resentful at being with colored people—which was probably the only normal reaction she ever had. We ate in Frank's, a restaurant I like, near St. Nicholas Avenue and 125th Street, and then took in the show at the Apollo, which wasn't too good. The dance act consisted of three vigorous tap dancers who went through standard routines with a great deal of sweating and energy, and the band was much too loud and brassy. This was followed by a corny stage skit which would have been assailed (and rightfully so) as horribly chauvinistic if it had played in any downtown theatre. We left before the movie and I decided to walk across 125th Street to Madison Avenue, take the bus down.

It was about ten o'clock and the street was fairly deserted. Somewhere between Lenox and Fifth Avenues we passed one of the many bars that dot Harlem (and any other poor neighborhood) and a couple of colored men were hanging around in front of it. At the time I didn't notice them, but one of them—a slender, dark-skinned man in a worn sport jacket and slacks—stared at Lee as we passed. I didn't think anything of it, her height and size caused many men—and women—to glance at Lee. But this fellow broke away from the others, said to Lee, “Pardon but...” and then broke into some foreign language.

Lee kept walking but I stopped, and as she was holding my arm, she had to stop. She was staring at this man without showing any signs of recognition, and I was about to ask what he wanted, when he spoke again. He seemed to be friendly and I think he was speaking Italian. A strange look of intense anger flooded her big face and she yanked her arm out of mine and hit him across the face. The blow knocked him against the wall of a building and before he knew what was happening, Lee started punching and kicking him like a maniac.

For a split second his friends and I were taken by surprise, then we stared at each other for another split second—a suspicious look—only natural in a land where the colored man is a second-class citizen. I finally grabbed Lee, had trouble holding on to her arm. One of the Negro men grabbed her other arm and said, “Lee! Lee, stop it!”

The fellow was still against the wall, his face bleeding, looking bewildered and ready to pass out. The man holding her other arm said to me, “For God's sake, mister, get her out of here before the cops come and whip everybody's head!”

Lee had calmed down a little, had stopped struggling with me, but the way she stared at the beaten man gave me the shivers. I said, “Get me a cab while I hold her.”

Another man stopped a cab as a small crowd quickly gathered. Lee let me walk her to the cab and I told the driver to take us to 90th Street and Fifth Avenue. Lee sat back in the cab, refused to answer my questions except to say, “That bad man.”

“But who is he? What did he say?”

“All bad, bad,” she said fiercely, then shut up. At 90th Street I waited till the cab was out of sight, took another one down to the house. I don't know why I changed cabs; maybe I was conditioned by the movies I've seen.

Lee was upset. I wanted to dance when we got home but she refused, lay across the bed, paying no attention to me. Except for the strange language I would have thought it was her southern blood acting up, or maybe she'd seen the man in the South someplace. It was too big a puzzle for me.

She was still staring at the ceiling when I finished dancing, had my bath and dried off under the sun-lamp. I undressed her and when we went to bed, for the first time she didn't drop right off to sleep.

Fortunately the next day was Saturday and I didn't have to go to the office. About noon I left the house and took a cab to the bar on 125th Street. There were two bartenders, one of them white. I made a mistake: I went over to the white bar-keep, asked, “Where can I find the man who was involved in the fight with the lady last night?”

“Fight? Don't know what you're talking about, mac,” he said, obvious hostility in his voice. There was a small silence in the bar and I knew everybody knew what I was talking about.

“There was a scene outside here last night and...”

“I don't know nothing about what goes on outside,” he said. “125th Street is one of the busiest streets in...”

“Cut the chamber of commerce bunk,” I said, giving my voice a crisp executive edge, to see if he was impressed.

He looked me over for a moment, said softly, “I don't know what you're talking about, chief. We run a good place here, no fights, ain't looking for no trouble.”

One thing about real expensive clothes, their cost always stands out—in a quiet, conservative way. I knew he thought I was “class,” to use the trite word, he was impressed by the two-hundred-dollar suit, the thirty-dollar hat, and the Countess Mara tie I was wearing. He was running his eyes over my clothes. I said, “There isn't going to be any trouble. The man can help me, perhaps.”

He didn't say anything and the Saturday-afternoon drinkers were watching us with interest. The barkeep stood there, his face troubled. I snapped, “Look here, this man can do me a considerable favor, by merely talking to me. I'm rather anxious to find him. Of course if you won't help, I can go to some friends on the liquor board. That could be messy, possibly mean revoking your license or...”

“You just want to talk to him?” he asked suddenly.

“That's all. In fact, if it turns out he can help me, I'm willing to pay him for his time.”

The bartender called out to somebody at the other end of the bar, “Ed, go around 126th Street and find Ollie. Tell 'em I want to see him—now.” He turned to me as the man left the bar, said, “He'll be back in a couple minutes. Like a shot?”

I said no and lit a cigarette. He moved away to wait on a customer, then returned and put his big fat head next to mine, whispered, “You know how it is up here, got to be careful with them.” I was astonished at the fellow's gall: this was supposed to be the protective intimacy of two white skins in a black ghetto—made by white skins.

I didn't know how to answer him without getting angry, so I turned my back, glanced around the bar. It was fairly crowded and they were all watching me, without looking directly at me, of course. Although I'd been to Harlem many times, mostly to see the shows or night spots, this was the first time I felt like a white man in Harlem.

In about five minutes the man returned with Ollie, who was the fellow who had helped hold Lee last night. He came over to me, said in a surly voice, “What you want?”

I nodded toward a vacant table and we sat down. I asked, “Where can I find the man who was beaten up last night?”

“What you want with him? What you coming back to start a mess? Willie wasn't doing nothing and now...” He stopped, then muttered, “Ain't it enough he's beat up?”

“I'm sorry about the beating, and I'm not here to start anything. I want him to help me. He... eh... seemed to know the young lady. I'd like to find out what he knows about her.”

“You was with her, you ought to know about her.”

“Look, let's not argue about what I ought to know. I assure you I'm very sorry about the beating your friend Willie got last night. I don't know why it happened, but I'd like very much to find out. I won't cause him the slightest trouble. I only wish to speak to him.”

Ollie looked at me for a moment, then said, “Well... Okay, I'll take you to him. Maybe do some good. His wife is a little angry, you know, Willie coming home beat up and some big mouth telling her he was annoying a white chick. My God that gal sure hits.”

As we stood up, I said, “I'll make it worth your while, and Willie's.”

“You don't have to do that,” he said with a kind of weary dignity.

We walked down Lenox Avenue to 123rd Street, and west to a brownstone. Ollie rang the bell three times and soon a young, slender, coffee-colored girl opened the door, said, “It's you, huh.” She didn't think much of Ollie.

When she saw me her eyes became uneasy. Ollie said, “Come on, Daisy, let us in, this man wants to talk to Willie. He's the guy with the lady last night. He can tell you it wasn't nothing messy. How about that, mister?”

“That's right,” I said. “The young lady is a little... well... excitable at times, high strung. She turned on Mr.... Willie, for no apparent reason.”

“I'm Willie's wife,” the girl said, standing aside. When she moved she had a certain grace about her, and if she had the clothes, she would have been a very attractive kid.

I followed Willie inside the house. We went up two flights of stairs that were covered with a shabby green carpet, the girl following us. The inside of the rooming house seemed clean and neat, but it smelt of too much use, of too many people living there. As we turned into a room the girl said to me, “You'll have to excuse the way things look... with Willie sick I haven't been able to tidy up.”

The room was very small, with one window, and every bit of space being used. In a double bed that took up 90% of the room, Willie was lying, his face still bruised; and on the one chair, the narrow chest of drawers, and from a wire stretched across the room, clothes and towels were hanging. The room was smaller than my bathroom and I wondered how anybody could live in one room. (Of course I didn't know I was shortly to be living in rooms even worse than this one.)

Willie was astonished, and upset, on seeing me and as he sat up, he groaned, and his face filled with pain. Ollie said, “This man came over to the ginmill, said he wanted to see you, says you can help him. Says he ain't for making no trouble.”

“First he'd better explain to Daisy about...”

“He's already told me,” the girl said. “Although it don't make good sense, a woman beating up a man.” It made me sad to see she had bad teeth, when she spoke.

“She's an unusual woman,” I said. There wasn't any place to sit, so I stood. Willie, who was wearing torn underwear, pulled the sheets up to his chin, looked at me, wondering what I wanted. “About last night,” I went on. “I'd like to know what you said to the young lady that caused her to turn on you. I...”

“So you were speaking to this white chick!” Daisy said.

“Aw, take it easy, baby,” Willie told his wife. “I wasn't doing nothing out of the way.” He turned to me, “Look Mr....?”

“Lamont. Tony Lamont,” I said, giving him a phoney name for no reason.

“Look Mr. Lamont, I only asked if she was the girl we'd taken in over in Venice. That's all, and you saw what she did. She must be the same one, never mistake a girl so strong and tall as she is, built like a man—around the shoulders, that is. And no mistaking that face... I mean that nose that looks like it was just stuck on.”

I said, “I've been a friend of this young woman for some time. But she rarely speaks, acts rather strange. I thought if I could find out more about her, someone who knew her, why... I might be able to help her. Now assuming this is the same girl you think....”

“She got a tattoo on her left arm?” Willie asked.

I nodded eagerly—at last I was getting someplace.

Willie smiled. “Knew it was her.”

“Do you know her name?”

Willie shook his head. “No, we used to call her Liebchen, that's kraut for darling. See Mr. Lamont, back in '45 I was with an MP outfit in Italy. Bari, Foggia, Rome, Venice... I lived in all the big cities there. Lived fine. It was real great.”

He paused, looked around the shabby room for a moment as if I suddenly wondering why he had ever returned to Harlem.

“Well, when they captured Venice they made it a rest camp, sent us up there to guard some of the hotels. The Limeys were in charge of the town and as waitresses for the hotels, they brought down a load of gals who had been slave labor for the krauts in Austria and Yugoslavia. She was one of them. That's where I first saw her.”

“Yeah, that's what we called her, too, Lee—short for Liebchen,” Willie said.

“Lee was a slave laborer in Germany?” I said, beginning to understand a lot of things, too many to think about.

“Sure. She was about 17 then, and the krauts had taken her when she was a kid. All that hard work had made her big and strong, like a man. She's slimmer now, but then she had arms and legs as strong as any man's. She was like wild—wearing only an old torn dress, an old pair of army shoes on her big feet, and her hands were calloused. And Lord but she was hungry! We felt sorry for her, guess we gave her the first decent treatment she ever had. We got her some clothes, found a guy in Venice to tattoo an American flag over the number the krauts had put on her arm. We gave her plenty of candy, all the food she could eat, saw she didn't work too hard.” Willie glanced at Daisy. “I didn't fool around with her. Maybe some of the others tried, too, you see how she's built. Anyway, I don't know if any of the boys got anyplace with her, but nobody forced her. The krauts had also used her for that, too. She was with us about a month and seemed to be getting along fine, you know, laughing a lot... acting her age, like a kid.

“One day one of the white officers saw her hanging around our quarters and snapped his cap. He was a peck, you understand. A bunch of white soldiers came up for the rest camp deal, but the hotels were all full of other GIs, so AMGOT takes over a small house on the Lido—that's an island where all the swank hotels were—for these boys. They was all pecks too, whole outfit of crackers. They slept in the house and ate in one of the hotels. This officer sent Lee and another gal, an Italian babe, over to the house to make up the beds, clean up. Now all I'm telling you from here on is what I heard, I never saw any of it. But I know when Lee left us she was pretty well tamed down, talked about the 'kind Americans,' and how much she loved us. Called Americans the 'Liberators,' and all that. Well, we heard these crackers lined her up, for the whole three weeks they were up there... we heard they tied her to a bed. Maybe that's one of them tall stories you always heard in the army, but all I know is when we saw her again, she seemed even wilder than when she first came from krautland. That's all I know about her. I'm glad she made it to America, anyway.”

“You have no idea of her real name?”

“Nope. I never handled any records, or did the paper work. We just called her Honey, or Lee. Never could understand those southern boys—no call to treat any girl like that, and they could of had all the chippies they wanted for cigarettes and candy bars. No sense acting like that. They treated the Italian gal rough too, but she was skinny, not very good looking. She's the one that complained, raised a big stink. There was a white captain there, Conroy his name was. We heard he blew his top and wanted to raise all kinds of hell, court martial them pecks. But the whole thing was hushed up. They were combat men, they said, and anyway I guess AMGOT didn't want to start nothing that would get the Eyeties aroused. They said these pecks were suffering from combat fatigue, drunk, and all that. This Capt. Conroy even took Lee to Milan and Rome to press charges, but I never did hear what happened. Sure a bang to see her walking on 125th Street, and dressed sharp, too.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You've told me a great deal. If you've had any doctor bills, or lost a day's work to-day—as a result of what happened last night, I'd like to repay you.”

Willie looked at his wife quickly, at Ollie, then said without looking at me, “That's okay. I didn't go to a doctor, and I'm not working—so didn't lose no time.”

Daisy, his wife, looked unhappy, as though she wanted to say something, ask for money. But she didn't. There was a moment of awkward silence, then I took out my wallet, handed Willie three tens. “Take this for the... eh... damage she did.”

“Like I said, you don't have....”

“Take it. In a way it's her money,” I said. “And thank you.”

I went out, down the stairs to the street and Lenox Avenue, where I hailed a cab.

I felt so depressed I wanted to cry. Poor, poor Lee and her smattering of German, French, and Italian, her horrible tattoo covering up a concentration camp number; for how many years of her life had she been branded and worked like a beast? What could such inhuman treatment produce but a distorted, hurt mind? And poor Hank. I understand now—only too well—how he had got into all this, what he had meant when he said, 'What we've done to her—all of us.” My God, from the time she was 10, what a pitiful, crazy, brutal world Lee must have known! Her big shoulders, the man's hands and feet, her strength—all the result of doing the hardest menial work. And when she reached the age when kids are attending high-school dances, the horrible, filthy, continuous rape. What small kindness had she ever known? Every sensibility beaten and dulled in her, except to eat and have a shelter, like an animal.

Added to everything I had given her a sweet, refined rooking!

I'd make it up to her. Going through Hank's papers, army records, I would find her real name, her home. Perhaps she had a father or mother someplace in this shattered world, maybe sisters and brothers (or were they merely ashes, their skin a tortured lampshade, the chemicals and fat of their body now clumsy cakes of soap?) I'd have to investigate, try to return her to her family, if they were still alive.

I'd begin at once, cancel my poker date at Joe's that night. When I reached the house, Lee was still in bed, holding Slob with one big hand. He was meowing, trying to get loose. I noticed he never fought or scratched her. I sat on the edge of the bed, gently stroking her face, wondering how many men had sat on the edge of her beds, or had they thrown her on the rough ground, backed her against some wall-? Good God, if she'd been 17 back in 1945, she was still a kid of 21 or 22 now! I gently kissed her face, said, “Hello, darling.”

“Hello,” she said blankly, hugging me in her impersonal manner. She pulled me towards her and I pushed out of her arms: touching her suddenly became a monstrous, obscene thing.

I ran my hand through her soft long hair, over her odd nose. (Had a rifle-butt broken that?) “If I'd only known. I want to make you happy. I never really meant to hurt you, and now I want to make up for everything.”

Lee said, “Hello, George,” and giggled.

“Liebchen.”

The word had a, (black) magic effect on her, she sat up quickly, staring past me as if she was alone. Then she burst into the most nerve-racking crying I've ever heard. Hoarse sobs that shook her great body. I was so upset I began bawling myself and when I went to hug her, she pushed me away with such force I was sent sprawling on the floor. For a moment she watched me with unseeing eyes, her face wet with tears. Then she giggled, asked, “George, we eat?”

I realized the comic figure I must have presented, smiled, and got up. “Yes, we'll eat in a moment.” I went to the phone and dialed Joe, told him I couldn't make the game that night.

“You're a blip. And Walt is going to play with us, too. That doll keeping you that busy? She must be some piece, the way you been sticking so close to home, and your bed. I...”

“For Christsakes, shut up!” I slammed the receiver into its cradle. A few seconds later Joe called back, asked in a hurt, kid's voice, “What did you do that for, Georgie? I didn't mean nothing.”

“I... eh... didn't sleep much last night, my nerves are on edge. Take it easy to-night and don't try to draw to straights and flushes,” I said, hanging up again.

I didn't want to eat out, I wanted to talk to her and I was afraid she'd make a scene in a restaurant. I told her I was going to get some food, took a cab up to 86th Street and 3rd Avenue, where I bought a cheap pocket German-English dictionary, some groceries, then cabbed back to the house. While I cooked supper I had her sit in the kitchen—I gave her Slob to play with; and as she stroked the big tomcat head, I said, “Look Lee, I know a little of what you've gone through. And I want to help you. Maybe we can find your family, locate your relations. Do you remember where you were born?”

She was watching Slob and I had to ask her again. “I am not bright, I do not remember such things.” She had her drawl back now.”

“You must. Where were you born? Think hard—Berlin? Frankfurt? Vienna? Hamburg? Warsaw?” The names had little effect on her, except her eyes seemed to become more alert. I tried a few more, for size. “Rome? Venice? Munich? Prague?” Nothing changed on her face.

I put the chopped meat in the oven to broil, after I had soaked it in wine, took out my dictionary. “Lee, you must help me. Do you understand what I am saying? What is your name, your whole name?”

“Lee is my name.”

“No, that's short for Liebchen. What is your last name?” When she didn't answer, I thumbed through the dictionary, said slowly, hoping I was pronouncing the words correctly, “Wie heissen Sie?”

She shook her head dumbly, let Slob jump out of her lap.

The silly dictionary had all sorts of stupid phrases like, “Shall we take a taxi?” “What are they playing at the Opera House?” but nothing as simple as, “What is your mother's name?” I stumbled on with, “Welch... euer... famile... nennen?” This was supposed to be, “What is your family name?” but if she didn't understand my German I couldn't blame her.

She stared at me, her eyes hard and troubled, then they flooded with tears. I went over and hugged her. “Lee baby, I'm not trying to hurt you. I know it's hard to recall these things, but you must tell me. Where were you born? What's your father's name? Wo... euch... geboren? Welch... euer... Vater... nennen?”

She had her face pressed against my chest as I leafed through the dictionary, and now she began to cry. It was sort of a horrible moaning, as though she was under physical torture. It was such a dreadful sound, she scared me stupid and I realized what tortures I must be subjecting the poor kid to.

I threw the dictionary on the table, pulled her to her feet. Holding her tight, kissing her, whispered I would always look after her, she would never have to worry. I got a chill when it suddenly struck me that poor Hank must have whispered the exact same words to her at some time or other. When she stopped bawling, I said, “Lee, you must understand I only want to help you. Nobody will ever harm you again. But you have to help me...”

Once or twice she surprised me by showing signs of shrewdness: now she quickly smiled, wiped the tears from her face on my shoulder, “George, I want to dance... very much dance... right now, please.”

It was a neat way of changing the subject. “Well the meat is on and...”

“We will make it... it wait.” She reached over and turned off the gas in the oven, under the pots. I didn't know she knew how to work a gas-range and I watched her like a proud poppa seeing junior show off.

She ran into the bedroom and I followed her, as Slob yelled indignantly for his supper. Lee was getting into her rehearsal trunks. I undressed, put on my sweat suit and shoes. She was waiting for-me downstairs, and I put on a stack of records, starting off with the only “German” music I had, Wagner's Parsifal, and one side of Beethoven's Concerto No. 4 in G Major. I don't know why I kept probing her wound.

Maybe it was the music, or the German words I'd been asking her, my pecking (or trying to) at her mind... for she suddenly danced a wild solo, moving with magnificent, savage, heavy steps that expressed all the drudgery, the torture and fright, she had experienced. I'd never seen any dancing like it and I tried to write down the steps and movements, but it was too much for me. A skilled choreographer was needed. I suppose I couldn't fully understand what she was trying to express. The other records were jazz pieces, and she went back to her usual awkward movements, as I danced around her, in an effort to make her fed she wasn't alone.

We danced through one set of records, then took a shower, and she still refused to lie tinder the sun-lamp with me, and I wondered what electric and heat tortures she had been subjected to. She put on a robe and we ate, and then she lit a cigarette, went into the living room, stretched out on the couch, patting her stomach with contentment. I realized the animal they-... we... the world... had made out of this child; all she understood was a full gut, a soft place to rest on, and a roof overhead.

I didn't ask her to help with the dishes and when I finished, she was still on the couch—some ashes had fallen between her breasts and she had thoughtlessly crushed the cigarette butt out on the carpet. She had a faint, blank smile on her face, a faraway look in her eyes. It was only a little after seven. I told her I'd be back soon and I don't think she even heard me.

I stood outside the house a moment to light my pipe and Henderson called down to ask when I was going over to Joe's: he'd share a cab with me. I told him I couldn't make it, was about to ask if he spoke German, but didn't. It wasn't that I was afraid of his finding out about the money; but rather I didn't want him—or anybody else—to know I was living with this backward child.—

I walked to Lexington Avenue, went into a drugstore and ordered a quart of ice cream—to please her. While the soda clerk (who am I to call anybody a jerk?) was packing it I called Marion.

“Why George Jackson! Why haven't you called me? The gay, phony coyness in her voice threw me for a moment. After the usual insane, small talk, I asked, “Marion, when Hank came back with his wife, did he have any papers with him? I mean, do you know his wife's maiden name?” I damn near said, “Lee's maiden name.”

There was the flustered pause, then the suspicious, “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” I began, trying to carefully choose my words,” a friend of mine told me he struck up a bar acquaintance with... eh... some refugee girl. She said her husband was an American officer and he had died here, in an accident, and... I wondered if she might be Hank's wife?”

“I haven't heard from her since that... that... awful day. And believe me, I'm just as happy. That evil bitch! When I think of my poor dear brother and...”

“Marion, you once said you wanted me to find out... eh... more about what happened to Hank. Don't you see, if this fellow—one of the men in the office—can gain the confidence of this girl, assuming she's Hank's wife, then we might get someplace,” I said, wondering how high she would go if I told her the truth, that I was living with Lee. The phone would probably explode in my ear.

“I suppose it might do some good, although I've almost forgotten about her. I'm happy you want to help, George. Her name was Lee.”

“That's not enough, I must know her full name, also what town in Germany she came from. We can't make any mistakes about this, waste time on the wrong girl. Didn't Hank leave any private papers, like a marriage certificate? Or did the girl have any official papers when she came over?”

“I suppose Hank had some papers, but I never saw them. God knows what she has done with them,” Marion said.

“Do you have any papers?”

“No.”

“Do you know her full name?”

“Let me think... Lee Unbekant... I believe. Of course Hank...” She began to sob. “My poor brother, when I think of all that unhappy boy went through. Such a fine upstanding...”

“Marion, this is important: how do you spell the last name?”

“U-n-b-e-k-a-n-t,” Marion said, her voice still trembling. “I remember because I planned a reception—before I saw her at the plane. I was going to have invitations printed, so I remember how the name was spelt. You know, she isn't Jewish,” she added with a note of pride in her voice.

“How about her home town?”

“Hamburg, I think. Or, might be Augsburg, or Nurnberg... some sort of burg.”

“Do you know if she has—or had—any relations?” I asked.

“No. I had some sort of paper when I went to meet her. I destroyed that because when I saw her... George you simply have no idea what that bitch put me through. I tried my best to....”

I finally hung up, two nickels later, with some small information to go on. Then I got a real inspiration—I didn't have a picture of Lee, surely that would be the best identification of all to go on. We used several top-flight photographers on the Sun, but I couldn't have them take her picture, and I wasn't sure if she would agree to go to a neighborhood photographer with me. I phoned Joe and he boomed, “Georgie boy, you're coming over after all. Going to be plenty of action and...”

“No, I still can't make it. Look, I want to take some pictures. Have you still got that camera Walt brought back from Germany?”

“You bet. Damn thing is so complicated you have to be an engineer to take pictures with it. You can take them indoors, it's so sensitive.”

“That's what I thought. Do me a favor and bring it down to the office Monday. I'd like to borrow it for a night. Ask Walt to set the darn thing for indoor pictures, and tell you how to work it, so you can explain it to me in basic English.”

“That kid knows everything about cameras. Boy is real smart, like his mother. I ever tell you when I was courting Mady she was working in a dry cleaning place? When we stepped out she'd wear some of the ritzy gowns the rich dolls had sent in to be cleaned. Great idea because if she got any spots on 'em, why the next day she could have it cleaned and... Georgie! You old son of a gun!”

“What's the matter?”

“You got that doll you're keeping to pose for pictures in your place—you know....”

The childish excitement in his voice was ridiculous. “You goon, I want to take pictures of Slob.”

“Oh. Well I'll bring the camera down Monday. Sure you can't make it to-night?”

“Positive. I'm unwell to-night, dearie,” I said, hanging up, knowing that corn would panic Joe. I walked back to the house with the ice cream, and I was full of a righteous goodness, which felt almost as fine as the self-cleverness I had felt once about keeping Lee with her own money. Now, I told myself (with a straight face, too, I was actually trying to help the poor girl.

I came in on quite a scene. Lee had Slob sitting on her stomach, holding him gently with one big hand. His tail was moving uneasily, and they seemed to be staring each other down. When I came in, the cat glanced at me over her nipples. I dished out the ice cream and Lee clapped her hands like a kid and I felt so damn good I wanted to cry. I left some ice cream in the box for Slob, and we all ate happily.

The pare feeling lasted nearly two weeks and paid off—I picked a winning horse every day, placing my two bucks on such hunches as Angel-On-Hoofs, Winsome, Pure Gal, and the like.