In Sunlight or In Shadow Page 19
Saying it was sin. Her Polish grandmother angrily rattling her rosary, praying aloud.
Who the hell cares! Leave me alone.
First job was file clerk at Trinity Trust down on Wall Street. Wasted three years of her young life waiting for her boss Mr. Broderick to leave his (invalid) wife and (emotionally unstable) adolescent daughter and wouldn’t you think a smart girl like her would know better?
Second job also file clerk but then she’d been promoted to Mr. Castle’s secretarial staff at Lyman Typewriters on West Fourteenth. The least the old buzzard could do for her and she’d have done a lot better except for fat-face Stella Czechi intruding where she wasn’t wanted.
One day she’d come close to pushing Stella Czechi into the elevator shaft when the elevator was broken. The doors clanked opened onto a terrifying drafty cavern where dusty-oily cords hung twisted like ugly thick black snakes. Stella gave a little scream and stepped back, and she’d actually grabbed Stella’s hand, the two of them so frightened—Oh my God, there’s no elevator! We almost got killed.
Later she would wish she’d pushed Stella. Guessing Stella was wishing she’d pushed her.
Third job, Tvek Realtors & Insurance in the Flatiron Building and she’s Mr. Tvek’s private secretary—What would I do without you, my dear one?
As long as Tvek pays her decent. And he doesn’t let her down like last Christmas, she’d wanted to die.
It is eleven A.M. Will this be the morning? She is trembling with excitement, dread.
Wanting badly to hurt him. Punish!
That morning after her bath she’d watched with fascination as her fingers lifted the sewing shears out of the bureau drawer. Watched her fingers test the sharpness of the points: very sharp, icepick-sharp.
Watched her hand pushing the shears beneath the cushion of the blue plush chair by the window.
It is not the first time she has hidden the sewing shears beneath the cushion. It is not the first time she has wished him dead.
Once, she hid the shears beneath her pillow on the bed.
Another time, in the drawer of the bedside table.
How she has hated him, and yet—she has not (yet) summoned the courage, or the desperation, to kill him.
(For is not kill a terrifying word? If you kill, you become a killer.)
(Better to think of punishment, exacting justice. When there is no other recourse but the sewing shears.)
She has never hurt anyone in her life!—even as a child she didn’t hit or wrestle with other children, or at least not often. Or at least that she remembers.
He is the oppressor. He has murdered her dreams.
He must be punished before he leaves her.
Each time she has hidden the shears she has come a little closer (she thinks) to the time when she will use them. Just stab, stab, stab in the way he pounds himself into her, her body, using her body, his face contorted and ugly, terrible to behold.
The act that is unthinkable as it is irrevocable.
The shears are much stronger than an ordinary pair of scissors, as they are slightly larger.
The shears once belonged to her mother who’d been a quite skilled seamstress. In the Polish community in Hackensack, her mother was most admired.
She tries to sew too. Though she is less skilled than her mother.
Needing to mend her clothes—hems of dresses, underwear, even stockings. And it is calming to the nerves like knitting, crocheting, even typing when there is no time-pressure.
Except—You did a dandy job with these letters, my dear! But I’m afraid not “perfect”—you will have to do them over.
Sometimes she hates Mr. Tvek as much as she hates him.
Under duress she can grip the shears firmly, she is sure. She has been a typist since the age of fifteen and she believes that it is because of this skill that her fingers have grown not only strong but unerring.
Of course, she understands: a man could slap the shears out of her hand in a single gesture. If he sees what she is doing, before the icepick-sharp points stabs into his flesh.
She must strike him swiftly and she must strike him in the throat.
The “carotid artery”—she knows what this is.
Not the heart, she doesn’t know where the heart might be, exactly. Protected by ribs. The torso is large, bulky—too much fat. She could not hope to pierce the heart with the shears in a single swift blow.
Even the back, where the flesh is less thick, would be intimidating to her. She has a nightmare vision of the points of the shears stuck in the man’s back, not deep enough to kill him, only just wound him, blood streaming everywhere as he flails his arms and bellows in rage and pain . . .
Therefore, the neck. The throat.
In the throat, the male is as vulnerable as the female.
Once the sharp points of the shears pierce his skin, puncture the artery, there will be no turning back for either of them.
Eleven A.M.
Light rap of his knuckles on the door. Hel-lo.
Turning of the key. And then—
Shutting the door behind him. Approaching her.
Staring at her with eyes like ants running over her (nude) body.
It is a scene in a movie: that look of desire in a man’s face. A kind of hunger, greed.
(Should she speak to him? Often at such times he seems scarcely to hear her words, so engrossed in what he sees.)
(Maybe better to say nothing. So he can’t wince at her nasal New Jersey accent, tell her Shhh!)
Last winter after that bad quarrel she’d tried to bar him from the apartment. Tried to barricade the door by dragging a chair in front of it but (of course) he pushed his way in by brute strength.
It is childish, futile to try to bar the man. He has his own key, of course.
Following which she was punished. Severely.
Thrown onto the bed and her face pressed into a pillow, scarcely could she breathe, her cries muffled, begging for him not to kill her as her back, hips, buttocks were soundly beaten with his fists.
And then, her legs roughly parted.
Just a taste of what I will do to you if you—ever—try—this—again.
Dirty Polack!
Of course, they’d made up.
Each time, they’d made up.
He had punished her by not calling, staying away. But eventually he’d returned as she’d known he would.
Bringing her a dozen red roses. A bottle of his favorite Scotch whiskey.
She’d taken him back, it might be said.
She’d had no choice. It might be said.
No! None of this will happen, don’t be ridiculous.
She is frightened but she is thrilled.
She is thrilled but she is frightened.
At eleven A.M. she will see him at the door to the bedroom, as he pockets his key. Staring at her so intently she feels the power of being, if only for these fleeting moments, female.
That look of desire in the man’s face. The clutch of the mouth like a pike’s mouth.
The look of possession as he thinks—Mine.
By this time she will have changed her shoes. Of course.
As in a movie scene it is imperative that the woman be wearing not the plain black flat-heeled shoes she wears for comfort when she is alone but a pair of glamorous sexy high-heeled shoes which the man has purchased for her.
(Though it is risky to appear together in public in such a way the man quite enjoys taking the girl to several Fifth Avenue stores for the purchase of shoes. In her closet are at least a dozen pairs of expensive shoes he has bought for her, high-heeled, painful to wear but undeniably glamorous. Gorgeous crocodile-skin shoes he’d bought her for her last birthday, last month. He insists she wear high-heeled shoes even if it’s just when they’re alone together in her apartment.)
(Especially high heels when she’s nude.)
Seeing that look in the man’s eyes thinking—Of course he loves me. That is the face of love.
Waiting for him to arrive.
And what time is it?—eleven A.M.
If he truly loves her he will bring flowers.
To make it up to you, honey. For last night.
He has said to her that of all the females he has known she is the only one who seems to be happy in her body.
Happy in her body. This is good to hear!
He means, she guesses, adult females. Little girls are quite happy in their bodies when they are little/young enough.
So unhappy. Or—happy . . .
I mean, I am happy.
In my body I am happy.
I am happy when I am with you.
And so when he steps into the room she will smile happily at him. She will lift her arms to him as if she does not hate him and wish him dead.
She will feel the weight of her breasts, as she raises her arms. She will see his eyes fasten greedily on her breasts.
She will not scream at him Why the hell didn’t you come last night like you promised? God damn bastard, you can’t treat me like shit on your shoe!
Will not scream at him D’you think I will just take it—this shit of yours? D’you think I am like your damn wife, just lay there and take it, d’you think a woman has no way of hitting back?—no way of revenge?
A weapon of revenge. Not a male weapon but a female weapon: sewing shears.
It is appropriate that the sewing shears had once belonged to her mother. Though her mother never used the shears as she might have wished.
If she can grasp the shears firmly in her hand, her strong right hand, if she can direct the blow, if she can strike without flinching.
If she is that kind of woman.
Except: she isn’t that kind of woman. She is a romantic-minded girl to whom a man might bring a dozen red roses, a box of expensive chocolates, articles of (silky, intimate) clothing. Expensive high-heeled shoes.
A woman who sings and hums tea for two, and two for tea, you for me and me for you, alone . . .
Eleven A.M. He will be late!
God damn, he hates this. He is always late.
At the corner of Lexington and Thirty-first turning west on Thirty-first and so to Fifth Avenue. And then south.
Headed south into a less dazzling Manhattan.
He lives at Seventy-second and Madison: Upper East Side.
She lives in a pretty good neighborhood (he thinks)—for her.
Pretty damn good for a little Polack secretary from Hackensack, N.J.
Tempted to stop for a drink. That bar on Eighth Avenue.
Except it’s not yet eleven A.M. Too early to drink!
Noon is the earliest. You have to have preserve standards.
Noon could mean lunch. Customary to have drinks at a business lunch. A cocktail to start. A cocktail to continue. A cocktail to conclude. But he draws the line at drinking during the midday when he will take a cab to his office, far downtown on Chambers Street.
His excuse is a dental appointment in midtown. Unavoidable!
Of course five P.M. is a respectful hour for a drink. Almost, a drink at five P.M. might be considered the “first drink of the day” since it has been a long time since lunch.
Five P.M. drinks are “drinks before dinner.” Dinner at eight P.M. if not later.
Wondering if he should make a little detour before going to her place. Liquor store, bottle of Scotch whiskey. The bottle he’d brought to her place last week is probably almost empty.
(Sure, the woman drinks in secret. Sitting in the window, drink in hand. Doesn’t want him to know. How in hell could he not know? Deceitful little bitch.)
There’s a place on Ninth. Shamrock Inn. He can stop there.
Looks forward to drinking with her. One thing you can say about the little Polack, she’s a good drinking companion, and drinking deflects most needs to talk.
Unless she drinks too much. Last thing he wants to hear from her is complaints, accusations.
Last thing he wants to see is her face pouty and sulky and not so good-looking. Sharp creases in her forehead like a forecast of how she’ll look in another ten years, or less.
It isn’t fair! You don’t call when you promise! You don’t show up when you promise! Tell me you love me but—
Many times he has heard these words that are beginning to bore him.
Many times he has appeared to be listening but is scarcely aware which of them is berating him: the girl in the window, or the wife.
To the woman in the window he has learned to say—Sure I love you. That’s enough, now.
To the wife he has learned to say—You know I have work to do. I work damn hard. Who the hell pays for all this?
His life is complicated. That is actually true. He is not deceiving the woman. He is not deceiving the wife.
(Well—maybe he is deceiving the wife.)
(Maybe he is deceiving the woman.)
(But women expect to be deceived, don’t they? Deception is the terms of the sex contract.)
In fact he’d told the little Polack secretary (warned her) at the outset, almost two years ago now—(Jesus! that long, no wonder he’s getting to feel trapped, claustrophobic)—I love my family. My obligations to my family come first.
(Fact is, he’s getting tired of this one. Bored. She talks too much even when she isn’t talking, he can hear her thinking. Her breasts are heavy, beginning to droop. Flaccid skin at her belly. Thinking sometimes when they’re in bed together he’d like to settle his hands around her throat and just start squeezing.)
(How much of a struggle would she put up? She’s not a small woman but he’s strong.)
(The French girl he’d had a “tussle” with—that was the word he’d given the transaction—had put up quite a struggle like a fox or a mink or a weasel but that was wartime, in Paris, people were desperate then, even a girl that young and starved-looking like a rat. Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi! But there’d been no one.)
(Hard to take any of them seriously when they’re chattering away in some damn language like a parrot or a hyena. Worse when they screamed.)
Set out late from his apartment that morning. God damn, he resents his God-damn wife suspicious of him for no reason.
Hadn’t he stayed home the night before? Hadn’t he disappointed the girl?—all because of the wife.
Stiff and cold-silent the wife. God, how she bores him!
Her suspicions bore him. Her hurt feelings bore him. Her dull repressed anger bores him. Worst of all her boredom bores him.
He has imagined his wife dead many times, of course. How long have they been married, twenty years, twenty-three years, he’d believed he was lucky marrying the daughter of a well-to-do stock broker except the stock broker wasn’t that well-to-do and within a few years he wasn’t a stock broker any longer but a bankrupt. Asking to borrow money from him.
Also, the wife’s looks are gone. Melted look of a female of a certain age. Face sags, body sags. He has fantasized his wife dying (in an accident: not his fault) and the insurance policy paying off: forty thousand dollars free and clear. So he’d be free to marry the other one.
Except: does he want to marry her?
God! Feeling the need for a drink.
It is eleven A.M. God damn bastard will be late again.
After the insult and injury of the previous night!
If he is late, it will happen. She will stab, stab, stab until he has bled out. She feels a wave of relief, finally it has been decided for her.
Checks the sewing shears, hidden beneath the cushion. Something surprising, unnerving—the blades of the shears seem to be a faint, faded red. From cutting red cloth? But she doesn’t remember using the shears to cut red cloth.
Must be the light from the window passing through the gauze curtains.
Something consoling in the touch of the shears.
She wouldn’t want a knife from the kitchen—no. Nothing like a butcher knife. Such a weapon would be premeditated while a pair of sewing shears is something a woman might pick up by chance, frightened for her life.
He threat
ened me. He began to beat me. Strangle me. He’d warned me many times, in one of his moods he would murder me.
It was in defense of my life. God help me! I had no choice.
Hears herself laugh aloud. Rehearsing her lines like an actress about to step out onto the bright-lit stage.
Might’ve been an actress, if her damn mother hadn’t sent her right to secretarial school. She’s as good-looking as most of the actresses on Broadway.
He’d told her so. Brought her a dozen blood-red roses first time he came to take her out.
Except they hadn’t gone out. Spent the night in her fifth-floor walkup, East Eighth Street.
(She misses that, sometimes. Lower East Side where she’d had friends and people who knew her, on the street.)
Strange to be naked, that is nude yet wearing shoes.
Time for her to squeeze her (bare) feet into high heels.
Like a dancer. Girlie-dancer they are called. Stag parties exclusively for men. She’d heard of girls who danced at these parties. Danced nude. Made more in a single night’s work than she made in two weeks as a secretary.
Nude is a fancy word. Hoity-toity like an artist-word.
What she has not wanted to see: her body isn’t a girl’s body any longer. At a distance (maybe) on the street she can fool the casual eye but not up close.
Dreads to see in the mirror a fleshy aging body like her mother’s.
And her posture in the damned chair, when she’s alone—leaning forward, arms on knees, staring out the window into a narrow shaft of sunshine between buildings—makes her belly bulge, soft-belly-fat.
A shock, first time she’d noticed. Just by accident glancing in a mirror.
Not a sign of getting older. Just putting on weight.
For your birthday, sweetheart. Is it—thirty-two?
She’d blushed, yes, it is thirty-two.
Not meeting his eye. Pretending she was eager to unwrap the present. (By the size of the box, weight of what’s inside, she guesses it’s another pair of God damn high-heeled shoes.) Heart beating rapidly in a delirium of dread.
If he knew. Thirty-nine.
That was last year. The next birthday is rushing at her.
Hates him, wishes he were dead.