H. Lovecraft - Brooklyn Noir 2

“That’s a good idea,” he said.

“If you went in the Army, you might like the boys. That would be a pity.”

“I like holding your hand, Sylvia. And kissing your cheek.”

“That doesn’t count. Let me know how it comes out.”

“Any chance you could give me a test? I might be turning queer and not know it. Jesus, if you saved me, I’d respect you all my life.”

“I can’t,” said Sylvia. “This guy, works for Tony, he’s married. He’s Sicilian too. And, you know, he’d get sore. He ain’t no pussycat, which’s, I guess, why I like him. But I wouldn’t want him on my bad side.”

“I see,” said Frankie, crushed that another guy was in the picture. He could still secretly love her, but he couldn’t compete with a gangster.

Sylvia observed his sinking face, but couldn’t guess how deep was his disappointment. She might encourage Frankie now, if not with a test, possibly with a sample. He could be a fine man someday. He could love women who all needed to be loved. He could fight just battles. Many such men were already in the service, and it worried her slightly that if she helped him he would go too. But someone should help him. It was the right thing to do. Otherwise, he could be a miserable coward, and miss the pleasure of having a woman in his bed, and sharing his daily life.

“I’ve an idea,” she said. “We’ll go in my bedroom. And talk privately. Which wouldn’t feel right here in the parlor.”

“You’re wonderful,” said Frankie.

“Don’t think I’m double-crossing my boyfriend.”

Sylvia put the light on. On her ruffled bed were dolls from newborns to first-graders. Frankie thought his first visit to a dame’s bedroom might be an intrusion on her privacy. Her bra and underpants were on her bedroom chair, and her slip, stockings, and nightgown made a pink puddle on the floor. She sat on the edge of her bed and patted the space next to her. His heart upped its beat. Then he worried that nothing ever was as easy as he thought. Never having done it before, would he be nervous? And would his angel kick him in the ass?

“Sicilian girls ain’t so beautiful as you,” he said.

“A girl in a bathing suit excite you?” she said.

“Is she supposed to?” he said, faking.

“Suppose she’s in underclothes?”

“I’ve never seen any girl like that.”

“Would you like to?” She turned on other lamps, filling the room almost with sunlight near midnight. Standing a few feet from Frankie, she dropped her skirt, and then her blouse. Miss Sylvia Cohen could be Miss Double Cones.

Frankie’s biological system reacted as it hadn’t at the burlesque, but he stayed icy to wait for the scoops themselves to be presented. Then he grinned. When she pulled down her underpants, he went to take her in his arms. She examined him from the outside and she was pleased.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he blurted out.

“Well, that’s healthy,” she said, not believing it, but taking it as a compliment to her figure. “I think you’re just a little too sensitive, Frankie. Which a girl wouldn’t expect, the way you’re built. Sensitive’s nice, but we all have to grow up, and go to war, in one way or another. Now, you have to go home, Frankie.”

“Don’t make me,” he said.

“I gave you a show and you sneaked a feel, but that’s that. Kids brag.”

Since she kept her lips out of reach, Frankie kissed her neck like a starved madman. Then her shoulders turned down. She was surrendering, but then, mustering her resolve, she pushed free. They stood there, he in all his clothes and she naked.

“I wouldn’t ever tell anyone.”

“You had enough.”

“Okay, I’ll go,” said Frankie. “But you think … I’m embarrassed asking, but could I, you know, take a look? I could be sure then. That I ain’t queer. I might even volunteer for the Army.”

Sylvia sat on the bed and Frankie kneeled, but she was shy and kept her feet together. So he put his cheek on her thigh and kissed the white pillow that was her belly. Then she fingered his hair and closed her eyes. And he looked. Her thighs were warm petals on his cheeks. Her hair was darker blonde, curlier, and in a halo. She hummed while Frankie seemed to be praying. Then she pulled his hair, not to hurt him but to draw him up to the bed.

“I love you, Sylvia.”

“I love you too, Frankie,” she said, about a mild illness that would cure itself. “The nice Jewish boys I went to school with, that my mother said I should marry one, they’re in the service. Two are gold stars hanging in their windows. Sometimes I cry thinking about guys I had bagels with. Not that I loved them, or even kissed them.”

Frankie thought he could grow old there, holding her breasts until he died, and he thought Sylvia was the most perfect thing in the world, and that maybe women everywhere were the most perfect things God ever made. “Can we always be friends, Sylvia? Can we do this again?” And, not seeing his guardian angel in the room, he made his move with Sylvia and she didn’t try to stop him.

“Only one other guy touched me,” said Sylvia. “Which wasn’t right I let him. But I liked him so much. And now you. There must be something wrong with me that I chose that other guy. And that I chose you.”

“I appreciate you chose me,” said Frankie.

“You loved me good,” said Sylvia. “So I doubt you wouldn’t do the right thing.”

“Let’s again,” he said.

“You mustn’t ever tell anyone,” she said. “Bruno would kill me.”

“I promise, Sylvia. I’ll never say anything. But I’m asking you to be my steady, even though I know it’s impossible. Would you?” She didn’t answer, but they made love again, and were still in each other’s arms, not wanting to untie the knot. It was a comforting illusion to think that one was part of the other. Then Sylvia was crying and sniffling. “Did I hurt you?” he said.

“You did it nice,” she said, laughing now, tears running down her cheeks. “Someday I’ll marry an accountant. I’ll have a boy and a girl. I’ll get a little fat. And I’ll go to Miami Beach.”

“Maybe I’ll marry you,” said Frankie.

“You’re a goyim. No good Jewish girl marries a goyim. You’re not even circumcised.” She laughed. “Maybe one of these days the war’ll be over.”

For a long while they lay in bed, not sleeping. Sylvia wasn’t crying or laughing now, and they weren’t talking, but their naked sides still touched.

Sylvia thought about the Jewish boys in the Army, about Frankie who was too young to be her lover, and about Bruno in bed with his wife. Nothing good would ever come from Bruno. She liked Bruno’s looks and that he was smooth on the dance floor and sure of himself. But now she had a boy who wasn’t sure of himself, and it wasn’t as awful as she thought it might be, and, in fact, was kind of nice. Sylvia wasn’t sure now that she could give up Frankie as easily as she thought she could give up Bruno.

With just one lamp on, and both Sylvia and Frankie under the bed sheet, Frankie thought he was no nearer to deciding whether or not to put on the uniform. But he was deliciously drowsy from love’s wine, which also made him feel manly, strong, and knowing. Then he turned on his belly to sleep while Sylvia was still on her back, and he put his arm lightly around her. “You asleep, Sylvia?” Her slow regular breathing convinced him that she was, so he didn’t ask again. “Good night, sweetheart,” he said, and heard someone’s distant radio playing love songs.

The war was in the newspapers, on every radio, in classrooms, in newsreels and movies, in letters from guys in the service, in most conversations between housewives buying chickens, workers building ships at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, and between the old men at the Sicilian Social Society. Young men lied about their youth or health to dress their punches in olive drab in order to knock out the enemy sooner.