Ward Fulton - The Violated Virgin

"That's not going to help," said Carole resignedly. "And you know it.

They've probably got records a mile long already."

Yvonne's shoulders suddenly slumped, and she sighed. She turned, reaching for her cigarettes, and sat in a chair, puffing furiously, while Carole and Suzanne stared at her silently.

"Okay, okay." Yvonne spat the words out.

Suzanne's temper subsided, and she felt the tears welling up again.

Before she knew it, she was weeping hysterically into her hands, her shoulders shaking and her body wracked with sobs. Carole moved over, putting her arm around Suzanne and holding her close.

"Come on, come on," she murmured, "it's over. Let's not argue any longer. Please, Yvonne…" She turned and looked at her friend.

"Yvonne, what you said was awful. You didn't mean it, I know. Tell Suzanne you're sorry."

Yvonne's thin eyebrows disappeared into her hair.

"Me say I'm sorry? Carole, you've lost your mind. No, baby, I believe what I said. And there's no use denying it. She enjoyed every fucking minute of it, and she'd probably have each one of them back if she could. Come on, Carole, I'm leaving."

She rose and walked to the door. Carole stared at her and slowly shook her head.

"No, Yvonne, don't. Please, Suzanne's your friend. You can't let something like this turn you against her. What are friends for? Can't you see she needs us now? More than ever. Come, sit down. I'll make some coffee."

Yvonne paused at the door and sneered.

"Suzanne was right, you know, Carole. I am an old dyke, and she doesn't know much about dykes. Maybe this'll be a lesson to her. I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back."

Suzanne wiped her eyes and struggled to her feet, her face flushed with anger.

"Just a minute," she shouted. "Remember last night? Remember how I came to you for help, how I was sore, frightened and needed a friend? And what happened? You put the make on me. Sure, I'm learning about dykes.

They're after the same thing those boys were. Sex. Sure, I joined in. I loved it. You taught me something new, something I didn't know about, and I had a ball. But don't get all moralistic now. You've got no reason to be, Yvonne. You're just as bad as those boys. The only difference is they have cocks, and you don't. And believe me, baby, I'll take a hard cock any day over what you can do. What they did to me might not be the best way to go about sex, but at least it was normal.

And believe me, I'm normal, and I plan to stay that way, no matter how well you know how to suck pussy."

"Suzanne! Stop it, stop it!"

Carole's voice rose above her own, and then suddenly Suzanne collapsed on the couch, weeping uncontrollably, her sobs echoing round the room.

Yvonne stood, breathing heavily, her eyes downcast, and her fingers twitching. Carole went to Suzanne, and sat, patting her shoulder. She looked up at Yvonne, and shook her head sadly.

"We've all got our cross to bear," Yvonne said cryptically. "You coming, Carole?"

The other girl nodded, and rose, looking down at Suzanne; then she followed Yvonne out of the room. The door closed behind them, and Suzanne continued to lie on the couch, hardly aware that they had left, her body wracked with dry heaves as her emotions consumed her selfcontrol.

Suzanne lay on her bed, staring out the wide window at the whitecapped Detroit River. In the distance a lonely tug broke the silence with its mournful hoot, and a flock of birds was silhouetted against the clouds, flying north to Canada.

She stretched, lifting her arms lazily; she smiled, and snuggled back against the pillow. For the hundredth time, she reached for the letter on the nightstand, opened it and read, an extra smile of pleasure creasing her face.

A brief knock at the door heralded its opening, and Mrs. Delacorte walked in, carrying a breakfast tray.

"How many times are you going to read his letter?" she said, her normally prim face relaxed in a sympathetic grin.

Suzanne folded the paper and pushed it back in the envelope.

"Every hour until he gets here," she replied happily. "Oh, Mother, I'm so excited."

"I guess I would be, too," said Mrs. Delacorte, placing the tray across the bed. "Come on, I've fixed your breakfast myself today. Scrambled eggs the way you like them, sausage and toast and coffee. Your father says I'm spoiling you."

Suzanne laughed, and looked affectionately up at her mother. "Sit down and talk," she said.

"I was intending to," said the older woman. "After all, since you left home, I've missed our little chats. It's good to have you back."

"I know. I'm glad to be back, too."

Mrs. Delacorte lit a cigarette from the box on the nightstand, and leaned back, her eyes resting lovingly on her daughter.

"You're certainly looking better than you did when you returned," she commented. "I can't tell you how unhappy I was with your living in that dreadful slum."

"It wasn't that bad," Suzanne admitted, sipping her coffee. "But… well, there's no place like home."

Her mother nodded. "Especially when it's clean, modern and comfortable," she said. "Tell me, what really made you decide to move back? I mean, I had fully expected you to return, but not quite so soon."

Suzanne hesitated, and took a mouthful of sausage and eggs before replying.

"Well, lots of things, really," she said guardedly. "I guess, to be honest, I got tired of slumming."

"Spoken like a true Grosse Pointer," said Mrs. Delacorte, and they both laughed, knowing the humor of her statement.

"Truthfully, I wanted to stay, but the neighborhood is really worse than I had expected."

"Why do you think the city's tearing it all down?" asked her mother.

"Another few years, and all those crummy buildings will be gone, and nice, new highrise apartments for students will take their place. And it's about time, too. Wayne's a good school, and I've never understood how they've put up with those ghastly people living in those old buildings, right next door, as it were. I mean, it's terrible that the poor have such bad living conditions, but I feel if half of them got out and worked, they wouldn't have to live like they do. It's a sad situation." She sighed. "I'm thankful that your father and I have been able to give you a good home and a respectable upbringing. I've often imagined what might happen if a girl grew up among those people." She shuddered. "I've been told that half of them are pregnant by the time they're sixteen."

Suzanne stared at her mother intently. Mrs. Delacorte's face had a tolerant look of distaste which accentuated the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes, skillfully covered with a layer of makeup. Her hair was immaculate, and from her ears a pair of diamonds were suspended on small platinum chains. Her dress was a sophisticated black sheath, simple and tasteful, but obviously from Saks or Bergdorf's.

Suzanne had a passing mental image of Donald's mother, seated in her rundown apartment on Forest Avenue, her hair hanging in rat-tails, her coarse features devoid of makeup, and her breasts swinging obscenely under her cotton shift, while her bare feet rested on the torn linoleum rug, and the woman's drawling Kentucky accents echoed in her ears…

"Work? I dunno. There ain't much I can do. 'Sides, I git enough from welfare to get by."

Suzanne shivered and took another bite of toast.

"I learned a lot, I'll say that," she murmured, washing the toast down with a sip of coffee. "I'll probably have a real good grade in sociology, thanks to my research. My paper's coming along nicely."

"Good," replied Mrs. Delacorte vaguely. "It's a blessing that you're intelligent, my girl."

Suzanne stared at her mother, not quite comprehending the words which sounded out of context to what they had been discussing. But she decided to let it pass. There were many things her mother said which she realized were merely words to fill up time between what Mrs.