Harlan Ellison - Spider Kiss

There was no need for Carlene to demand.

Her existence was demand enough; her face and body were her dues, and she paid them regularly.

It was the ideal, yet the most unbearable, situation for a man of Sheldon Morgenstern’s constitution. It was a loveless relationship predicated solely on Shelly’s ability to keep her supplied with the delicacies of life, in exchange for which she was always bed-warm and ready, as well as discreet about her transgressions. She was cook, housekeeper, secretary and bed-partner. But that was all. Her similarity to Jeanie Friedel was the spur that drove Shelly’s interest between the two women. Each was cold, each was incapable of a true depth of love—whatever that meant. Each was compelling by the very withholding of warmth.

And maybe , Shelly had simplified it on several occasions, to himself, I’m just a sucker for that type of broad .

There was considerable merit in the concept.

But periodically Shelly would decide he wanted a more realistic, a less surrealistic, life. At those times he would not even consider sending Carlene away, but would move himself either to Freeport’s suite in the Sheraton-Astor or would take a room in some 42nd Street fleabag.

But he always came back.

It had to be that way. She had come into his life unbidden, and by demanding only silently, bound him with his own desire.

I’m a prisoner of my crotch , Shelly would unfailingly, unhappily muse, in the cab on the way back to the apartment and Carlene. He had thought just that, for the hundredth time, in the cab returning after Stag’s career had gotten smoothly running. He had avoided going back—though the thinking could not be avoided—but it was months, and now like the hooked man he was, he was returning.

That night she bound him ever more tightly with loins and lips and liquid stillness. It may not have been the most perfect of all lives, but it was undeniably Shelly’s and he was stuck with it.

When he opened the door, he knew another man ( men ?) had been there. Not too recently—there was always somebody, a bellboy, a doorman, a flak-man on his staff that Carlene had gotten to, who would tip her when he was getting ready to trek back—but someone had been there. The smell of Mixture 79 pipe tobacco was faint but detectable.

She was in the kitchen, her long, perfect legs encased in sheath slacks that fraction of an inch too tight to produce a desire to grab her by her cheeks and pull her up against him.

They were white with black piping and they were topped by a silk blouse cut on full lines. Carlene was shy in the chest and though it really never occurred to anyone who was stopped by her almost Grecian-symmetrical beauty, and her height, it was a constant pique to her. Hence, the baggy blouse. Her black hair came down in a pageboy, a smooth, sloping fall that caught the kitchen light from overhead and toyed with it, much as she toyed with him. Her eyes were hidden, but Shelly saw them nonetheless. They were green. As green as something utterly unromantic. Choose one:

● an unset emerald, slightly flawed

● green slime on a condemned pond

● a snake’s skin

● dollar bills old, wrinkled, being sent back to the mint to be burned

● the color on the base of old toy soldiers.

She looked up suddenly, as he stood in the kitchen doorway, and he was struck by the green of her eyes. They were none of the things he had considered them. They were green, very green, terribly commandingly green, extra deep, and faintly moist. (Was it from the onions a-peeling in the sink, or the mist of a woman secreted behind the iris?)

“Welcome home,” he said.

“You look tired,” she replied.

“What’s been happening?” he said.

“Not a thing. Want a drink?” she replied.

“Not now, thanks anyhow. Any mail?” he said.

“Nothing but a few bills. I paid the current ones; you’ve got a letter from your tailor, whatshisname,” she replied.

“Breidbart,” he said, “Jack Breidbart.”

“That’s right. Him,” she replied.

“Do not pass go; do not collect $200,” he said, turning.

This time, she did not reply.

He ate dinner with her in silence, wrote out checks to cover the bills, considered TV Guide , and finally gave himself up to it.

They were in bed, straining, feinting, playing at mutual passions, when the phone rang.

“Damn!” he snorted, against her shoulder.

“So don’t answer it,” she said in the tone of a woman who is polishing her nails while talking to you, “let it ring.”

It rang. It rang again. On the seventh, he hoisted off and snatched at it.

“ What the hell do you want at this hour, schmuck !" he bellowed into the mouthpiece, and slammed it back onto the cradle. He fell onto his back as she rolled away from him, and for a long moment stared sightlessly at the ceiling somewhere above in the darkness. It was no good, no damned earthly good. But he had to have it; to the man who has nothing, nothing with substance is something.

The phone rang again.

This time he clapped it to his ear before the first ring had faded away.

He was about to use The Words when a woman’s voice crashed against his anger. “Shelly! Shelly, for Chrissake help me!”

Jean Friedel.

“What’s the matter? What the hell’s wrong?”

“I’m up at the suite. He’s got me locked in the bedroom … Jeezus, he’ll break through that muthering door in a minute, Shelly, get over here!”

Only it was not that ordered, not nearly that coherent. There were breaks and sobs and frightened whimpers.

“Who? Who’ll break in? Where’s the Colonel; what the hell is happening, Jeanie, answer me, stop mumbling!”

“Stag, the kid. He’s … he had too much to drink, Jeezus, he doesn’t want to just make love, Shelly, he wants to, Jeezus, I don’t know what . Please … get over here, will you!”

The sound of her frenzy screeched galactically past the receiver. Carlene sat up and turned on the headboard lamp; the sheet was clutched over her bosom. “What’s the matter?”

He covered the mouthpiece. “The kid’s got one of the hotel secretaries cornered in the suite. Freeport isn’t there, I suppose. She wants me to come over.” A shriek erupted from the phone.

“He’s breaking down the, Jeezus , Shelly, please !”

“I’ll be right over … keep him out somehow,” he yelled, and cradled the receiver. He was out of bed and pulling on his trousers from where they had fallen on the floor, without bothering about underwear. His shirt, the jacket, and he was streaking from the apartment.

By the time he had reached the lobby, Carlene had called the doorman and a cab was waiting. “The Sheraton-Astor,” Shelly squawked. He fished in his wallet and brought out a bill. Without looking at its denomination he said, “This is for the baby if you bust your ass making it over there,” and was thrown back against the seat cushions as the cab careened away from the curb in a rocking U-turn.

It might be too late.

The gravy train might have already been derailed.

Oh, that bitchette! Oh, like wow !

Who cared if she had the ass stripped off her, who gave a bloody! Just keep that kid’s rep intact. Floor it, Jim !

Go!

Shelly was out of the elevator almost before the doors had slid completely open. The suite was silent. It looked as though Quantrill had herded his raiders through mounted on rhinoceroses. The drapes were torn, tables had been overturned, one Italian marble coffee table had been broken in half as though someone had dropped an anvil on it. A stain of wet ran down the wall and on the floor beneath the stain, a shattered vase and flowers lay in a pool of moisture. Every door was open, a bookshelf had been pulled down, the telephone was off its hook and a pair of legs protruded from around the curve of the sectional sofa. Shelly’s face went dry and tight.