Флетчер Флора - Take Me Home

“Do you know something?” she said. “You’re a very attractive young man, and I suspect that you could be very nice if you chose to be. I’m glad you came to see me. It would be too bad if you were to have the wrong idea about me.”

“I’m not sure,” he said, “what the wrong idea is.”

He drained his glass and set it aside, as she did hers. Then, because he wanted to and because her words and expression seemed to invite it, he put his arms around her and kissed her, and her response was immediate and warm. Her body arched inward, her head fell back, and her lips parted slowly under his. When he released her and looked down into her upturned face, her eyes were open and clouded with desire, and she was breathing rapidly with excitement that could not possibly, he thought, be simulated.

“Was that a test?” she said with the slightest inflection of mockery. “Were you trying to find out?”

“Maybe.”

“If it was, it’s not enough. It proves nothing. Any man can kiss.”

“What would be enough?” he asked.

“I can show you. Would you like me to show you?”

Henry grinned. “Yes. Show me.”

A dark glint of feeling roiled up the depths of her eyes. Her red mouth curled and suddenly she slid close to him, pressing her body urgently against him. She put her moist, open mouth against his, grinding her lips back and forth in a frenzy of passion, while her hands clawed at his back and his flanks.

Somehow the zipper of her dress was down and she drew away from him long enough to clamber out of it. A twist of her hand behind her back freed her bra so that the burgeoning richness of her full, rounded breasts came free. Then she put his hand to her breast, surging against him. When his hand groped for the elastic of her panties she arched her body to help him so that all of the glowing white riches of her flesh were yielded up to him.

There was fire in her, fire in her hard-nippled breasts, her quivering loins as she pulled him down upon her. He was fumbling to get out of his own clothes now and when he was free of them she crushed her body against him, writhing in a hoarse, panting rhythm. She was all eager, yearning, devouring flesh and her hands upon his chest and thighs and belly were bold and daring, seeking to rouse him to a frenzy that matched her own.

“I’ll show you,” she breathed once, as she pulled her moist, avid mouth away from his. “This way... And this... And this...”

Her surrender was so complete and so adept that Henry did not fully understand until later that it was not surrender at all, but aggression, and that the suspiciously easy seduction of a practical stranger was hers, not his, and that its purpose was deception, not pleasure.

Ivy lay very still in Henry’s bed and stared at the ceiling with bright, dry eyes. There was a large brown stain that began at one upper corner of the room and extended diagonally toward the center. The stain was long and rather narrow, with an irregular perimeter reminiscent of a rough coastline on a map, and it looked, in fact, somewhat like the Italian boot. Tracing the perimeter of the stain with meticulous attention to every salient and recession, and exercise in careful diversion which was helpful in avoiding disintegration, Ivy could hear Henry descending the stairs to the street, the heaviness of his tread being a kind of index to the degree of his anger. In Ivy there was no anger. There was only the deep and acceptant despair that comes with definitive defeat in a moment of hopefulness. She thought that it would be a great relief to cry, but crying was not possible.

She continued to lie in bed for almost another hour, and as she lay there she tried to decide where she should go, but she knew all the while that there was really nothing to decide and nowhere in particular to go, and that all she was doing, or wanted to do, was to delay doing anything decisive whatever. In time, however, the self-deception could no longer be sustained, and so she got up and took a bath and dressed slowly and began to consider what she should take with her when she left. She did not wish to carry both of the bags she had brought, and it required some time and thought to decide which of the two she should take, the larger or the smaller, but finally she chose the smaller with the qualification that she would also pack the larger and leave it here to pick up later.

Having made this decision she felt a sudden urge to hurry, to complete in all haste what must be done. Opening both bags, she gathered her possessions, deciding quickly whether each item was something she would need soon or not, and putting each in the large or small bag according to the decision. Her packing done, she left the smaller bag standing closed in the middle of the room and put the other one out of the way against a wall. Then she made Henry’s bed and folded the covers of her own, the sofa in the living room, after which she went systematically through both rooms, putting everything neatly in its place. This done, she took the twenty dollars from the chest drawer and put on her hat and coat and picked up the small bag and went downstairs to the street and walked away quickly without pausing or looking back.

She did not choose her direction deliberately, but she turned out of habit in the direction of the Greek’s diner. When she had reached it, becoming conscious of her location, she stopped and looked in through the window and saw the Greek standing behind the counter beside the cash register. Because she was hungry, and because she wanted to say good-by to George, for whom she had affection, she went inside and set her bag on the floor beside a stool at the counter, and sat down on the stool. George was pleased to see her. Taking a position opposite her, he placed the heels of his hands on the edge of the counter and leaned forward with an air of easy camaraderie.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m very glad to see you. Will you have something to eat?”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll have some coffee and toast, if you please. I’ve not eaten any breakfast.”

“How is the arrangement with Henry?”

“Very bad. It hasn’t worked out.”

“Is that so? I’m sorry to learn it. I thought it was working out well.”

The Greek’s face wore an expression of grave concern. His concern was, as it were, doubled and divided in equal parts. In the beginning of the arrangement, he had worried only about possible deleterious effects upon Henry and the book, but later, in affection and ignorance, he had begun to worry about the consequences to Ivy. Beneath his overt attitude of sophistication, he considered the arrangement as he understood it to be, if not sinful, surely regrettable, and he did not want Ivy hurt or abandoned.

“It worked for a while,” she said. “But now I’ve been asked to leave. You see that I have my bag, and I’ve stopped now to say good-by.”

“Henry has asked you to leave?”

“Yes, he has. When he left for work this morning, he told me to be gone by the time he returned.”

“Henry’s hot-headed. No doubt he didn’t mean what he said. I advise you to go home and wait until he returns. It will be all right then. You’ll see.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. It was all my fault. It was my fault entirely.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to find a place to stay for a day or two until I can make other arrangements. I have a little money. Could you suggest a suitable hotel? It must be quite cheap.”

“Well, there’s a hotel directly down the street. About a mile. It’s not so much, but it’s cheap and as clean as could be expected. It’s called the Hawkins. I lived there once myself for a year and found it acceptable.”

“All right. On your recommendation, I’ll go there.” Resolving to speak sternly to Henry at the first chance, the Greek served the coffee and toast and refused, after she had finished, to be paid.