Evan Hunter - Nobody Knew They Were There

“Yes.”

“I slept at Seth’s last night.” She hesitates. “I slept with Seth,” she says. “This time we didn’t just neck.”

“Okay,” I say.

“No, it’s not okay.”

“You’re right. It’s not okay.”

“So why don’t you hit me or something?”

I hit her suddenly and unexpectedly, openhanded, my slap catching her on the side of her face and jerking her head back. She is shocked and angry, and she comes up off the bed with her fists clenched, and then subsides immediately, sitting again and bowing her head, her hands widespread on her thighs.

“You really did it, you son of a bitch,” she says.

“Yes.”

“I guess I asked you to,” she says. “But you didn’t have to.” She touches the side of her face. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“No. Actually, I’m not. What do you want here, Sara? Why don’t you go back to Seth’s place and look up at his stars?”

“I only went there because of you.”

“That makes sense.”

“Only because you make me feel so wretched.”

“Did Seth make you feel any better?”

“No, he made me feel worse. I left while he was still asleep. I was so afraid of waking him, I forgot my coat I walked all the way from his house here, and I’m freezing cold, and all you can do is abuse me.”

“Oh, come off it, Sara.”

“You didn’t have to hit me, Arthur.”

“It’s Sam. You know it’s Sam.”

“I know it’s Sam, but I don’t have to call you Sam if I don’t want to.”

“Why’d you betray me, Sara? Why’d you get that boy to listen in on my calls?”

“If you were betraying the plot, you deserved to be betrayed.”

“I wasn’t betraying anything or anybody.”

“Except yourself. If you don’t know how to blow up a fucking bridge, you’re asking to be killed” She shakes her head. “That’s suicidal, Arthur.

“Sam.”

“Sam, Arthur, who cares? You’re suicidal. Which is what I told you at the very start But I am sorry I helped Hester, I am truly sorry. It’s just…” She pauses again. When she looks up, her face is troubled, her eyes very pale. I realize that she is not wearing her contacts. Did she take them off at Seth’s and put them in her little plastic case with the one blue stone missing? Did she sleep with her legs scissored around his thigh? Was her mouth there and waiting for him each time he wanted it? “I thought, you see, that the plot was more important than you,” she says, and shrugs. “That’s what I thought”

“And what do you think now?”

“Now, I’m not sure any more. You make me very confused, Arthur.”

“It’s Sam.”

“I can’t get used to calling you any damn Sam!” She suddenly puts her hands into the pockets of my coat “I’m still cold,” she says.

“Why don’t you get under the covers?”

“Yes, I will,” she answers, and takes off her boots, and climbs into bed wearing all of her clothes and my overcoat as well. She is asleep in ten seconds flat. I pull the blanket up over her shoulder and kiss her gently on the cheek. She nods.

While she sleeps, I refuse to speculate on why she is so tired I think instead that I am very glad she is here, and I wonder why she says I confuse her. I have always thought of myself as a very simple man. Brilliant, but simple. Kind, sympathetic, understanding, supportive — but simple. And yet she says I confuse her. She also says I am suicidal, which I know I am not Was it suicidal to have chosen the railroad bridge instead of the depot? I must ask her this when she awakens. I must point out to her that the possibility of a successful withdrawal from the bridge is infinitely higher than the possibility of getting away from a crowded railroad depot Does that sound suicidal?

She is snoring slightly. I find that amusing. It does not seem to me that young people should snore. I can understand them smoking pot and taking LSD and sleeping around and what-have-you, but I cannot accept them snoring. I must remember to ask her if she knows that she snores. Or perhaps I should not She is huddled under the blankets like a hibernating bear. She sleeps with her eyes partially open. It is quite eerie. I walk close to the bed and wave my hand back and forth in front of her face. She does not stir. She looks like a zombie, whites and pupils partially showing. I sit in the chair beside the bed, and watch her, and listen to her snore. In a little while, I am asleep again myself.

I awaken to the sound of Sara singing in the shower. Her voice is jubilant

“Oh dear, what can the matter be?

“Seven old ladies locked in the lavat’ry.

“They were there from Monday till Saturday.

“Nobody knew they were there.”

She goes on and on, bellowing the song endlessly. I am enjoying the concert, and I tiptoe around the room for fear she will stop singing if she knows I'm awake and listening. When she emerges from the bathroom, she is wearing only panties.

“Hullo, hullo,” she says, and walks to me and hugs me and kisses the side of my neck and says, “I can’t resist men in nightshirts.” She looks up into my face. “How are you this morning, dear Arthur?”

“I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

“Wonderful. I purged myself with Seth, and now I feel grand.”

“Do we have to start talking about other men first thing in the morning? If it isn’t Roger, it’s…”

“Shush,” she says, and puts her hand over my mouth. “Go get dressed. I’m cutting all my classes today, Arthur, we have a million things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Leave that all to me,” she says. “Go shave. You look positively brutish.”

“I feel positively brutish,” I tell her, and bend my head to her mouth.

“Not now,” she says, turning her face away. “Too much to do.”

“How come you always decide when?” I ask.

She looks at me in surprise. “Do I?” she asks. She immediately falls backward onto the bed in a mock swoon, legs and arms spread wide in surrender. “Take me, Arthur,” she says, “take me whenever you want to!” and I burst out laughing. She scrambles in frantic haste to remove her panties, feigning breathlessness and repeating, “ Now, Arthur, take me now, do what you will, take me, take me!” and tosses the panties across the room, arm dramatically outflung, and then wets her lips, and narrows her eyes, and suddenly we are neither of us joking. I fall upon her as though she is a waterfront whore, and she shouts, “Oh, Arthur, oh, Sam, oh, Jesus Christ!”

We are quick and savage and gratified at once.

She sighs heavily afterward, and incongruously says, “You are a nice man.”

While I shave, she calls a bicycle rental place. Bike riding is a very popular sport in these parts, she explains, and it is necessary to make a reservation. She watches me shave with great interest. When I cut myself, she says, “Ooooh!” as though in pain herself, and hastily applies a small patch of toilet tissue to the wound. She watches as I comb my hair. She watches as I dress. I do not discourage her. Correctly or not, I feel adored, and I have not felt this way for a long long time.

At breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, she says, “I want to tell you why I went to Seth’s last night”

“I’d rather you didn’t”

“I want you to know.”

“It’s not necessary for a person to confide everything to another person, Sara. I think you’ll find.

“If you give me another lecture, Sam, I swear to God I’ll…”

“You called me Sam.”

“Yes, and I’ll crown you with this goddamn sugar bowl if you get on your soapbox again.”