Evan Hunter: Nobody Knew They Were There

“Let’s say I have an active imagination.”

This is another curtain line, and she rises dramatically on it I help her on with her coat. She strides out ahead of me, trailing me in her wake like the train of a royal garment. At the cigarette machine in the entrance alcove, she stops and says, “I’m out again. Would you?” I insert coins into the machine. She folds her arms and tucks her hands into the sleeves of her coat, like a Chinese mandarin. She is standing very close to me, ignoring me. I turn and kiss her. We look at each other. Her eyes reveal nothing; it must be the contact lenses.

“Mmmmm,” I say.

“Mmmmm, my ass,” she answers, and we go out into the street

It is very cold. A sharp penetrating wind is sweeping in off the mountains. We walk rapidly. Her hands are still tucked into her sleeves, and I hold her left elbow until my own hand is numb with the cold. I retrieve it and put it into my pocket, and we walk side by side without speaking or touching, as if we scarcely know each other. The truth is, we do not. October leaves rattle furiously along the street, like small scurrying animals.

Under the hotel marquee, I say, “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”

“Yes,” she answers.

She knows the boy behind the desk; he is a law student like herself. Instead of avoiding him, she walks over and begins to chat, Hello, Ralph, what did you think of the quiz in Torts the other day, have you prepared the assignment due on Friday, and so on and so on. She shows no sign of embarrassment or discomfort, she behaves exactly like a practiced whore in a Sixth Avenue riding academy. In the elevator, she says, “What kind of assistance do you need?”

“I’ve found a bridge,” I say. “I need someone to drive me to it tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“There’s no place to leave a car. I want to make some sketches.”

“I have classes tomorrow.”

“Cut them.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Hester will fix it.”

“There are some things even Hester can’t fix. What time do you have to go?”

“Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“Where is this bridge?”

“Twelve miles outside of town.”

“The railroad bridge over Henderson Gap?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to blow it up?”

“Yes.”

“How terribly pedestrian.”

“Will you drive me or not?”

“I have a free hour at noon, and then classes until three o’clock. Can I drop you off and then come back for you?”

“Yes, that’d be fine.”

“I'll pick you up here at noon then.”

“Tine.”

The moment we are in the room, I kiss her again. She stands with her arms dangling and looks blankly into my face.

“What’s the sense of this?” she says.

“No sense.”

“Then why do it?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m in love with someone,” she says.

“So am I.”

“This is stupid.”

“Then why’d you come up here?”

“Because you invited me for a drink.”

“And you believed me.”

“No, I didn’t believe you. I just wanted to see if you could really be this goddamn corny.”

“Yes, I am this goddamn corny. Take off your coat”

“Why?”

“Are you going to sit and drink with your coat on?”

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.”

She takes off her coat, drapes it over the chair and then sits on it I begin pouring from the bottle on the dresser.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Scotch.”

“I abhor Scotch.”

“It’s all I have.”

“You’re not too terribly well-appointed, are you?”

“Has anyone ever told you that sometimes you sound phony as hell?”

“Sometimes I am phony as hell,” she says. “In fact, I’ve been phony as hell all night long. In fact, would you like to know something?”

“Yes, what?”

“You make me phony as hell.”

“How do I do that?”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“Jesus!”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s got everything to do with everything. Are you giving me a drink, or aren’t you?”

“All I’ve got is scotch.”

“With a little water, please. I hate scotch.”

I walk to where she is sitting, and I cup her face in my hands and very gently kiss her. She responds to the kiss, and then looks up at me blankly.

“Why don’t we just quit right now, okay?” she asks.

“No,” I say, and kiss her again.

“He was a good kisser, too,” she says.

“Who?”

“My writer in Chicago.”

“But suicidal.”

“Yes. So are you.”

“A good kisser?”

“Suicidal. This is suicidal. I’m in love with someone.”

“Yes, Roger Harris.”

“Yes.”

“Of VISTA fame.”

“Yes. The honest thing to do is get the hell out of here. Right now.”

“No.” I walk into the bathroom and add water from the tap to both glasses. When I hand one to her, she looks into it for a moment, and then says, “If you’re trying to get me drunk, forget it. I never get drunk.”

“I'm not trying to get you drunk.”

She extends the glass, smiles, and says, “Here’s to our little enterprise.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, Jesus, must you always do that? It gets very tiresome, really it does.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“All the little innuendoes. Can’t you please stop it? Everything you say doesn’t have to be directed toward just one thing, you know.”

“In the beginning, it does.”

“That’s all there’s going to be, is a beginning. So cut it out.” She gestures with the glass. “Do you want to drink to our little enterprise, or don’t you?”

“To our little enterprise,” I say, and we clink glasses.

“To the bridge,” she says.

“To the bridge,” I answer, and kiss her again.

“Stop it,” she says, “I haven’t had my drink yet. Besides, this doesn’t make sense.”

“The way you kiss me makes sense.”

“I can kiss you that way all night long, and it still wouldn’t make sense.” She nods emphatically. She stares at me. She keeps staring at me. Then she rises, swallows the scotch in her glass, says, “I hate scotch,” and puts the glass on the dresser. She half sits on the dresser and crosses one booted ankle over the other. We are still staring at each other. I move to her and kiss her again.

“Why are we doing this, would you please tell me?” she asks.

“Why don’t you just shut up?” I say.

“I don’t want to shut up. Why are we doing this?”

“Because I want to make love to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to make love to you,” she says. “I’m a virgin.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, nobody’s a virgin.”

“That’s true,” she admits. “But I’m not on the pill.”

“You are on the pill.”

“I’m not. I was on the pill last summer in Arizona, but I’m not on it now.”

I unzip her dress and lower it to her waist. I unclasp her brassierre and kiss her breasts.

“So goddamn stupid,” she says, and shrugs out of the dress and the brassiere and tosses both onto the chair with her coat She removes her headband and places it on the dresser. She is wearing only tights and boots now. Shaking her head, she moves to the chair and takes off the boots and then, without embarrassment, removes the tights. I go to the bed very quietly, and sit on its edge, and unobtrusively, so unobtrusively lest she change her mind, begin taking off my clothes. She is searching in her bag. She lifts from it a tiny white plastic container. There are four blue rhinestone chips in its lid, and a hole where a fifth one has fallen out. She takes off the lid and then carefully removes her contact lenses, first one, then the other, and puts them into the container. I have taken the bedspread off the bed, and she comes to me now and sits beside me and looks into my face again, searchingly this time. Her eyes are a paler green without the lenses. They appear slightly out of focus.