Evan Hunter - Streets of Gold

“Thank you,” I said.

“I really am. I think it’s amazing.”

“Thank you. It’s a shame nobody else is fascinated these days, but thank you, anyway, Davina. I appreciate your fascination.”

“I’d better get going,” she said. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Listen,” I said, “why don’t you forget the club soda? We’re just beginning to talk.”

“Well... Seth likes club soda.”

“You can go for it later. He won’t be home till six, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Isn’t that what you said? Six or a little after?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So?”

“So?”

“So here we are. Alone at last.”

Davina was silent for a moment. She walked to the bar. I heard her pouring herself a drink.

“Booze and the piano go together, did you know that?” I said.

“No, I didn’t know that,” she answered. “What is this, Ike? A pass?”

“Davina, I’m sure you would recognize a pass if...”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Sober as a judge.”

“Then cut it out, okay? You’re making me nervous.”

“I notice, however, that you still haven’t left the apartment.”

“Well, I’m flattered, of course ”

“And interested?”

“No.”

“Curious?”

“No. Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers.”

“Do you do this often, Ike?”

“Never,” I said.

“That’s a lie. I know at least four women you’ve had affairs with.”

“Would you like to be number five?”

“Nope.”

“Time is running out, Davina. Time is tick-tocking along. Before you know it, the whole mishpocheh will be here, and then what? A beautiful afternoon wasted.”

“You’re really something,” she said.

“Why don’t you take off your dress?” I said.

“Who’s Michelle?” she said.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you. Who’s Michelle? One of the women on your list?”

“I have no women, I have no list. Davina,” I said, “I really would appreciate it if you took off your dress.”

“Why?”

“Because I would like to go to bed with you.”

“Well, that’s putting it on the table, all right,” she said. I heard the ice clinking in her glass, she was silent for a moment, I assumed she was sipping the drink. Then she said, “I have to admit I’ve thought about it.”

“So have I .I thought about it just a few minutes ago. And I asked you to take off your dress, but I don’t see anything happening yet.”

“Is that why you came up here?”

“I came up here because I thought I saw a ghost. But now that I’m here, I’d like to go to bed with you.”

“So it shouldn’t be a total loss, right?”

“What do you say, Davina?”

“No, Ike. Of course no.”

“Okay,” I said. “Nice seeing you.” I stood up and banged my shin against the coffee table again. “You ought to move that coffee table,” I said. “Blind people have a lot of trouble with it. I think I’ll run down and take a look at Lincoln Center. Never have seen Lincoln Center; might as well take a look at it now. I’ll be back around five-thirty.”

“Sit down,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You’ve hurt my feelings.”

Davina began laughing. “Sit down, you nut,” she said. “Sit down and be a good boy.”

“My mother told me I should always be a good boy. Like my Uncle Luke. My Uncle Luke was always a good boy. But now he’s a drunk sitting on the curb squashing bugs.” I sat. “May I have another drink, please?” I said.

“Uh-uh. If Becky comes here and finds you drunk...”

“You know what she used to call my Uncle Luke? Mr. Rumples! Met him once or twice, and right away decided he was too... shabby for her. Too... shabby for the goddamn Jewish Princess!”

“Why do you want me, Ike? Because I’m Becky’s sister?”

“ Want you? Now that is a very quaint way of putting it, Davina. I don’t believe I’ve heard it put so quaintly since my mother told me about her flapper days.”

“How would you put it?”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Say it again.”

“I want to fuck you, Davina.”

“Why?”

“Because of your mind . I want to fuck your mind , Davina. I want to fuck you out of your mind.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what you’ve wanted ever since we shook hands on Mosholu Parkway in the year...”

“Oh, boy!” Davina said, and began laughing again.

“That’s the truth,” I said. “And if it isn’t, who cares? Everything’s a lie, anyway, what difference does it make? Do you want to, or don’t you.”

“I want to.”

“Good.”

“But I won’t.”

“You’ll be missing a marvelous opportunity,” I said. “I’ve been told I have a very nice shlahng for a blind man. I was told that by experts in the recording, hotel, and jukebox industries — not to mention the photography profession.”

“I’m sure it’s gorgeous.”

“And I’m also a very tactile fellow. You wouldn’t believe the things I can do with my hands.”

“I’m sure your hands are heavenly.”

“Then come here,” I said.

“No. You come here.”

“Gladly. Take off your dress.”

“You take it off for me.”

I found her, I pulled her into my arms and slid both hands up under the short white dress, she was dressed for a wedding, why was she dressed in white, didn’t she know we were attending a funeral? “Easy, you’ll rip them,” she said, and I found her mouth, and placed upon her lips with donnish solemnity the kiss of death, my death, Rebecca’s, the death of everything we had known. Davina pulled away breathlessly and said, as though reading my mind, “What about Becky?” and I answered, “What about her?” having already forgotten her, having already relegated her to a tattered mythic past of roller skate keys and Tim Mix shooters. I thrust my tongue into Davina’s mouth, and again she twisted away, and tossed her head and laughed and said, “She’s your wife,” and I thought Was my wife, was , we are burying her today, and said only, “She’s your sister,” and kissed her fiercely. We sank together, sank locked in felonious arms to the floor, and Davina said, “Not on the rug, for Christ’s sake,” ever the Jewish housewife, were there newspapers on the kitchen floor on this bloody afternoon of shabbes ? “Wait,” she said, and, “Wait,” again, and then said in false and foolish defense, “I’ll tell her, you know.” I answered curtly, “Tell her,” and entered her, the coup de grâce of a marriage and a lifetime. Jaggedly we coupled on the thick pile rug, the rhythms of our murderous intent raggedly forcing a contrapuntal rhythm from between her clenched teeth, “ Tell her you forced me, tell her you raped me, tell her you, tell her you, tell her you,” a litany strangled when she came on a moan. I stopped, I withdrew immediately, I held back juices already climbing that homicidal shaft, as if even then it was not too late, even then I had not committed myself finally to what was irrevocable. “You won’t tell her,” I said, and Davina whispered, “I won’t have to.”

I was the one who told Rebecca, though that was not what Davina had meant. Lying spent and sweating beneath me, Davina had meant only that Rebecca would sense what had taken place, there would be no need for anyone to tell her she’d been slain on a living room rug. I told her at the end of August. She had suggested, apparently on the spur of the moment, that we drive up to the Catskills. When I asked her why, she said she just felt like taking a drive up there. I should have known there was a reason for the trip. (“Smart, smart, smart — but stupid ,” Rebecca used to say.)