William McGivern - Savage Streets

Norton put a fist against his forehead and pressed hard against the pain pulsing heavily above his eyes. He wasn’t drunk; he was agonizingly sober. For another moment he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, and then he went quietly through the house and stepped into the powder room in the hallway. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with soap and hot water, dried them on one of the tiny blue guest towels Janey’s mother had sent them last Christmas. There was a bottle of cologne in the cabinet above the hand basin. Norton rubbed the lemon-scented essence on his hands and face, then carefully combed bis smooth black hair.

For an instant he looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing in his face to betray him; mild, incurious eyes stared back at him, in harmony with handsome undistinguished features, a tab-collar and neatly knotted tie. Except for the muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth, it was the reflection he bad observed with casual approval since he had reached maturity.

“Wayne?” It was Janey’s voice. “Wayne? Is that you?”

Norton’s face seemed to shimmer in the mirror, breaking with pain. Не leaned against the wall, breathing through his open mouth.

Janey called again, her querulous and rather childish voice drawing his name into two syllables. “Way — ane? Are you downstairs?”

Norton opened the door of the powder room and stepped into the hallway. He called up the stairs: “Hi, honey. I thought you were asleep.”

“No, I was reading. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Can I bring you anything when I come up?”

“I’d love a glass of hot milk. With just a little sugar in it. Would you mind, honey?”

“Of course not. I’ll be right up.” He rubbed his forehead and blisters of cold sweat broke under his hand. “How’s Junior? All tucked away for the night?”

“He wanted to wait up to kiss you good night, but that’s just his clever way of getting another half hour of TV. He’s dead to the world.”

Norton went back to the kitchen and put a saucepan of milk on the stove. He set a tray with cup and saucer, sugar bowl, napkin and spoon.

Suddenly he had an impulse to shout: she liked it, she liked it. He could feel the words swelling in his tight throat, vile and blasphemous as prayers to the devil. With trembling fingers he put a cigarette in his mouth, and went into the dark living room. He paced the floor as if trying to escape his thoughts, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet, his hands pressed tightly against his temples. But he could not exorcise the demons in his mind. Of course she liked it. The struggles and pleadings were all a trick, a clever act...

Cleo Soltis. He had picked up the things that had fallen from her shoulder bag and had seen her name lettered neatly on the identification card of a key chain. For some reason it had seemed important to put her purse back in order. He had collected her compact, her address book and coins, crawling about on his knees to do so, and all the time she had lain on the sofa with her face turned away from him, slight breasts rising and falling with her uneven breathing, her legs white and languid against the coarse fabric of the sofa. She was no longer crying.

He had put the purse in the crook of her arm and touched her warm wet cheek. The words he had said to her sounded wildly in his mind: “You’re not mad, are you? I’m a good man. I have a wife and a little son. They know I’m a good man.”

And then the blond boy on the floor had stirred and Norton had leaped away from the girl’s side to run through the darkness to his car.

His thoughts were like desperate prayers. Of course she wouldn’t give in without a struggle; that was part of the game. When she was older she would understand that.

He sat down at the telephone desk and snapped on the lamp. The room was neat and clean, efficiently poised for tomorrow; pillows straightened and plumped up, ashtrays emptied, Junior’s school books piled on a straight-back chair in the hallway. If I could just talk to her, he thought in despair. Why in God’s name had it happened? If they could meet in some quiet place, the two of them at ease, the things said forgotten, the shame and guilt dead between them, then he could make everything all right. He could explain it.

The image of this, and the peace it would bring him, were more vivid than the familiar room, the school books and soft lamplight, the fragrance of milk warming in the kitchen. She would listen to him quietly, that was important, that she listen to him without interrupting. Let him talk it out. She would understand then. She might even be a bit ashamed of herself. He would say, “I’m sorry if I seemed, well, impatient, but that is actually a compliment to you, don’t you see?” It was a good angle, he thought. He imagined her reaction to this flattery, a smile, winsome and knowing, and then her reply: “Well, there’s nothing to be sorry about, I guess. We both know that, don’t we?”

Then it would be over, everything just as it was before last night’s dreadful moment of fury and need. But he was in her power; only she could forgive him.

Norton reached out slowly and touched the telephone book. He felt the quickening stroke of his heart and had the sudden frightening feeling that he was being observed; he looked quickly into the shadows of the dining room, half-expecting to see someone watching him, but the room was empty and in the kitchen there was steam rising from the saucepan of milk.

He opened the telephone book to the suburban section. The figures and letters misted before his eyes, merging into meaningless whorls and angles. But finally the page came into focus. There were two Soltises listed, Frank L., and Jeremiah and Sons, Plumbers. The emergency address of the plumbing company was in Rosedale. And Cleo lived in Hayrack. That meant — he tried desperately to think clearly — that meant Cleo must live with Frank L. Soltis. Who was he? A father? An uncle?

Until that instant Norton hadn’t thought of her as belonging to anyone else or living in relationship with other people. She had been an isolated human unit, without a past or future, with whom he had hoped to talk without interference or interruption; what had happened between them didn’t concern anybody else. But as Norton stared at the name of Frank L. Soltis, he felt a sharp, primitive fear — how could he explain that instant of blind compulsion to a father or brother? Naturally they would take her side; they’d think of her with cloying sentimentality, remembering her childish cuteness, the sleepy head snuggled against daddy’s shoulder, the games of girlhood, the jacks and skiprope, and the little-mother act, doing dishes in a big apron, dusting and sweeping like mommy and big sister. That’s what they’d remember — all the sweet things you could associate with any child. And he’d be the vicious degenerate who had destroyed that innocence.

The bitch, he thought. He knew her better than her family did. He knew all there was to know about that particular little piece.

As he lifted the receiver Janey’s voice sounded: “Way — ane? Isn’t that milk about ready?”

An uncomfortable dryness in his throat made it difficult for him to swallow. Little bitch, he thought. Wise and hard and cold. He started as Janey called again; he hadn’t heard her the first time.

“Way — ane?”

“Coming, honey.”

Janey was sitting up in bed with two pillows behind her back, her smooth, pretty face shining with cold cream. There was a blue ribbon in her dark hair. The room was a snug and scented little box, and Janey stretched out her arms to him like a child welcoming its father.

“You poor thing,” she said. “Am I such a nuisance?”

He kissed her on the cheek and put the tray on the bedside table. “I enjoy having a little nuisance around,” he said. There was cold cream on his lips and when he turned to pull up a chair he rubbed it off on the back of his hand. “Your mother make her train all right?” he asked.