Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

Above all was this odor, the sharp penetrating smell of her—a lush, personal, animal smell.

I turned and looked at her again and she hadn't moved an eyelash. For want of something to do, I took out my cigarette case, offered her one. We both lit up and she seemed to get a great deal of satisfaction out of smoking, sending out strong clouds of smoke through her nose. The silence was becoming silly and I finally said, “I'm George Jackson; I was a close friend of Hank's. I would have dropped by sooner but I was out of town. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I am hungry,” she said in the slight drawl and I wondered on what forlorn tobacco road Hank had found her.

“Well, we can certainly remedy that. Surely you have some money. I mean...” I didn't know what I meant. I'd never heard anybody say, “I am hungry,” before—and believe it.

“I have no money. I have nothing,” she said, carefully pronouncing each syllable—like a school kid. “Did not Hank tell you about me? Tell you I am not very bright?”

“No he didn't,” I said, laughing politely at what I was sure was a gag of some sort.

She suddenly laughed and it was amazing how large her mouth became. When she laughed it was a most sensual mouth with heavy sultry lips, and strong white even teeth. She said, “I have not asked you to sit down. You will excuse. Please do.”

She walked over to a dirty chair, kicked off what seemed to be a crumpled towel, sat down. She moved with a springy grace, with the wonderful suppleness of a young ballerina. I went over to another chair, but it was too dirty to sit on. It was covered with heavy stains. I stood there, noticing for the first time she was barefooted. Her feet were large and wide and ugly. I never saw such big feet on a woman before—but neither had I ever seen a woman as big as Lee. And I didn't mean fat—she wasn't even plump—but big. I said, “Mrs. Conroy—may I call you Lee?”

“Yes. I like Lee very much.”

“Lee, there's no point in our standing around. If you'll dress, I'll take you out to dinner, and we can talk about what must be done.”

She sat there, watching me, not saying a word. I asked, “Don't you want to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Then dress,” I said, feeling we were talking like idiots and not knowing what to do about it.

She stood up and walked out of the room and I pinched myself to be sure it was all real. Without her, the room looked revolting, a pig-sty with furniture. I went over to the coffee table. The food seemed days old and roaches scampered away as I watched. Large healthy roaches.

She came in from the bedroom. She had on shoes and a thin sweater that covered the tattoo on her arm. I opened the door and she walked out. We went down the stairs without saying a word.

There weren't many places to choose from, and if she was really hungry, no time to travel. (Not to mention her horrible clothes.) We went into a small coffee pot on the corner, sat at the counter. I ordered ice tea while I gave her the menu to read. When I asked what she wanted, she said simply, “Meat.”

The counterman looked at us as if we were drunk, and I ordered a steak and potatoes for her. Sitting beside her on those ridiculous stools, I realized how tall she was. Well over six feet, and no slim, delicate woman, but built like an athlete. We didn't talk and when the steak came she actually wolfed it down. I asked if she wanted another and she shocked me by saying, “Yes, thank you.”

I ordered another steak and she ate that with the same speed and zest she went at the first one. The counterman watched her, amazement and suspicion on his coarse face. Lee finished with two glasses of iced tea, which she almost filled with sugar, and some horrible-looking pie. She asked for a cigarette. We walked back to the house and people stared at us. She was sweating a little and her dress clung to her body. Her nipples were quite prominent. She walked up the five flights without breathing hard. When we were in her apartment and I had stopped puffing, I asked, “Haven't you any family, anyone you can get in touch with?”

“Family?” she repeated, as though she didn't understand me. She was sitting on one of the dirty chairs, slowly smoking a cigarette.

“No father, mother, sisters or brothers?” I asked, feeling silly.

“No. I have no one.”

“And no money? Doesn't seem like Hank to leave you...” I stopped. It was an asinine remark... Hank hadn't 'planned' to leave her.

“No money—nothing,” she said calmly.

“I'll try to find you a job. Can you type?”

“Type?”

“You know, work a typewriter.” I went through the motions of typing. I felt excited—a little rattled.

“I have seen such machines. I cannot work them. I am not bright. Hank, he did not tell you that?”

“I only saw Hank once since he came home,” I said, trying to figure the drawl and the broken English. “Mrs. Conroy—Lee .—I want to help you. Suppose for the next few months, till you get on your feet, I give you some money? Say... fifty a week.”

“Fifty doll-ars?” Lee said, showing some interest. “You are most kind, Herr...?”

“George.”

“George.” She put a lot on the 'G.' “So you will help me?”

“Of course. I'm sure something will work out—in a few weeks.”

“And you will give me money? Fifty dollars?”

I said, “Yes, I told you that.”

“And you will stay here?” Lee asked, staring at me blankly.

“Oh, no. You don't understand. I'll pay your rent, give you some money each week until you're settled and...”

“You promise fifty dollars.”

“Yes, fifty dollars,” I said, all mixed up.

She stood up slowly, making me aware of her supple body. She knocked the ash from her cigarette on the floor, came over to me. It was a novelty to be able to look into a girl's eyes—not have to look down at her. She drawled, “Honey, you have a place?”

I nodded and the heavy sweaty odor of her was like a sickeningly thick perfume.

“Then Lee go with you. Why you pay money here and for your own rooms?”

“No. Wait—don't get me wrong, I'm doing this as Hank's friend—and as your friend. You don't have to... I mean, my God this is all...”

“Honey, I want to go with you,” Lee said and put her face close to mine. She closed her eyes and pouted her lips to be kissed—all a childish mixture of the worst corny acting I'd ever seen.

She stood like that for a second, then I put my arms around her hard shoulders, kissed her fiercely, and the very physical bigness of her made me feel like a kid. It seemed as if I'd never wanted a woman as much as I wanted her.

We walked into the bedroom. (And I wouldn't have been too surprised if she had carried me in there.) The bed was a frightful mess: the sheets almost gray, shoe marks and crumbs all over the bed, and stains and other marks I didn't dare think about. I was about to tell her we could go to my apartment, but she stripped quickly and there wasn't any time for words.

Later, I insisted we go to my place—the dirty bed was beginning to worry me by then. Lee didn't say anything. She put on her dress and while I got into my clothes, she went through the rooms, picking up little packages and things from under a bureau scarf, out of drawers. She shoved these packages into a large leather pocketbook, stood by the door, waiting for me. I handed her a sweater—to cover the tattoo on her arm—and we went out. She never even locked the door.

In the cab I thought I heard the rattle of coins in her bag—a great many coins—but it didn't mean anything to me.

She glanced casually around my house, didn't make any comment. I took great delight in giving her a bath, took a shower myself, and we went to bed.