“Oh.”
“There’s plenty of that going on.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“I’ve been figuring on it, and I’m your friend, no? And what’s a friend for? We could go to the motel together.”
“...You mean, as Mr. and Mrs.?”
“Well, who’s going to know the difference?”
“I’d have to think about that.”
Then I told him, “OK.”
“I already said, you’re swell.”
“Rick, what name are we going to use?”
“Well, there’s a Baby Ruth sign—why not John P. Ruth and wife?”
“Better make it Richard P. Ruth—I might call you Rick by mistake, tip them off without meaning to.”
“Richard P. Ruth is good. Mrs. Ruth, hiya?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Ruth—how’s your own self?”
We both laughed and squeezed hands, and then I said, “Rick, there’s a motel—a little one, maybe not so expensive as the others. And we’re already in Baltimore. I’ve been here before and can tell by the brick houses with white doorsteps.”
“That motel was put there for us. OK.”
He got my bag and coat down, and at the next stop, which was in the same block as the motel, we got off.
3
AT THE MOTEL THE room was small and beat-up, but at lease it had twin beds, a bathroom with clean towels in it, and a bureau with big-enough drawers. But he hardly seemed to see it or notice what it was like, because all during the time I was putting my things away, and he was putting his things away—his razor, toothbrush, and comb, which seemed to be all he had—he was crabbing and crabbing and crabbing about what happened down at the desk. There, soon as he’d signed the card and asked for a double with bath, the woman said, “Second floor front. That’ll be eight dollars, please.” I was kind of surprised, as there was my luggage beside me, my zipper bag that I had, but paid with a ten-dollar bill, and when she gave me my change and key, I started upstairs. Rick followed along with the bag, but when we got to the room he burst out, “How does she get that way? Making us pay in advance? We look like bums or something?” I said it was more of the same, what he had mentioned before: “We’re kids and no one believes us, that we’d pay for our room or anything. Always, we get the short end of the stick.”
For me that covered it, but he went on and on, taking the one chair that we had, while I sat on one of the beds, and he kept going on, even while we ate dinner, which we did around six o’clock, at a coffee pot up the street, an all-night joint that the woman directed us to. We both had the roast beef sandwich and buttermilk, and pie a la mode for dessert. And on the eight dollars, I would like to have given it a rest, but he kept on about it—so even the counterman threw me a wink—about the dirty tricks being played on him by everyone, especially by his father. He’d go into a long, mixed-up story that didn’t make any sense, like about the tires that had been hid in the family garage, then found there by the police, and then begin asking questions that didn’t have any answers: “Could I know that bunch would steal those tires, then stash them in our garage? Would he believe me, that I didn’t know they were there? Why would he pay for that loot? To save me, as he said? From having to go to Patuxent? Or to make me look like a bum?” Then, when I’d kind of lost track, he’d switch off to another mixed-up thing, about slinging sodas the previous summer. Then: “And that drugstore, reporting me on my cash to him, that I was short. Would he believe I wasn’t? Would he make them come up with their slips, so I could prove I was clean? Oh, no, he had to pay, for the same noble reason—to keep me from doing time.” And next, the bitterest squawk of all, was about some girl who lived next door to him and gave him $7.50 she had made selling Girl Scout cookies door-to-door to keep for her until Monday, so she wouldn’t spend it Saturday night. And: “When I gave it back to her, she said it was seven-teen-fifty, that I’d nicked her out of a tenspot that was part of the money. I hadn’t. I know what she gave me, don’t I? But would my father believe what I said? I give you one guess if he would. Once more he paid, but this time he said was the last—that’s when he put me out.” And that’s when I wanted to tell him, “Cool it, enough is enough.” But then I thought, “Wait a minute, Mandy! Who talked whose ear off today coming in on the bus? And who listened real nice? Took your side and did the best he knew how to help you out of your spot? He did, that’s who. So fix up your face and keep still. Maybe he does have a squawk. The lease you can do is listen.” So I did, saying, “Oh my, I can hardly believe it” and “That was really awful” and “Your father would do that to you?” All while we were finishing dinner I talked like that, and during the walk we took afterward. It seemed funny later, when I drove the getaway car after we held up the bank, that those places I had to know to do my part right I’d already noticed real close on the walk I took that night: the chopper-blade factory, a two-story concrete building with black marble framing the entrance and THE COLYPTE CORPORATION in brass letters over the door and a chopper blade over that; the branch bank of the Chesapeake Banking and Trust Company, a block and a half beyond the stoplight, on the cross-street in between; and the phone booth on the cross-street, a half block up from the bank, where it crossed my mind for a moment that I could call Mother and ease her mind, but what crossed my mind next was: I didn’t want to.
It was still not yet eight o’clock when we got back to the motel, though with daylight saving time it was broad daylight. But we bought two Evening Suns and after watching TV a few minutes went on up to the room. Then for the first time Rick made a pass: “Well, what do you say, Mandy? We having a roll in the hay?”
“Well? It’s what hay is for, isn’t it?”
We both laughed and that’s all there was to it—but telling the truth about it, I wasn’t too excited one way or the other. And I added on real quick, “I tell you one thing, though: you’re taking a bath first, Rick. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to smell the way you do. You heard what I said: you smell. We could almost say S-T-I-N-K.”
“Well, look at the life I’ve been leading.”
“And you could dunk some of what you’re wearing. You wash those things out good, then hang them up over the tub to drip-dry on that shower-curtain rail.”
“OK, OK, OK.”
“Take one of my nighties to sleep in.”
I got it for him. “What’s the matter with skin?”
“I’m a nice girl. Put something on.”
But he’d hardly closed the bathroom door when I dropped him out of my mind. Because I thought: why must I wait? Wait till I have an apartment before calling my father? I could do it right now. I could do it here from this room. I don’t have to give him that name, the one Rick wrote on the register. I could give him my real name, his name of course, and then meet him downstairs in the lobby—be waiting for him there when he comes. Then I could make a fresh start, forget this thing with Rick and the roll in the hay he expects. It’s still early evening, exactly the right time, so I got the phone book from the night table, took it to the window, and looked, and sure enough he was in it, Edward Vernick, at an address on West Lombard Street. I called the desk and gave the woman the number, then sat on the bed, patted myself on the heart, and tried to make it calm down. But all it did was pound. After some rings a woman answered. I said, “Mr. Vernick, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“...He doesn’t know me, Ma’am.”
“I have to say who it is.”
“...Tell him Mandy.”
“...Tell him—who?”
“He’ll know if you tell him. Mandy.”
All that got was a long silence, but then a man came on the line. “Edward Vernick talking. Who is this, please?”
“Mr. Vernick, it’s Mandy.”
“I’m sorry, the name means nothing to me.”
“I’m your daughter, Mr. Vernick. Mandy.”
It was so long before he answered that I thought the connection was broken and asked him
if he was there. At last he said, “Yes, I’m here, but I don’t have any daughter and don’t know anyone named Mandy. You’re under a misapprehension, or someone’s been telling you falsehoods. But whatever the reason is, don’t call me again, and don’t come to this house. You’ll not be let in if you do. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“And don’t expect any money.”
“...Money? Is that what you said, money?”
“I said don’t ask it. You’ll not get it.”
“Well, who’s asking money of you? Who wants money of you? Who needs money of you? How did money get in it?”
“Whether you ask it or want it or need it, you’re not going to get it. Am I making myself clear?”
“You make yourself any clearer I can see right through to your backbone how much like a snake it looks.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I hope to tell you there’s not.”
“Then I bid you good-bye.”
Next off Rick was there in my nightie, which was so short on him it was funny, a foolish look on his face, and I was in the chair, with no idea how I got there. I’d been on the bed with the phone and didn’t remember moving or anything. All I knew was I was gooped from that call, like I’d been hit by a truck. I mean I didn’t feel anything except queer between the eyes. And when he began making comical cracks, about me not being undressed, and then trying to drag me to bed, I wasn’t with it at all. I just sat there, shaking him off and not saying anything. I came out of it little by little, but when I did, brother, did I burn. I started to burn and started to talk, saying what I thought of that Vernick. And when Rick finally got it, put it together from what I was saying, what had been said on the phone, he joined in and helped out. “But, Mandy, who told you so from the start? That that idea was a louse?”
“You did, I give you credit.”
“And who told you the guy was no good? Because he walked out on your mother? Who let you sit there year after year, in Hyattsville, without once calling you up or even sending a card?”
“You did, I have to say you did.”
“That crummy son of a bitch.”
“It’s what I want to call him.”
“Then call him, you’re entitled.”
“That crummy son of a bitch.”
“Feel better now?”
“Little bit. Thanks.”
“Then come on to bed—I’ll make you feel well all the way. My but you’re pretty, Mandy. Your legs are out of this world.”
“...Rick, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I feel sick, that’s why.”
“But I got the medicine for it.”
“Please, don’t ask it, Rick. I’m sorry, I meant to, just now when we talked about it, and even on the bus it’s what I thought we would do. But I’ve been hit, something has happened to me, and I can’t. It’s bugging me, what he said, and until I do something about it, it’ll keep on bugging me.”
“Yeah, like I said, do it with me.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What are you talking about?”
“...Mink coat.”
Because that was it, I knew a nun habit wouldn’t do for what I was dreaming about: that I’d taxi to Lombard Street, parade myself up and down in front of his door in that coat, and holler, “Does this look like I need your money? Does your wife have one, Mr. Vernick? Are you sure it’s me that needs dough?” And more of the same in my mind, which, of course, I could not say to Rick. So what I did, I repeated, “Mink coat,” sounding more or less off.
“What in the hell are you talking about? Mandy, maybe I’m dumb, but between this Vernick and mink coats, I just don’t see the connection.”
“There is one, at lease for me.”
“Well, the hay might cool you off.”
“Rick, I told you forget it.”
“Oh, that’s all, it’s nothing, forget it.”
“OK then, go ahead and spoil everything.”
“Me spoil it? Mandy, you’re the one.”
There was quite a lot more, as he had his mind on one thing, and he even yanked me by the arm, trying to get me to bed. But when a girl don’t want to be yanked, she don’t yank so easy, and so I didn’t move. At last he went to bed, and by what was left of the twilight I opened the Evening Sun. He said, “Quit rattling the paper, will you? If you’re not going to do anything, at least you could let me sleep.”
“Have to look in the want ads, find me a job.”
“Job? Job, did you say?”
“That’s right, J-O-B, job.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake, Mandy! First it’s a mink coat, now it’s a job! What’s it going to be next?”
“Oh, one thing can lead to another.”
“What thing? Leading to which other?”
“Well, I don’t know yet, but I have to eat and have to have an apartment—even you said that.” And I didn’t say it, but thought: the apartment can lead to the shame and the shame can lead to the mink coat. And if you think about it, well, shame was right there in the bed, if that’s all I was thinking about. It meant nothing to me at that time, as he couldn’t give me a coat, a mink coat I’m talking about. He sat up in the bed and stared, then said, “Mandy, I think you’re nuts.”
“Well, maybe two of us do.”
“Will you come to bed?”
“Soon as I look through the paper.”
4
IN THE MORNING HE was still sleeping when I got up, and I expected to do a sneak, leaving a note for him while I went out and had breakfast and took the bus for the job I’d picked out. It said “Waitresses Wanted,” in a place called Gardenville, which I looked up on the Yellow Pages map and found out was on Bel Air Road, the other side of town. It meant a ride to the bus terminal, to start a new trip from there, and as “Apply Before 10 A.M.” was what it said in the ad, I had to start pretty early if I was to get there in time. So by 6:30 I was up. I took his things from the bathroom, where they were hanging over the tub, spread them out on the chair, then went in and bathed and put on my clothes, the same ones as the day before. But when I came out he was standing in front of the bureau, all dressed, combing his hair, and smelling of my cologne. “What you doing, Mandy? Taking a powder on me?”
“Thought I’d let you sleep is all.”
“What is this job you’re going for?”
I told him. “And where does the mink coat come in? You think you can buy one of them with the tips a waitress gets?”
“I told you, one thing could lead to another. I could meet someone as a waitress who’d be willing to buy me one.”
“If he was able, you mean. I never heard of a waitress meeting someone who bought her a mink coat. There’s only one thing about waitresses: they all got sore feet.”
“But not sore behinds from sitting on them.”
“Is that a crack?”
“Take it any way you like.”
By then I was packed, and I suppose he was, with his razor, comb, and toothbrush in his pocket where he carried them. So I led the way downstairs, carrying my bag and coat. I was about to pay for my call, the one I’d made from the room, but he pulled me back and whispered, “You want to get me checked out? So long as that call’s outstanding, we’re in until six o’clock and I still have a place to come.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get all the fine points.”
But like before, he entertained me at breakfast by crabbing, and it was a different counterman, but he threw me a wink too. And on top of the crabbing, he got off these words of wisdom: “Mandy, it makes no sense, none of it does. Come on back to the motel so we can talk things over.”
“I’m sorry, it makes sense to me. If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I mean to get me a mink coat.”
“I wouldn’t mind buying you one.”
That was a guy at one of the tables, a big, thick-chested guy, sitting with three other guys, all from Colypte it seemed, and
having breakfast here at the coffee pot after a night on the graveyard shift as they called it from time to time. I said, “Keep on talking, Big Boy. I mean to have me one, and any reasonable offer will get a receptive hearing. Do you have the price of one?”
“How about a package deal?” one of the other guys asked. “Suppose we all chipped in and kind of took turns on you, like in a secretary pool?”
“Or in a hippie commune?”
“Yeah, but we’d all take a bath.”
“Keep talking, you interest me. Like I said, I’m out for a mink coat and will do what it takes to get one. But the first thing it takes is cash, and that I’ll have to see before we sign any papers.”
“Baby, do we go for you!”
And more of the same, all sociable, all with laughing mixed in. If I meant it I can’t really say, though I must say I sounded quite wild. However, that was as far as it got, and I paid for the bacon and eggs, Rick’s as well as mine, left a dollar tip, picked up my bag, and started down to the bus stop, buttoning my coat as I went. So, of course, here came Rick. I walked to the bench and sat down, and lo and behold, so did he. I asked, “You taking the bus too?”
“Well, OK, if you want me.”
“It’s not a question of wanting. It just wouldn’t help, that’s all, you sitting around while I ask for that job.”
“Then you don’t want me?”
“I can’t have you, Rick.”
“You coming back here?”
“Well, this job is on the other side of town, and I would think a nearer place would be indicated. An apartment, like you said.”
“Then, it’s good-bye?”
“Not necessarily. I can write you where I am.”
“Write me? What address you going to use?”
“Why, ‘Care General Delivery, Baltimore, Maryland.’”
“Are you being funny or what?”
“Then, OK, Rick, you say what address.”
“How do I know where I’m going to be?”
“Well, you don’t have to start acting snotty.” What he was really leading to, as I knew, was to hit me for more money, and I wanted to give him some, maybe another five, maybe even a ten. But I was afraid if I took my billfold out, he’d grab it off me and run, and what I would do then I didn’t really know. What I could do, I mean. Because supposing I called a cop and he said the money was his, how could I prove it wasn’t? He’d said stuff like that before, from those stories he’d told me at dinner. And supposing the cop believed me instead of him, what would he do then? Hold me and call Mother? Or maybe Mr. Vernick, as his name was in the phone book? That would be nice, wouldn’t it? So I kept my handbag under my arm, the arm away from him, meaning to scream and bite if he wrestled me for it. So things were getting rugged, when all of a sudden two guys were there, both in jackets and slacks, and both with a strange look. I mean, ’stead of shirts in wash colors that most men wear, their shirts were dark blue or maybe black, with light ties, kind of sporty. One was kind of good-looking, around twenty-five, medium size, but nicely set up. The other, perhaps a year or two older, had a long lantern jaw, kind of blue, but fresh-shaved. It was the good-looking guy who spoke: “Hiya, Beautiful.”