Rich Man, Poor Man

As he lay under the blankets, curious, a little fearful, he closed his eyes. It had to happen some day, he thought. What better day than this?

With his eyes closed, the room seemed to be dipping and wheeling around him and the bed under him seemed to move in an uneasy rhythm, like a small boat anchored in a chop. He opened his eyes just as Mary Jane came into the room, tall, naked, and superb, the long body with the small, round breasts and splendid hips and thighs unwearied by matrimony, unscarred by debauch. She stood over him, looking down at him with hooded eyes, veteran of many seasons, sweeper-up of stragglers, her red hair, dark in the glow of the lamp, swinging down toward him.

His erection was swift and sudden and huge, a pylon, a ca

She stood beside the bed, inspecting him, smiling softly.

“Little brother,” she whispered, “little beautiful brother of the poor.” Then, soft-handed, she touched him. He jumped convulsively.

“Lie still,” she ordered. Her hands moved like small, expert animals on him, fur on damask. He quivered. “Lie still, I said,” she said harshly.

It was over soon, shamefully soon, a fierce, arching jet and he heard himself sobbing. She knelt on the bed, kissed him on the mouth, her hands intolerable now, the smell of her hair, cigarette smoke and perfume smothering him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when she raised her head. “I just couldn’t …”

She chuckled. “Don’t be sorry. I’m flattered. I consider it a tribute.” With a long graceful movement, she slid into bed beside him, pulled the covers over them, clamped him to her, her leg silken over his thighs, his semen oiling them both. “Don’t worry, about any little thing, little brother,” she said. She licked his ear and he was shaken once more by a quiver that started from her tongue and convulsed his body down to the tips of his toes, electrocution by lamp light. “I’m sure that in a very few minutes you’ll be as good as new, little brother.”

He wished she’d stop calling him little brother. He didn’t want to be reminded of Gretchen. Gretchen had given him a peculiar look as he had left with Mary Jane.

Mary Jane’s gift of prophecy in her chosen field had not deserted her. In less than a very few minutes her hands had awakened him once more and he did what Mary Jane had brought him to her bed to do. He plunged into her with all the hoarded strength of years of abstinence. “Oh, Christ, please, that’s enough,” she cried finally, and he let himself go in one great thrust, delivering them both.

Freak, he heard Julie’s bitter voice, freak. Let her come to this room and this woman for testimony.

“Your sister said you were still a virgin,” Mary Jane was saying.

“Let’s not talk about it,” he said shortly.

They were lying side by side now, on their backs, Mary Jane’s leg, just a leg now, thrown lightly across his knee. She was smoking, inhaling deeply, and smoke drifting slowly up when she let it go from her lungs.

“I must discover me some more virgins,” she said. “Is it true?”

“I said let’s not talk about it.”

“It is true.”

“Not anymore, anyway.”

“That’s for fair,” she said. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“A beautiful young man like you,” she said. “The girls must be ravenous.”

“They manage to restrain themselves. Let’s talk about something else.”

“How about that cute little girl you go around with?” Room 923. “What’s her name?”

“Julie.” He did not like saying Julie’s name in this place.

“Isn’t she after you?”

“We were supposed to get married.”

“Were? And now?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“She doesn’t know what she’s missing. It must come in the family,” Mary Jane said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Willie says your sister’s absolutely delirious in the hay.”

“Willie ought to learn to keep his mouth shut.” Rudolph was shocked that Willie would say something like that to a woman, any woman, to anybody about his wife. He would never quite trust Willie again or completely like him again.

Mary Jane laughed. “We’re in the big city now,” she said, “where they burn the gas. Willie’s an old friend of mine. I had an affair with him before he ever met your sister. And occasionally, when he’s feeling down or needs a change of scenery, he still comes around.”

“Does my sister know?” Rudolph tried to keep the sudden anger out of his voice. Willie, that drifting, frivolous man.

“I don’t think so,” Mary Jane said lightly. “Willie’s awfully good at being vague. And nobody signs any affidavits. Did you ever lay her—Gretchen?”

“She’s my sister, for Christ’s sake.” His voice sounded shrill in his ears.

“Big deal,” Mary Jane said. “Sister. From what Willie says, it’d be worth the trouble.”

“You’re making fun of me.” That was it, he told himself, the older, experienced woman amusing herself teasing the simple boy up from the country.

“Hell, no,” Mary Jane said calmly. “My brother laid me when I was fifteen. In a beached canoe. Be a doll, honey, and get me a drink. The Scotch is on the table in the kitchen. Plain water. Never mind the ice.”

He got out of bed. He would have liked to put on some clothes, a robe, his pants, wrap himself in a towel, anything to keep from parading around before those knowing, measuring, amused eyes. But he knew if he did anything to cover himself she would laugh. Damn it, he thought desperately, how did I ever let myself in for anything like this?

The room suddenly seemed cold to him and he felt the goose flesh prickle all over his body. He tried not to shiver as he walked toward the door and into the living room. Gold and shadowy in the metaled mirrors, he made his way soundlessly over the deep carpets toward the kitchen. He found the light and switched it on. Huge white refrigerator, humming softly, a wall oven, a mixer, a juicer, copper pans arranged on the white walls, steel double sink, a dish-washing machine, the bottle of Scotch in the middle of the red formica table, the domestic American dream in the bright white neon light. He took two glasses down from a cupboard (bone china, flowered cups, coffee pots, huge wooden pepper mills, housewifely accoutrements for the non-housewife in the bed in the other room). He ran the water until it was cold and first rinsed his mouth, spitting into the steel sink, xylophones of the night, then drank two long glasses of water. Into the other glass he poured a big slug of Scotch and half filled the glass with water. There was the ghost of a sound, a faint scratching and scurrying. At the back of the sink black insects, fat and armored, roaches, disappeared into cracks. Slob, he thought.

Leaving the light on in the kitchen, he carried the drink back to the mistress of the household in her well-used bed. We aim to serve.

“There’s a doll,” Mary Jane said, reaching up for the glass, long, pointed fingernails glinting crimson. She raised against the pillows, red hair wanton against the pale blue and lace, and drank thirstily. “Aren’t you having one?”

“I’ve drunk enough.” He reached down for his shorts and started to put them on.

“What’re you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going home.” He put on his shirt, relieved to be covered at last. “I’ve got to be at work at nine in the morning.” He strapped on his new watch. A quarter to four.

“Please,” she said, in a small, childish voice. “Please. Don’t do that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sorry. The thought of being out on the street, dressed, alone, was exhilarating to him.

“I can’t stand being alone at night.” She was begging now.

“Call up Willie,” he said, sitting down and pulling on his socks and slipping into his shoes.