Little Deaths(63)

She threw back her second drink and Pete waved to the bartender to keep them coming.

“It was all bullshit. I found out later he was already married. But I was just a kid. I was young and in love and I wanted to believe him.

“The good times lasted a year. A year of nice dinners and afternoons on the lake and bouquets and expensive presents. We would go to his apartment in the Bronx, the one his wife didn’t know about. And then . . . well, what always happens, happened. I found out I was having a baby.”

She lifted a cigarette to her mouth with a trembling hand.

“I told Louie. I thought he’d be happy. We were having dinner at his favorite steakhouse and I held his hand and said, ‘It’s okay, it just means we’ll have to get married sooner. I don’t mind about the house and everything. I just want us to be a family.’ His face closed up and he just got up and walked out. He left me sitting in that restaurant like an idiot. Crying and feeling sick and wondering what I’d done wrong.”

Pete didn’t want to hear this detail but something about her story fascinated him. He let her talk.

“I called and called. For weeks. I went to his office and he wouldn’t see me. Then one day I went there and I was desperate. Hollering at the poor secretary. Louie came out and took me into his office. I was crying, begging him to help. He listened and then he slapped my face. Then he held me while I cried and told me a kid would ruin everything. Told me I’d have to get rid of it and that if I did, everything would be okay again.

“I stood there, holding my mouth, looking at him. I loved him and I hated him—you ever had that? He was the first guy I loved and he was telling me to kill our baby.”

Bette looked at Pete.

“You know something? This is the first time I ever talked about this. No one ever wanted to listen before. Even the girls I know—well, everyone got their own story. Ain’t nobody got time for someone else’s sadness.”

There was a fresh drink in front of her and she took a long swallow.

“Anyway, I went home after that, and I wrote to him. By then I’d guessed he was married and I said I’d tell his wife. If he ever read that letter, he ignored it. He knew I didn’t know where to find her. That I didn’t have the guts to do it. Maybe he knew I couldn’t hurt someone else the way he hurt me.”

She wiped her eyes, almost savagely.

“In the end, he got one of his men—his associates, he called ’em—to deal with it. The guy took me to a house in the Bronx. I never knew his real name but everyone called him Hop, on account of his limp. He was an older guy. Married. He drove me there and he kept looking sideways at me on the way, like he wanted to talk. I closed my eyes. Pretended I was asleep. I didn’t want no judgment on me.

“The place was okay, I guess. Clean enough. But the woman who ran it was . . . there was no kindness in her. She never looked me in the eye. Not once. Just told me to take off my things and lie down.”

She sighed again.

“Only . . . only I couldn’t do it. She had a mask, a black rubber thing with a tube, and she brought it toward me and I felt like it was going to smother me. I pushed her away and I jumped off the bed and grabbed my underwear and my shoes, and I ran. The room where I left Hop was empty—maybe he was waiting nearby, maybe he just left, I don’t know. I ran until I got to a main road and I waved down the first cab I saw. I remember staring out the back window all the way. Felt like I was being chased. Hunted down. I knew Lou would be angry, because I didn’t do what he wanted. I was so afraid.”

She scrabbled for another cigarette, but her hands were shaking and Pete had to light it for her.

“I went back to the place I was staying, and I told the cab to wait for me. It was a boardinghouse—very strict. No men, no noise after ten, all of that. Kinda funny when you think about it. Guess nobody told my landlady you can get into all kinds of trouble before ten, huh? She was an Irish woman. Widow. Christ alone knows what she thought that day. I ran up the stairs, threw everything I could carry into a suitcase, and ran out again. She tried to stop me—thought I was skipping on the rent, I guess. I told her I’d left a month’s worth in my room, thinking she’d go on up, but when she still wouldn’t get out of the way, I pushed her and she fell. Landed on the floor. Hard. And I didn’t . . . I didn’t stop. The cab was waiting, and I just told him to drive.”

She looked at Pete.

“For weeks, I was worried I hurt her. She was old. It’s strange—everything that was going on, and that’s what worried me. I thought . . . I was afraid it made me like him.”

He smiled gently at her and asked, “Where did you go?”

“Jersey. I had a friend there. Lou didn’t know about her. I knew she’d let me stay a while till I figured out what to do. I slept on the couch and she got me a job. Waitressing. And she took me to the pawn shop to buy a ring. We decided I’d say I was a widow.

“Sometimes I’d catch sight of the ring—while I was serving coffee or gathering up dishes—and I’d forget I wasn’t married. I made up stories about him: his name, where he came from. About the accident that killed him. At first it was just because I had to have some answers, but later . . . well, I wanted to give the baby a father. Even lies were better than the reality: a married guy, a naive kid, and a mean-eyed broad with ether and a knitting needle.”