Fury on Sunday (14 page)

He sat there looking at her as if he wanted her to answer him. He forgot about the police coming. He was content to sit there with her.

Abstractedly his eyes moved down from her face, over her chest.

He drew them back, conscious of looking. No, that wasn’t right, he wasn’t that way. They were going to get married and be happy together. Vince’s throat moved and he drew in shaking breaths. He
tried to ignore the hot feeling in his stomach, the feeling he knew so well. He shuddered.

He looked down.
She looks hot
, his mind said.
It’s hot in here. I better open her coat or she’ll get overheated and then she’ll catch a cold when we go to the train and
…

Nervously, hands shaking, he undid the belt of her coat and lay the coat open on both sides.

“There,” he muttered.

Then, guiltily, his eyes moved toward the bathroom. Could they see him through the keyhole? He swallowed and felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.

No, the chair covered the keyhole; and the bedroom door was locked. He was safe with her, alone with her. No one could get in and…

“No.”

He muttered it again, defying himself, becoming frightened at the heat that was crawling along his limbs. His arm ached and he felt a hot flush moving up his cheeks.
No, no
. His hands twitched on his lap. He reached out to touch her, stopped. A tight, hot ball was forming in his stomach. No, it wasn’t right.

His eyes moved down over her body. A harsh breath burst from his nostrils. She had on only a thin sweater over her brassiere. He could see the movement of her breasts as she breathed. He watched them rise and fall.

“No,” he muttered.

But he couldn’t stop. He stared at her body. After all, his mind reasoned weakly, we’re going to get married. I’m going to be her husband and we…

His throat moved harshly. His hand reached out, he jerked it back again.

“No, I just…” he started, then broke off into a pitiful moan.

What was the matter with her? His mind went off on a new tack. She should know better than to wear such a tight sweater on her body. That wasn’t nice. Any girl who did that was…

Trying bores, Vincent. Disgusting filth!

He twisted in actual pain on the bed. His arm throbbed and felt as if it were expanding.

He turned away with a hiss. He closed his eyes and shook without control as he sat there.

Abruptly then, he turned back and slapped her face. He grabbed her by the hair and shook her.

“Wake
up
,” he said, almost angrily, almost resenting her being such a temptation. “Wake up. Don’t you see we…”

His hand moved out and touched her breast.

He pulled it away with a whimper, a tingling sensation in his fingers. No! Wrong, dirty,
dirty
!

He clenched his fists until his left arm ached and burned. I’ll punish myself! I’ll cut off my hand and—

Something snapped. He turned and looked over her body, his chest rising and falling in shaking movements.

And, suddenly, with a wretched sob, he dug his fingers beneath the neck of her sweater, jerked with all his might and ripped it off her body.

“Ruth…”

His voice was a gasp, a snarl, a shuddering ache of sound.

He held a cold, wet washcloth against Jane’s forehead. She sat erect, her face still white, her hands still over her stomach.

“How… are you?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. She took a ragged breath and didn’t even look at him.

His eyes fell.

“You may as well be nice to me,” he muttered. “We’ll probably both be dead soon.”

He’d meant that to sound cynically brave, but the words made him shudder. He stood up.

“Floor’s cold,” he said.

She sat there, staring at the wall.

“What should we do?” he said, just to say something. He knew very well there was nothing they could do.

“Why don’t you jump out the window?” she said bitterly.

His lips pressed together. He turned away from her and looked at the window.

Jane looked up in surprise as Stan clambered into the bathtub and pushed up the window.

As he looked out, Stan could see that there was a six inch ledge that led along the building to the window that opened on the eighth floor hallway.

His stomach fell as he looked down at the street, murky grey in the early morning. What would she say if I
did
jump, he wondered.

“I could,” he said, thinking aloud.

“Shut that window,” she said irritably. “There’s a draft.”

His throat moved and he turned to face her.

“I could get out,” he said. “If…”

She looked at him blankly.

“What are you talking about?”

He licked his lips.

“The window,” he said. “There’s a ledge.”

With a grunt of pain she stood and moved for the bathtub, grimacing as she walked. He stepped aside and she lifted one leg over the edge of the tub with an indrawn breath. Stan took her arm and supported her and she didn’t pull away or say anything.

She looked out.

“My God, there is,” she said, suddenly excited.

She looked at him quickly and he felt his muscles tighten. There was no scorn in her face, no reviling.

“Do you think you could?” she asked.

He swallowed and stared at her. He was sorry he’d mentioned it. He’d never thought…

She turned away, her face falling into its old, bitter lines. He reached out impulsively and caught her arm.

“I could,” he said, “if—if you asked me.”

For a moment they looked directly at each other and something flickered between them, something that had not been a part of their relationship for years.

“Stan,” she said.

He tensed himself.

“I’ll go,” he said.

She looked at him for another moment.

“Hurry then,” she said.

Stan stepped out of his slippers and stood on the cold porcelain of the tub. Then he took a deep breath and, holding onto the window ledge, he stepped up on the side of the tub. He almost slipped, then his toes caught hold. He stood there, his heart hammering,
looking down at the grey pit that was Manhattan before dawn. He swallowed hard.

Before the feeling got worse, he put one leg over the window sill.

As he did they heard the doorbell ring.

Stan stopped moving and they looked at each other.

“Who’s that?” Stan muttered.

She shook her head once and they listened. As Stan drew back his leg they heard a sound of feet running in the bedroom, then a muffled cry. Silence for a moment, more footsteps and the bedroom door shut.

In silence, they stood there listening.

The next thing they heard was the bedroom door opening and closing again. Then, in a moment, the sound of a muffled voice in the bedroom, Vince talking to Ruth.

A sudden coldness covered Stan. For a moment he’d hoped it was the police and that he wouldn’t have to climb out the window.

“It was probably those two biddies downstairs,” Jane said, “coming to complain about the noise.”

“Oh, God,” Stan said bitterly. “And I bet they were too stupid to realize something was wrong.”

Jane’s smile was as bitter as his voice.

“Noise from our place is nothing new to them,” she said.

They were silent a moment. Then she said, “You’d better go. And
hurry
. When I felt Bob’s heart before, he was still alive. There may still be a chance to save him. I don’t think Vince will do anything to Ruth.”

Stan looked at her a moment. Then he nodded and lowered his head so she wouldn’t see that he was afraid.

He put his leg over the sill again, then drew up the other until he was sitting on the window sill, his legs hanging out the window. He felt a cold morning wind blowing over his legs.

He gripped the window ledge more tightly.

“Well…” he said.

But there wasn’t any more to say. He turned over onto his stomach with a straining of muscles. A dull pain started in his shoulder where Vince had jabbed him with the knife. He’d forgotten about it.

The cold wind rushed over him as he lowered his feet slowly down toward the ledge, his face red and taut from the strain.

“Where’s the ledge?” he muttered nervously.

His bare feet touched the cold concrete ledge and he swallowed. He raised his eyes and looked in at her.

A smile flickered over her lips. It had been so long since she’d smiled at him and meant it. It was hard.

“Be careful,” she said and it made him want to cry out in joy.

“I will,” he said and moved away from the window.

He held on to the window edge as long as he could. Then he stopped.
Don’t look down
, he told himself. He felt his heart beating rapidly. The wind gushed around his body and tried to push him off the ledge.

He saw he would have to let go of the bathroom window and lunge for a grip on the hall window.

But what if it were locked? The thought made his heart stop for a second.

He stood there taking deep breaths of the cold air. It flooded down his throat, chilling him. He wanted to cry out. But he knew he couldn’t; not now. He couldn’t crawl back into the bathroom, abject and defeated, and face Jane. He just couldn’t bear to lose the faith she seemed to have in him now.

He stood there on the ledge shaking and holding onto the bathroom window edge with rigid fingers.

“Are you all right?” he heard Jane ask.

His throat moved and he bit his lip.

“Yes,” he answered weakly, “all right.”

He looked toward the hall window. There was nothing to grab. He stood staring at the window. There had to be something!

Tentatively he stretched out his right leg. He could just touch the other window with his toes.

There was no getting away from it. He’d have to move along the ledge hugging the wall until he stood before the hall window.

He caught his breath, held it. And let go of the bathroom window.

For one horrible moment he thought he was going to fall. But it was only an illusion fostered by fear. He leaned into the building and clutched at the rough stone with his nails.

Now he moved his right foot cautiously along the edge. The cold wind still blew over him. He moved his left foot, then his right again, sliding it over the cold, rough concrete. His stomach moved and he thought maybe he was going to be sick. He swallowed the feeling, repressing it.
God help me
.

He reached the window. He stood before it and, slowly, his right hand edged up to the inside edge of the window under the lock. His fingers tensed, he tried to push up the window.

It was locked.

***

With a groan Bob raised himself on one elbow, a clicking sound in his throat. Blood still trickled over his jacket and he felt as if his shoulder and back were on fire. The room swam around him and he blinked. Sweat ran down into his eyes and he tried to shake his head but the movement made his shoulder and back hurt too much.

His throat moved convulsively and he gasped for breath. He had to get help.

Ruth. Where was she? She must be in the bedroom with Vince. He had to get help. Now, now…

He started to drag himself toward the front door. As he did a rushing wave of blackness dashed over him and almost drew him under. He gritted his teeth and tensed himself.
I mustn’t black out. I mustn’t!

He started crawling for the door, trailing blood behind him on the rug.

He was halfway to the door when he heard Ruth’s scream from the bedroom.

***

Jane whirled from the window when she heard the scream. As she moved toward the door she heard Vince’s angry voice and then a sound of struggling in the bedroom.

He’s killing her!
The thought burst in her mind and she felt her heart catch.

Suddenly she found herself at the door. She turned the lock quickly and shoved. The door was blocked. She rammed her weight against the door and felt the flaring of pain in her stomach and head.

Then the chair fell over and Jane half fell into the bedroom.

Vince started up from the bed looking frightened and guilty. Ruth was pushed back against the head of the bed, one arm across her exposed breasts, the other raised up to ward off a blow.

Sex
. The word jerked across Jane’s mind as she saw them. And it suddenly seemed as if the answer were obvious.

With a rasping sob, Vince grabbed up the knife and turned back to Jane.

Jane calmly, slowly, as if it were something she had planned for all her life, let down the straps of her nightgown.

“Vincie,” she said in a low voice.

Vince felt his stomach muscles jerk in at the sound of her voice. He stared helplessly as the soft folds of the robe dropped to the floor and Jane was naked to the waist. His throat moved convulsively and he found himself backing away a step.

“Come to me, Vincie,” Jane murmured, writhing her body a little bit. “Come to me.”

The hot flush on Vince’s cheeks flamed into life again. He felt breath shaking in his chest.
No, no
, the voice he heard in his brain was weak and without conviction. He stared at her with sick, hungry eyes.

Then Jane moved her right hip a little and the gown rustled to the rug. She stepped out of the crumpled black folds, arms stretched out. This is my fate, she thought as she moved for Vince.

“You don’t want her,” she heard herself saying, “She’s not the kind you like. She’s no fun, Vincie. I’m fun. I’m a
lot
of fun.”

“No…” muttered Vince. He felt himself raising the knife as if he were going to attack Jane.

Ruth looked at Jane with stark, frightened eyes that didn’t understand. It was hard for her to breathe.

Now Jane was between the two beds. She took a deep breath and the hard points of her breasts rose. “Come here, baby,” she muttered. She couldn’t look at Ruth. She had the terrible feeling that she’d start to cry helplessly if she looked at Ruth.

“I’m waiting, baby,” she said and edged closer to the table.

Vince moved toward her.
I don’t care
, he heard a voice in him.
I’m going to
…

There was no heat in Jane’s body. The tautness of her flesh was the rigidity of frozen things, of cold calculation. Her body meant nothing, it was only a tool, a means to an end. As long as she didn’t look at Ruth.