CHAPTER TWO

It was April, but a cool breeze was blowing down Broadway as she emerged from the building. She stood for a moment, still dazed by the rapidity with which it had happened. Her loins still throbbed painfully from the violent attack. She could still feel the touch of his hands on her breasts, the weight of his body above hers, the terrible moment when the castle of her body was penetrated—

She began to walk, knowing that she had to keep moving or she would crack. She walked mechanically, looking straight ahead, seeing nothing. The interview had turned into nightmare so rapidly that her mind still could not fully accept the happening, the transformation of herself in a few short minutes of urgent action from a virgin to a soiled woman. She had never thought it would happen this way. In Marshall, the boys had always regarded her as too pretty for them; they put her up on a pedestal, as the town's prettiest girl, and though everybody tried to date her no one made any serious passes at her. There were plenty of willing pimple-faced farm girls if they wanted sex. Laura had reached the age of twenty-one without any real experience of life. And now she had her experience. The hard way.

She kept walking, uptown. A big clock on a building in front of her read ten minutes to two. She did not want to go back to the Y. Somehow she knew she would never be able to face the other girls, the matrons, all of them. They would be able to see at a glance what had happened to her, and she would never be able to face their smiles of pity.

She wondered what she was going to do now.

Go back home? Return to the farm and the sleepy little town, only a week after she had left it? Come home devirginized, raped, a sad advertisement of the terrors of big city life? That would be humiliating. I went to New York to break into show business, but the first man I went to raped me and I came running home. No, that would never do.

Go to the police? She was afraid to. McCarten was too shrewd. He would never have attacked her if he hadn't thought he could get away with it. He would come up with some angle to save himself. Her name would get into the papers, and she would become a figure of public contempt, the girl who yelled rape.

What then, she wondered? Go to some other agent? And meet the same kind of reception, she thought bleakly. One foot swung ahead of the other, step after step after step. Dazed, confused, she had no idea of where she was going, what would happen now.

She reached Columbus Circle. To her left, the towering bulk of the New York Coliseum loomed up. To the right were the plush hotels of Central Park South. Straight ahead was the park, just beginning to blossom into tentative greenness after the long winter. Numbly, Laura waited for the light to change, and went across into the park. The wind was colder there, with no buildings to block it, and she pulled her light coat tightly around her.

She found an empty bench and sat down, jamming her hands into her coat pockets. A squirrel ran up to her, waited for a peanut, and, getting none, scowled at her and went sprinting away. Laura tried to smile, but no smile would come.

She had started the day with such high hopes. She had made a list of five or six theatrical agents in the area near the Y, and she had planned to make the rounds until one of them found work for her, on television perhaps, or in a chorus line of a nightclub or show. And instead the day had turned into nightmare.

Why did he do it? she wondered. Because he knew I was green, because he figured he could get away with it. Maybe he didn't even have a job for me. Maybe he was just sitting there with nothing to do, and when I walked in he figured he'd try to get all he could out of me.

She sat there, brooding, feeling the pain still throbbing between her thighs. She wondered if he had done any permanent damage, torn something perhaps.

Maybe I'll kill myself, she thought suddenly.

The thought presented itself fully formed. She frowned in surprise as it appeared in her mind. She had never thought of suicide before. But, somehow, it seemed oddly appealing now. Here, alone in this strange city, friendless, her body polluted with a strange man's lust, it seemed a tempting way of wiping the slate clean. No more problems, no more discouragements, no more heartache. Just rest.

There's a lake somewhere in Central Park, isn't there? Maybe I could throw myself in. Or I could jump off a tall building, or step in front of one of those speeding taxicabs.

There were so many possible ways of killing one's self in New York City. It was simplicity itself. Laura rose, with a vague idea of self-destruction in her mind. Suddenly she felt terribly dizzy, sick to her stomach. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to lie down and die. She took five unsteady steps and felt her legs beginning to give way, and she lurched forward, trying to find something to hold on to.

A girl appeared, walking briskly up the path. Laura took another spinning step and started to fall. Blindly she reached out for the strange girl, clutched at her, fell to her knees. She felt the pavement scrape through her nylons.

"Excuse me," she muttered. "Dizzy—so sorry—"

She realized she was on her knees with her arms locked around the legs of the other woman. Confusion shrouded Laura's mind.

"Dizzy," she mumbled again. "Sorry—"

"Here. Let me give you a hand," the girl said, in crisp, clipped New Yorkish tones. Laura felt hands under her arms, lifting her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, trying to support herself, but the moment the girl removed her hands Laura began to topple again. The girl caught her before she fell, and eased her back to the bench.

"You haven't been drinking," the girl said. "What's the matter? Dizzy spells?"

"I—I don't want to be any trouble—"

"Just let your head hang back, and take it easy. I've got plenty of time. Do you know what's wrong? Are you pregnant?"

"No—just had a faint feeling," Laura whispered. "So kind of you to help me. Don't want to be any trouble—"

"You look all feverish. Are you sick?"

"I'm—I'm dizzy, that's all. Chills all over." With an effort she brought her head up and looked at her benefactor closely. The other girl was no more than twenty or twenty-one. She was shabbily dressed. Her face was pale and thin, and her dark eyes gleamed with almost unhealthy brightness. Her lipstick was smeared. But she was smiling sympathetically. Laura tried to return the smile. She was so glad that despite all the stories she had heard about New York at least one person was not too busy to help someone in trouble.

Laura said in a choked voice, "My legs just dropped out from under me. I've had a—a very upsetting experience. It sort of stunned me." She began to shiver again.

The other girl looked troubled. "Maybe I can take you home. Where do you live?"

"At the Y," Laura said. "On Fiftieth Street. But I don't want to go there. They'll think I've been drinking. I don't want them to think that. I—I don't know where to go—"

"Let's go to my place," the girl suggested. "It's only a couple of blocks from here. You can lie down until you get your strength back."

"No, please—don't put yourself to any trouble—"

"I can't just leave you here," the girl said. "Come on—give me your arm. Can you walk?"

"I think so."

She leaned on the other girl, who, for all her leanness, was surprisingly strong. They hobbled to the park entrance at Columbus Circle.

"I live on 58th just across Eighth," the girl said. "Come on, now. One step after another and it gets us there."

Somehow Laura found the strength to get across the street, past the endless stream of autos. One step after another. She huddled close to her savior, thinking only that it was wonderful for someone to have come along and help her this way. Sweat bathed her body, and the city around her seemed dreamlike and unreal. Step. Step. Step. Step.

"Here we are," the girl said. "I live on the third floor. Lean on me, and up we go."

It was a shabby little building, with a dark, creaky staircase. Clinging to the banister, Laura let herself be dragged upward. Step. Step. Step. Rest for a few moments on the landing. Step. Step. Rest on the second landing a moment. Step. Up the final flight of stairs, down a dark corridor. Pause for a moment in front of a door while the girl gropes for keys. The door opens.

Laura stumbled inside. It was a long, narrow room, with two single beds, a stove, a tiny refrigerator, a little broom-closet of a lavatory. Laura sank down gratefully on one of the beds and kicked her shoes off.

The girl looked down worriedly at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Sick."

"You can stay here as long as you like. My last roommate is gone, anyway. I like company. I'm Marilyn, by the way. Marilyn Rivers."

"Laura Haynes."

"Let me put up some tea, and then I'll help you out of your clothes. You'll catch pneumonia this way."

Laura lay back, limp, while Marilyn lit the stove and put a kettle up to boil. Then the other girl gently lifted Laura up and slipped her jacket off. "I'll open your bra," Marilyn said. "You'll be more comfortable that way."

Laura made no protest. Marilyn's cool hands slid into Laura's blouse, groped for a moment, unhooked her bra. Laura took a deep breath as the tight garment came loose. A moment later, Marilyn was unzipping Laura's skirt and drawing it off.

"You've got blood on your slip," Marilyn said. "You must be getting your period."

"No," Laura said faintly. "I was raped this afternoon."

"You were what?" Marilyn gasped, staring down at her in shock.

"Raped. By a theatrical agent. I was a virgin ... he made me undress...." Laura shivered. The memory was too powerful; she could not recreate the incident.

"You poor kid," Marilyn murmured, shaking her head sadly. "And that's why you're so bombed, eh? The bastard pulled a casting-couch routine. Does it hurt much?"

"Like fire. Fire between my legs."

"Let's get some tea into you, first. Then a good hot bath. After that you can tell me all about it."

Laura watched through slitted eyes as Marilyn poured the tea, and she said nothing as the other girl added a healthy slug of liquor to the cup.

"Sit up a bit," Marilyn said. "Sip it. It'll do you good. I laced it a little."

Laura drank the tea down, slowly. It warmed her, giving her an inner glow that dulled the pain of the rape. After drinking it, she felt strong enough to undress herself while Marilyn drew a hot bath for her. Marilyn helped her into the tub. "You just lie there and relax for a while," Marilyn said. "Your trouble is shock more than anything else." Her eyes roved Laura's body with interest. "You've certainly got a marvelous figure, Laura. You could go places with a body like that."

"That's what I thought," Laura said bitterly, letting the warmth wrap around her. "I was going to break into show business, I thought. And then he made me undress and put on a little costume, and then he told me to take the halter off, and he pulled the briefs off and threw me down on that couch, and there he was on top of me, pushing my legs apart, and—" She shuddered. "It makes me sick just to think about it."

"Talk it out of your system, Laura. Don't try to keep it inside you."

"After it was over, I put my clothes on and ran out of there. I guess I was a little out of my head. I walked up to the park, and I was thinking about killing myself, and then I just started to fold up when you came down the path."

"Lucky thing for you I did," Marilyn said. "In this city they'd just let you lay there half a day. And then the cops would come pick you up on a vagrancy charge. Are you going to call copper on the clown who forced you?"

"No," Laura said. "I'm afraid to. He's too smart—he'll end up proving it was all my idea, or something."

"That's wise. You can't win with bastards like that. You've just got to try to forget what happened, Laura. You never will, but try." Marilyn laughed. "I lost my cherry the same way, you know? Only it wasn't a theatrical agent. It was a juvenile delinquent I went to a party with. He had too much to drink and around midnight he took me home and ripped my panties off and let me have it right in my own back yard. I was fifteen. So I know what you've been through today. I made up my mind, the night he broke my cherry. I said that I wasn't ever going to lay for a man unless he paid me to do it. And I haven't ever done it for free, either."

Laura looked up at her new friend in bewilderment. "You mean—you sell yourself?"

Marilyn shrugged. "In a word, yes. I know, now, you're shocked. Let me tell you something, Laura. Nobody in this city except a whore would have picked you up off the ground in the park. I know what it's like to be stepped on, that's why I did it. I know what you're thinking, too. You're thinking that I'm trash, and you're wishing you hadn't let me bring you home."

"No," Laura protested. "That isn't so."

"Sure it is," Marilyn said calmly. "You can't help but think that. Deep down inside you, you know that there are good girls and bad girls, and that I'm a bad one and you're a good one. I wouldn't be angry if you insisted on clearing out of here right this minute."

"Don't say that," Laura said. "I—I try to judge people by what they do for you, not by what they are. I mean, you helped me. Regardless of anything else, I'm grateful to you, Marilyn."

"But still you wish I weren't what I am."

"You're what you are because of what a man did to you," Laura said vehemently. She rose unsteadily from the tub and reached for the towel Marilyn handed her. "I can't condemn anyone who's suffered what I suffered today. You're the only friend I have in this city. How can I condemn you for anything?"

"Would you like to stay with me?" Marilyn asked. "I told you, I'm looking for a roommate."

"Wouldn't I be in your way?"

"You mean, while I was doing business?" Marilyn smiled wanly. "I never bring customers here. We go to hotel rooms. It's safer all around, that way."

"If it's all right, then—"

"Of course it's all right."

Laura smiled. "I'd like to stay here, then." She handed back the towel. Marilyn gave her a robe, and she put it on, while Marilyn turned down the covers on one of the beds. Laura got in.

"I feel a lot better now," she said.

"You just lie down and rest, anyway," Marilyn told her. "Tomorrow we'll get you moved over from the Y. Do you have much stuff?"

"Just one suitcase."

"Fine. Closet space is a little skimpy here. The rent's fifty-five a month, by the way. Split two ways it isn't bad at all." Marilyn went to the mirror and began to freshen her lipstick. "I usually go out there around two or three in the afternoon, and I come home anywhere from midnight to dawn, depending on how business is. I try to keep away from the late-night tricks, because that's when the cops do most of their picking up. There's some meat in the refrigerator, and soup. You help yourself to anything you want."

"Thanks," Laura said. "Should I wait up for you?"

"You get yourself some rest," Marilyn told her. "Don't worry about me. See you in the morning, in case you're asleep when I get back."

She smiled goodbye and left. Laura sat up in bed, struck by the weirdness of the day. To be raped, then to become the roommate of a prostitute—no one could say she wasn't living an adventurous life! She found it hard to think of Marilyn as a streetwalker, though. She looked so pale and thin, and she was so gentle and sincere. Not at all what Laura had thought whores were like.

She thought about what Marilyn had said. I made up my mind that I wasn't ever going to lay for a man unless he paid me for it. So her prostitution, then, was a form of revenge against the male sex. She, too, had been raped of her virginity—and she had devised a way of getting even. Make them pay. Laura could understand that kind of thinking. Right now, she was filled with hatred, not only for McCarten but for all men. For she suspected that, deep down, they were all the same. Some men actually raped, others only yearned to. But all of them saw women as receptacles for their lusts, not as human beings.

I could become a streetwalker too, Laura thought suddenly. Instead of going into show business.

The thought had popped into her mind just as unexpectedly as, earlier, the notion of suicide had. And, though it was just as foreign to the Laura Haynes of yesterday as suicide was, she found herself giving the idea serious consideration now. Stunned at what she was thinking, she put her hands to her face. What's happening to me? In one day my entire personality is changed. Room with whores, consider becoming one myself—

But the idea preyed on her, hard as she tried to drive it from her mind. She rose, wandered around the apartment, looking at Marilyn's meager possessions. Cheap dishware, shabby dresses, no reading matter except a frayed little heap of movie magazines and confession stories. Judging from Marilyn's apartment, she did not lead a very pleasant life. Laura felt saddened at the pitiable dinginess of everything.

She picked up one of the confession magazines and began to read it, and the hours passed quickly. Some of the stories were about girls who had been raped, or girls who had gone on the streets. Laura found most of the stories silly, in that they failed to capture the real emotion of the victim of a rape, the feeling of desolation, of loss, of sadness. She put the magazines away, finally, and fixed herself a frugal supper.

After eating, she cleaned up, wondering where Marilyn was and what she was doing. She read a while longer, then tuned in some dance music on the radio, and finally, about ten o'clock, got back into bed and turned off the lights.

She found sleep impossible. She closed her eyes and lay perfectly still, hoping for sleep to overtake her, but she remained awake though drowsy. Some time later that night, she was aware of the door opening, of Marilyn tiptoeing in. Marilyn undressed, taking care not to make any noise, and went into the bathroom. Laura heard the water running, and it continued to run for what seemed like half an hour, as though Marilyn were trying to scrub herself absolutely clean of the evening's contamination.

When she came out of the bathroom at last, Laura looked up and said, "How was you evening?"

"You up? I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't. I can't fall asleep."

"Wasn't much of an evening," Marilyn said tiredly. "Four tricks. Twenty bucks."

"What time is it?"

"Half past one." Marilyn sighed. She stood nude in the middle of the floor, hanging up her clothes. Her body was thin and scrawny, with small breasts and flat buttocks. Turning, she said, "I envy you, Laura. If I had a figure like yours I wouldn't be scraping along on five-buck tricks. I'd be a big-league call-girl at a hundred bucks a night." She got into bed. "I've got some sleeping pills if you're really having trouble falling asleep."

"No, no thanks. Good night, Marilyn."

"Good night," Marilyn said.