"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.
_CHAPTER THREE_
Sleep finally came, what seemed like hours later. When Laura woke, it
was only a little past nine. Her head throbbed; her loins were swollen
and hurt. Marilyn was still asleep. Laura quietly drew a bath for
herself, and spent half an hour soaking in a hot tub.
She felt better after the bath. Marilyn was beginning to stir by the
time Laura came out, and she was fully awake by the time Laura was
dressed. Marilyn prepared a light breakfast for them, and then they
went out. It was a warmer day than yesterday, fresh and clear and
springy. The two girls walked down Broadway to Fiftieth, turned west,
and headed for the Y.
Laura stopped off at the desk. The matron eyed her suspiciously,
because she had been out all night.
"I'm checking out," Laura said. "I've found a roommate, Miss Rivers
here."
"Very well," the fat, dowdy woman said coolly. "What time will you be
out of your room, Miss Haynes?"
"As soon as I can get packed. Half an hour at the most."
"I'll make up your bill." She turned and snaked a fleshy hand into the
row of mailboxes behind the desk. "There was a call for you yesterday
afternoon, and another one last night. No one knew where to reach you,
so we took down the phone numbers."
Laura accepted the slip and looked at it in puzzlement. It told her
that Mr. McCarten had called at three o'clock, and Mr. Spinelli had
called at half past seven. Laura frowned. Why would McCarten phone her?
To apologize for his brutality, perhaps. But he didn't seem like the
kind who would worry much about apologies. And who was Spinelli? The
name meant nothing to Laura, and the phone number, a Plaza one, rang
no bells. Shrugging, she filed the paper away in her purse and headed
toward the elevator with Marilyn.
"Who were the calls from?" Marilyn asked.
"The guy who made all the trouble for me yesterday, McCarten. And later
on somebody named Spinelli called. I don't know any Spinellis."
"Phil Spinelli, maybe?" Marilyn suggested.
"Who's he?"
Marilyn laughed. "Not the sort of fellow you usually find making
phone calls to the YWCA, I'm afraid. He's a bigshot racketeer. Dope,
organized vice, stuff like that. Supposed to be a real slick operator."
"Hardly the kind of phone-call I'd expect to get."
"Are you going to call him back?"
"I don't know," Laura said. "I can't imagine who he is or what he
wants. For all I know he _is_ Phil Spinelli."
"What's so bad about that?"
"Plenty," Laura said. The elevator stopped at her floor, and they got
out. "I'm just going to forget all about these phone-calls. That's the
safest thing to do. I'm not looking to get into any more trouble."
It didn't take very long to pack Laura's few belongings and leave. At
Marilyn's insistence, they took a taxi for the eight blocks back to her
place; the suitcase was heavy, and, Marilyn argued, they could afford
to splurge on a fifty-cent taxi ride.
It was almost noon, now. Laura unpacked while Marilyn, sprawled out on
the bed, devoured page after page of the movie fan magazines. About
one, they had lunch.
"What are you going to do this afternoon?" Marilyn asked.