Part 5 (1/2)
10.
AFTER Del had been working awhile, he started hanging out with the guys he crewed with at Traut's. They were all older-in their twenties and thirties and forties-and I think they saw Del as a little brother. They usually went out for a beer after work, and for some, the thing turned into a binge that lasted the whole evening. I worked night s.h.i.+ft and didn't get home until midnight or one, so it didn't really affect the time I had to spend with Del, but I did know what was going on. A lot of nights, he and I got home around the same time-me from work and him from the bars. I listened to his drunken stories as we ate a late meal, and then we showered, screwed, and slept. Or, in my case, lay waiting for sleep.
Along with all the other wives and girlfriends, at times I got invited to the crew parties. While I came to know the other women, I never really became friends with any of them. I don't know why. Maybe it was the difference in ages, maybe it was something else, but I never really let loose around those people. That made the other women think I was a sn.o.b, when all I really felt was shy. I did become kind of friendly with one woman, named Vicki, the wife of a guy named Len. She was in her late twenties and she was unlike anyone I had ever seen around Mahanaqua. She had this different way of dressing, and she gave me an idea of what I wanted to look like when I got older. The main thing about her look was she wore jackets-blazers, I guess you'd call them -with no s.h.i.+rt under them. The blazers looked normal at first, but when Vicki moved her hand to sweep back her hair or reach for a gla.s.s, the neckline s.h.i.+fted and plunged. The look showed off her chest and her lace bras and the pretty gold chains she wore. I figured when I got a few years older, I'd put away my tight jeans and lace-up s.h.i.+rts and go for Vicki's look.
Del knew how shy I felt around those women, but he still could not understand why I couldn't get along with them. The night of one particular kegger, I told him, ”Go and have a good time without me.”
”Come on. Vicki is going to be there. You can talk to her and get deep.”
That made me laugh, because that's how Del described any conversation I had with a woman, yet he was right, too, because when Vicki and I got talking, it was about when we got our first periods, and how Vicki got together with her husband, and all that kind of thing. For as good a time as I had talking to Vicki, though, it was never like talking to June, and all those ”deep” conversations made me miss my friend.
”All right, I'll go,” I said. ”But I don't want to stay long.”
”We'll leave whenever you want.”
Of course Del headed off to the keg as soon as we got to the party, and I looked around for Vicki. It turned out she wasn't there, and I got stuck standing on the edges of a lot of conversations, smoking and nursing my beer. I did that for about an hour and a half, but then I couldn't take any more conversations about kids and who was getting divorced, and I went looking for Del. I felt like a dog sniffing for its owner.
He was drinking shots of Southern Comfort there at the keg. When I came near, I heard one of his friends, a guy named Kutz, say, ”Here comes your woman, Pardee. Drink up.”
When I got up to the keg, Kutz said to me, ”What, don't you drink?”
”I drink.”
”You look stone-cold sober to me.”
”I'm fine.”
”You ought to loosen up. Good-looking woman like you ought to have a good time.”
”I'm having a good time. I have to work tomorrow.”
”h.e.l.l, you'll be working your whole life! You don't see that stopping us, do you?”
I saw Del stick one finger in the air at Kutz, and as soon as I saw that, I knew Del was drunk. He speechified a lot when he was drunk, and a lot of times it started with a finger pointed in the air.
”Kutz,” he said. ”My woman's the hardest-working b.i.t.c.h you'll ever meet.”
I let that one wash over me for a few seconds, and then I turned to Del and said, ”Come get me when you're ready.” And I went back to where some of the women were, and I sat down on the edge of a conversation and I made myself listen and smile.
In a little while Del came over and handed me his keys, and I took the both of us home.
I knew Del had to be a different kind of person at work, too. I knew he had to act tough, and I also think he had to act crazy because he was the young one. But I couldn't believe he would use a word like that to talk about me.
I never told him I was hurt. I probably should have, but I didn't want him to know. If he could hurt me with words, it meant the smallest things could injure me, and I didn't want to be that vulnerable, not even with him.
I pretended everything was normal between Del and me, and in a little while, it was. Three weekends later, though, when there was going to be a party at Laban Wolfe's house, I told Del I wasn't going. He thought I was bulls.h.i.+tting, though, because around nine he said, ”Come on, I want to be leaving soon.”
”I told you I didn't want to go.”
”You'll go,” he said, smiling. ”Smoke a joint and you'll be fine.”
”No, I deal with rude people all day. I don't need to deal with them at night.”
Del looked at me for a long second after I said that, but he didn't say anything. He stood there in the living room, watching me, and at first I did not want to meet his eyes, but then I thought, why shouldn't I meet his eyes? I thought about the way he headed for the keg as soon as he got to a party, and the way I got ditched off to spend time with the ”girls”-and of course that line of thinking led me right back to b.i.t.c.h night. I just didn't want to have anything to do with it.
”Go have fun by yourself,” I said, looking straight at him. ”Leave your dog at home.”
I gave him credit. He waited awhile, trying to figure out my words, and when he couldn't, he gave up.
”Suit yourself,” he said, and he walked out the back door.
THAT NIGHT when Del came home, he laid into me. I don't mean he hit me-I mean he laid me open. We f.u.c.ked in about four positions, and he slammed into me in each one. He didn't talk at all, just pulled at my hips when he wanted me to move. In the end I was on top so he could have my b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his mouth and hands, and I was working hard to make him come so it all could stop. Then-and the two things happened almost together-he slapped me hard on my a.s.s, and squeezed and bit my right breast so hard I thought he'd gone through skin.
The slap surprised me more than it hurt, but my breast felt like a knife had gone through it. I cried out. And I don't know if he thought it was a sound of pleasure or what, but a little bit after that he came.
When I climbed off him, I said, ”Jesus Christ, Del, that hurt.”
”Sorry,” he said, but I heard the way he said it and knew from his voice he was still drunk. I didn't say anything else.
After he rolled onto his side, I waited until I heard his breathing change, and then I slipped out of the bed and went to the bathroom. When I checked my breast, I could see a bunch of the little specks of blood just under the skin from the last bite. The skin looked bubbly, like it was blistered, and blood was gathering in the blistered places. Even though no skin was broken, my breast felt like it was on fire.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, filled a plastic bag with ice from the freezer, and brought it back up to the bedroom. I lay with the ice on me, and even though I still did not sleep easily or well beside Del, I made myself sleep that night because I could not stand to be awake.
IN THE morning when the alarm rang, Del said, ”What the h.e.l.l?”
I opened my eyes and saw him touching a place on the bed with his hand.
”What is this from?” Del said as he touched the wet spot on the bed.
”I slept with an ice pack. I guess it melted.”
”What, are you sick?”
”Maybe you could lighten up,” I said, and I turned in the bed so he could see my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The last place where he bit was even a darker purple-black than before. The black blood that filled the blistery places looked thick under the skin.
”I don't care if you slap me on the a.s.s, but this is too much,” I said. I watched him, but I didn't know what I saw in his face when he looked at my body. ”You were so drunk you probably don't even remember doing it.”
”I remember it, Vangie,” he said, but by then I had turned away from him in the bed.
I did not get up to make him breakfast or pack his lunch. I didn't do anything for him. Before he left for work, he came back upstairs and stood in the doorway of our room.
”I'm sorry,” he said from the doorway.