It was two weeks before Christmas, late afternoon. While her gallery clientele skiied in Europe or suntanned in Palm Beach, Joyce sat in her Greenwich Village apartment, curled up in the soft leather armchair by the bay window, her face cradled in palms, dreamily watching snow coat the hotel canopy across the street. She loved snow, pure and virginal, like herself. She knew she wasn’t pretty. By thirty-five she displayed a spinster’s sharp features, lanky and flat-chested, the long, narrow face all cheekbone and pointed chin, her dull brown hair pinned on either side by leather barrettes. Yet, there lingered a subtly-feminine quality, perhaps the wistful gaze of large brown eyes.
Five inches of snow had been forecast by evening, but she had no holiday plans. She was used to being alone. When she was seven, her emotional, socialite parents had stormed from their Connecticut condominium and filed for divorce, abandoning Joyce to her genteel, affectionate grandmother. Joyce cried bitterly, but during the following months she grew accustomed to her paternal grandmother’s quiet Georgian-style house with its brocade furniture, Persian carpets, and original oil paintings. She learned about fine clothing and antiques, literature and classical music, and later attended exclusive Spence-Chapin followed by an art degree at Smith College. Entering her teens, she’d listened carefully to her grandmother’s lectures on sex that prepared Joyce for wifely duties.
“Intercourse hurts,” her grandmother had said over tea. “Horribly. Like a knife jabbed into your stomach.” She paused and smiled “Unless, of course, it’s with a proper gentleman from a good family who loves you. Then, it isn’t so painful. That is why, my dear, you must carefully choose your future husband.”
The bell tinkling in the front gallery startled Joyce from her musing. It was probably Hank Carroll. Ever since buying his next-door gallery two weeks ago, he’d pestered her for things—masking tape, wrapping paper, cord, thumb tacks. He was attractive, tall with black wavy hair and blue eyes, but his interest stemmed simply from rejection by his stunning blonde wife, Margo, a social climber. She’d sought a divorce when Mr. Carroll quit the presidency of a prestigious brokerage firm to help unknown artists. Unlike Joyce, his motives seemed twisted. Whereas she deeply admired artistic talent, Mr. Carroll, an industrialist’s coddled son, undoubtedly bought his gallery as a toy to discard at leisure. Meanwhile, he probably expected Joyce, conveniently nearby, to satisfy the sexual void left by his wife. She frowned, her slender fingers drumming on the window sill. He’d best seek a partner else-where!
The bell tinkled again. It might be a customer. She couldn’t neglect business because of Hank Carroll! Annoyed, she smoothed her wool skirt and cashmere cardigan, and strolled through the small but comfortable parlor. Beyond the red-carpeted gallery, its walls dotted with paintings under track lighting, she unlocked the front door sandwiched between wrought iron sconces, wondering what he wanted this time.
He smiled sheepishly. “Could you spare ice cubes?”
“Ice cubes?”
“For soda.”
“Oh.” She wished he realized that his good looks didn’t dazzle her: the cleft in his chin when he smiled was stupidly boyish, the bulging biceps and thighs beneath wool pullover and tight blue jeans much too muscular, like a truck driver’s, boorish and crude, his member large and overwhelming, perhaps tearing the flesh it pene-trated as it forced its way in. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She musn’t indulge in these dreadful images that had begun flashing through her mind when he opened his
gallery, at the very time she’d finally felt secure and confident that she’d passed the age of wild passion—as if God punished her for remaining a virgin. She turned angrily toward the plate-glass window to erase Hank Carroll with a row of boutiques.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, hands loosely on hips in what she considered an insolent manner.
“Sorry.” Flustered she led the way to the rear kitchen, sensing his appraisal as she removed two freezer trays, her fingers numb. Undoubtedly he scrutinized her flat buttocks, comparing her with his shapely wife, and concluded that despite her tallness, she was too delicate, that she’d disappoint.
“One’s enough, thanks,” he said, taking a tray. “Why have you been so unfriendly? Afraid I’ll rape you or something?” He smiled, as if joking.
She froze at his forwardness, the tray trembling in her hand.
“Don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?” He stared at her, surprised.
Abruptly she handed him the tray and swivelled toward the sink, her back to him, furious. What right did he have, questioning her about something so personal? As though any woman would be overjoyed to sleep with him because he was attractive and smiled! She whipped around, lips pinched. “It’s none of your business! Please leave. I must cook dinner.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, face sobering. “I was just kidding. I rarely see you go out and I thought you might be lonely.”
“It’s obvious what you thought but you picked the wrong woman.”
“Okay, okay!” He hurriedly trailed her through the parlor and into the gallery. “Why so suspicious? All I have on my mind is talk. We have a lot in common, both of us care about art rather than the commercial world.” He paused at the doorknob, shifting the ice cube tray to his left hand, and flashed a presumably irresistible smile. “If you change your mind, call me.”
She regarded him coldly and locked the door after him. Suspicious indeed! At Smith College proms she’d met men like Mr. Carroll with their ulterior motives. Either they courted her money or needed sexual relief. She remembered handsome James Stanhope, sneering at her at a party, “Of course, it’s your money, baby. Who would love you? You’re the homliest girl on campus!” Shuddering, she checked the kitchen’s roasting chicken and resumed her parlor window seat, watching cabs discharge passengers beneath the canopy. It was dusk. Glowing windows dotted apartment buildings hazy in the fog, and street lamps flickered on. Snow fell on the faux gas lamp outside her window—infinite whiteness flowing past a planet, securely-suspended, forever balanced. She calmed, her stomach unknotted, freeing herself of Mr. Carroll and unwanted desire.
Hungry, she set the dining area table for one with white linen cloth and folded napkin, the water glass and salad bowl correctly placed on the blue-flowered mat. The chicken was golden brown and crisp. On the cutting board with its plump legs spread, it looked—sexy. Frowning, she sliced a drumstick. The meal was excellent except for the salad dressing, a bit vinegary. Sighing, she collected dirty dishes. Her tranquility was continually upset by nuisances, like improperly mixed dressing. Why couldn’t life be perfect, like the snow? She yearned for a civilized world: she, a superb cook, understanding wife and mother; he, a distinguished, considerate hus-band, intellectual, polished. Their love-making would be quietly tender, their children neat and well-behaved, their friends agreeable, unburdensome, their relationship peaceful, free from ugly, shameful lust. Except that the “right gentleman” had never materialized. Fortunately, she had the gallery. She slid dishes into the sinkful of hot soapy water and heard the bell tinkling again. If it’s Mr. Carroll, she’ll show him out immediately! He shouldn’t disrupt her life. Calmly she rinsed and wiped her hands and opened the door.
Poised to reprimand Hank Carroll, she stared at Mr. Dukoff, a pleasant Jewish gentleman, her first customer in days. He stamped his heavy boots on the doormat and then apologized for trailing snow along the plush red carpet. He studied the paintings, pausing before Tukey’s geometric in monochromatic blues, one of her
favorite artists. Mr. Dukoff inquired about the young black painter’s style and whether Tukey sold well, the materials used, and how long they would last.
Joyce, smiling, answered his questions. The small, well-lit gallery was warm. As Mr. Dukoff unbuttoned his overcoat, Hank Carroll, naked, approached Joyce. Trembling, she sank onto the red velvet sofa with billowing white pillows to steady her nerves. Her sexual images were demanding more attention, crowding out worth-while thoughts of art and nature’s loveliness. Fear gripped her. Suppose one day, unable to control her base animal instincts, she compromised her principles by picking up a stranger on the street? She shrank against the sofa, trying to erase Hank Carroll’s body pressing against hers.
“Are you all right, Miss Baker?” Mr. Dukoff had turned, his thick brows knitted with concern.
She fought for self-control. “Don’t trouble yourself, please. I just felt flushed—probably a silly cold.”
He nodded and chose a geometric to hang in his office. She felt satisfaction that he could admire the painting whenever he wished. Unhinging it, she carried it to the
corner desk, wrapped it carefully in heavy brown paper from the table roll, sealing the edges with masking tape and tieing the package with stout cord while Mr.
Dukoff rebuttoned his coat. She handed him the painting and accepted his check for five hundred dollars.
“It’s nice you’re helping these unknown artists,” he said. “Maybe you’ll discover somebody important?”
“That’s why I’m here,” she said, smiling.
“Well, I wish you a Merry Christmas, Miss Baker,” he said cheerfully on his way out, and turned for a final glance. “Better take care of that cold before it gets
worse.”
“Thank you.” His words, “before it gets worse,” echoed through her mind like a bad omen. Suppose she became seriously ill and died before... No, she shouldn’t feel that way. Discover somebody important, Mr. Dukoff had said. That’s what her life stood for, not bestiality.
Hank Carroll approached the door. “Sorry I upset you earlier. Can we talk?”
Her hand gripped tightly Mr. Dukoff’s check. “About what?”
“I’d...like to make amends. Please.”
She didn’t know why she allowed him inside. He’d practically forced his way in, really, striding ahead of her through the gallery and into the parlor, sprawling in the leather wing chair opposite the bay window, apologizing for his insulting remarks.
Perhaps he’d finally realized she wasn’t an available bed partner and would stop bothering her with trivialities until all she thought about was sex. But now she was being rude to a guest. She locked the check in the kitchen box safe and returned to the parlor with coffee and chewy oatmeal raisin cookies. She assured him she’d recovered. She was much too busy to dwell on his remarks.
“You have a rare quality,” he said, selecting a cookie from the lacquered table’s wedgewood plate. “You’re shy and sensitive, like my mother. I don’t meet many women like that.” He leaned back on the sofa, legs spread apart. The bulge in his jeans would be firm, demanding, perhaps exciting— Abruptly her gaze swerved to apartment building lights, the tidy rows stationary, dependable. The snow had stopped falling. The black sky surrendered to a world starkly white and still, as peaceful as the grave. Gratefully she filled with contentment.
“Of course, I shouldn’t meddle in your personal life,” he was saying, “but if... say, would you mind looking at me? You seem a million miles away.” She turned. He
laughed self-consciously. “I’m not that difficult to look at, am I?”
“No,” she whispered, and noticed how deeply blue his eyes were, like a clear summer sky at the South Hampton beach with her grandmother.
Encouraged he smiled and said ruefully, “I’m probably the one who needs to talk.” He studied the parquet floor, his profile like a handsome Irish god with trem-
ulous lips—vulnerable. “Ever since Margo left, I’ve tried to rebuild my life,” he continued slowly. “Why couldn’t she take my gallery seriously? For the first time I’m reaching beyond myself by promoting talented artists. I was hoping you’d give me some pointers.” His voice trailed off.
She stared at him, fascinated by this unforeseen sincerity, the opposite of the phonies she’d met at the Smith proms.
He munched the cookie, wiping his crumbed lips with the back of his hand, despite Choate and Harvard. “Anyway...” he continued, groping awkwardly for the coffee cup, “I want to make my gallery a success, accomplish something meaningful. I’d like your opinion of the artists I’m representing. How about dropping by for a
drink?”
“Some other time,” she said, suddenly nervous, forcing her gaze from those blue eyes. “I’m quite tired.”
“Yes...I’d...better let you get some rest.”
She ushered him to the door and sipped camomile tea by the bay window. A couple strolled past the hotel, holding hands and scuffing their boots in the snow. The fellow wore blue jeans and denim jacket, the girl had a long coat and embroid-ered pink cap. Joyce smiled. She was her old self again—no more taunting visions.
The girl said something and the fellow laughed. He stooped to form a snowball with his mittens. But it was Hank Carroll who threw the snowball at Joyce wearing her mink coat and hat. She caught it in her leather gloves and he laughed at her witty remark. The blue eyes approached her, intent on hers. She felt the softness of his lips, his body hard against hers. She pressed against him, and blinked several times until Mr. Carroll faded. A fist clenched. Why couldn’t he leave her alone!
She remembered then that she hadn’t examined Tukey’s latest paintings and rushed to the gallery’s corner stack. Unlike his usual geometrics, the first canvas showed a charcoal sketch of a nude girl. Joyce propped it on the sofa to study it from a distance. Something about it startled her—the prominent cheekbones and sugges-tion of hair gathered at the sides with barrettes. It was her! Except for the heavy-lidded gaze, the lips pursed seductively. Joyce stared at it, shocked. Was she sensuous? Trembling she held the sketch against her chest. Hank Carroll, naked and erect, approached her.
Panicky, she fled to the kitchen and busied herself by washing dishes, but Hank Carroll had followed her, standing now beside the sink, leering and beckoning while the sinkful of soap bubbled and popped, the way her emotions bubbled and popped, quivering with an energy that erupted from deep within, her stomach fluttering, her nerves stretched taut with excitement, her panties wet. No, no she mustn’t! It was love she wanted, not vile passion. She clenched the sink edge, struggling against the insane urge to run out into the snowy street and strip off her clothes, exhibiting her naked body to curious passersby. She gripped the sink tightly, waiting for the upheaval to pass, and saw herself raped before the hotel by Hank Carroll who forced his enormous penis inside her while her gaunt arms helplessly flailed the air. She wasn’t aware of her screaming until she heard the pounding at the gallery door.
Trembling, she fought nausea. The pounding became more insistent. Mr. Carroll called through the door, “Joyce, let me in! Are you all right? If you don’t
answer, I’ll break the damn door!”
As soon as she unlocked it, she collapsed against his chest.
He hugged her tightly, her tears wetting his fuzzy pullover. “Oh, my God, Joyce, what’s wrong?” She burst into sobs. “Can’t you tell me?” He removed a clean hand-kerchief from a back pocket and lifted her chin.
She sniffled, “I’m terrible sorry. I’m...so embarrassed, crying like a child...” The cloth’s coolness caressed her face as he wiped away tears. She must look dreadful with swollen eyes. She shouldn’t have allowed him to see her in this condition.
“You don’t have to explain,” he said gently, replacing the handkerchief.
Something in his voice, perhaps a sweetness she hadn’t noticed before, made her look at him and smile. His return smile was wonderful: concerned, patient, under-
standing, his strong arms holding her with such reassurance, his large warm hands grasping hers. It seemed apt that he should be standing here, comforting her in her inexplicable grief. How could she have imagined anyone else being so right.
“Thank you,” she whispered, hoping he’d never release her from the safe harbor of his arms.
“Well, if you’re better, I’ll...run along.”
She nodded, dreading the loss of his embrace, and watched him stride to the door, wishing she could pry his fingers from the knob, restrain him here forever.
“I have to call an artist,” he said apologetically. “I should have done it earlier. But I’ll drop by tomorrow to check up on you—okay?”
She walked toward him and caressed his fingers resting on the knob, not just in fantasy, but feeling now the real warmth of his hand and seeing his tender smile.
“Perhaps soon we could have that drink you offered?”
His head tilted in the most charming manner. “Tomorrow?”
