Carla (12 page)

“I know.”

“Then—”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I called you a dozen times but you wouldn't talk to me. There didn't seem much point in calling up any more. So I closed up the station and came over.”

“Well, you can just hop in your car and go back and re-open the station,” she said sourly. “I haven't the slightest interest in seeing you.”

“You don't?”

“Definitely not.”

“That's too bad, because you're going to see me. Dammit, Carla, I'm in love with you!”

She closed her eyes with a sigh and permitted her shoulders to slump. “Please,” she said. “Can't you take no for an answer?”

“I'm afraid not.” His lips tightened.

“I'm afraid you'll have to. Because I'm
not
in love with you, Mr. Rand.” She used his last name purposely to stifle any familiarity between them, and she noticed how he winced at the words.

“I love you.”

She stepped back into the living-room and he followed her. “Just what do you want?” she asked. “Another grease-room scene?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

He swallowed. “I want to marry you, Carla. I want you to divorce that broken-down husband of yours and marry me. I know he's no husband to you, for God's sake. You can't possibly love him.”

“As a matter of fact, I do love him. He's a wonderful man, good in a way you couldn't possibly understand. And how come you know so much about my life?”

“It's natural enough,” he said thinly. “When you think about a woman all day and dream about her all night, you can't help trying to learn a little about her.”

The words sounded corny, but there was something about the intensity of his speech and the expression on his face that kept her from laughing. She searched for a reply, and then the full humour of the situation struck her. Less than 24 hours ago she had been in this man's position, trying to talk Charles into marrying her!

This time she couldn't restrain her laughter. She backed away from Danny, her whole body shaking with laughter and her eyes filling with tears.

“You … want me to
marry
you!”

“What's so damned funny?”

“You fool. Oh, you idiot! A starving, grimy gas-pump jockey and you want me to marry you!”

His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “I'm not a bum,” he said. “I'm not a rich punk like your husband, but I'm no bum. And when I'm finished working I can wash myself as clean as anybody else. Cleaner than some, because with me the dirt's all on the outside. I don't get filthy on the inside like some people do.”

She went on laughing.

“And I'm not just a poor slob with a job,” he went on. “I'm saving my money to buy the station from the company, and when I do that I'll start making some dough of my own. A guy like me can wind up with a whole string of stations if he plays his cards right.”

Finally she managed to control her laughter. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, Mr. Rand. Now you can listen to me for a few minutes.

“I don't know how much you managed to find out about me, Bright Eyes, but I didn't grow up on Nottingham Terrace in case you didn't figure that out for yourself. I grew up in a cold-water walk-up on the East Side and I had to work my tail off to get out of there. I read the right books and learned how to speak decent English and finally managed to hook the right guy. It's not so easy to marry rich, in case you never thought of it that way.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. Believe me, it was work—but I wound up on Nottingham Terrace and that made the whole thing worthwhile. And now you come along with your stupid little dreams about cornering the market on gas stations and you expect me to run off with you. What kind of a fool do you think I am?”

“There are some things more important than money.”

She started laughing again. “There are? I don't know any—not off-hand.”

“There's love.”

“Love? You think that's so important?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Well, I don't. Besides, you don't actually think I'm in love with you, do you?”

“I know you are,” he said. “Even if you're not smart enough to realize it yet.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Go on; this is getting interesting. What makes you think so?”

“The … time.”

“What time?” she demanded, although she knew what he meant.

“The time at the gas station,” he said with difficulty.

Carla clasped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, no! You really make a lot out of that, don't you? You sound as though you think it was my first time with a man.”

“I know it wasn't.”

“For God's sake, you act as if it was
your
first time! Why in hell don't you grow up and go back to your gas pumps?”

“It meant something,” he said savagely. “It was messy but at the same time it was beautiful, and you know damn well it meant something.”

“It might have meant something to you—”

“But it meant nothing to you?” His voice seemed to dare her to answer the question affirmatively.

“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing. It couldn't have meant less.”

“You're lying.”

“It meant nothing,” she repeated.

“You've got to be lying,” he insisted. “I could feel it, Carla.”

“Look,” she said, her voice as cold as ice. “Get this straight, Mr. Rand.

“
You were no more and no less than a slightly animated candle.”

He took a step toward her and she saw his hands tighten into fists. The tendons in his forearms looked like bands of steel. She stepped back involuntarily. She hadn't wanted to talk to him that way, hadn't wished to hurt him, but there didn't seem any other way to get rid of him. Now that the words were out of her mouth she found herself regretting them.

“You bitch!” His voice was high-pitched and unnaturally taut.

“Wait—”

Before she could say more, his fist lashed out and sank into her soft stomach. She doubled up in pain and let out a moan which was cut short when his other fist caught her full in the face. Salty blood washed over her tongue and the tears came to her eyes.

“You little tramp,” he was saying, but she could barely hear his voice through the wall of pain that was rapidly engulfing her. She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and drew her thighs together in an effort to protect herself, but she was helpless before the violence of his assault.

She felt herself being forced back into the sofa. Rough, strong hands ripped her clothing to shreds and hurt her wherever they touched her. He was in a frenzy now and he seemed to be driven by some supernatural force. Nothing could stop him.

“Bitch!” he snarled. “You talk like a whore and you act like a whore, so that's just the way I'm going to treat you.”

He punched her in the stomach again and she sprawled on the sofa as limp as a bunch of seaweed. The whole room spun before her eyes. The phonograph was still playing insanely in the background, but the fantastic pain made it all but inaudible.

She felt weak and powerless before him. She lay inert on the sofa while his eyes examined her minutely. The fixed stare was as painful as his fists and knees had been just moments ago.

When he took her, his fingers dug into the sore flesh of her breast and she felt like a virgin being deflowered. He raped her coldly and systematically, hurting her as much as he possibly could, and her screaming echoed hollowly in her ears.

Chapter Twelve

SHE WAS ALONE.

That was the first thing she was aware of. She came back to life like a sleeper coming out of a dream, her senses returning to her one at a time. Her mind began remembering the events, one after another, as if the whole scene was re-enacting itself before her eyes. Then she could hear again and the music from the phonograph seemed unbearably loud.

Finally she felt the pain that was present in every organ of her body. She sat up gingerly on the sofa, hardly conscious of her nakedness, and ran her hands over her own injured flesh. Her breasts and thighs were sore to the touch and her arms and legs ached dully when she moved them.

She dressed slowly without noticing the condition of her clothing. Then, seeing how torn and messy her clothes were, she stumbled up the stair-case to her room and changed. The pain was always present, never diminishing in its intensity. She wanted to scream her lungs out, but she didn't even have the strength for that.

She remembered his face when it was all over—the wide unbelieving eyes and the tortured grimace. He had shaken his head several times, refusing to accept the scene before him, and then he had turned away like a dead man, staggering to the door and leaving without a word.

And now she was alone.

Her mind was racing. She wondered how a woman was supposed to feel after being brutally beaten and raped. Outraged, she supposed. Horrified and sickened and hungry for the death of her assailant.

But she didn't feel that way.

The bruises on her breasts and belly took on the mystic significance of love-marks. Even the overwhelming indescribable pain was not merely a pain but an intangible badge of love.

He had said he loved her. Now she knew that he had been speaking the truth, and that his love was something big and powerful and important.

He loves
me, she thought.
He's strong, very strong, strong enough to beat me and take me by force, but what he wants is love.
She remembered the look on his face after he had finished and knew that he was unaccustomed to acting so viciously.

She closed her eyes and pictured his face in her mind. It was a strong face: that was the outstanding thing about it. It was a handsome face as well, but not outstandingly handsome like Charles was. But there was a rigid unbending strength in Danny's features that she had never found in Charles' face, not even when he had slapped her.

And then she realized the great difference between the two. Both were good men, and both commanded a part of her love. But there was a world of difference between them.

Silently she added up the qualities which attracted her to Charles Butler in the first place. He was suave, polite, sophisticated, handsome, and intelligent. He was the dream lover, the man who knew women as few men did and who approached them as an art-lover approached a masterpiece. And she had been attracted to Charles, not as a woman attracted to a man, but as a woman desiring a lover and seeking out the perfect representation of that category. She realized in a flash that she had never loved Charles, not in the full sense of the word. She had needed him and he was there, and that was all there was to it.

The realization was disturbing to say the least. A woman is more than upset to discover that she has made a fool out of herself for a man without even loving him in the first place. Suppose Charles had agreed to marry her? For the first time she was glad, extremely glad, that he had possessed the good sense to refuse.

Because marriage to Charles would have grown intolerable. She could see that now, and seeing it she also saw how much more clearly he viewed things. As a lover Charles was superb; as a husband he would grow dull. Repetition would make his skillful caresses and gestures seem commonplace and trivial. Domestication would remove the spirit of adventure from his love and leave only boredom.

Danny Rand.

She murmured his name softly to herself, mouthing the syllables carefully. Danny was so different, so completely different. Danny's touch had a meaning to it, a deep and exciting meaning. He would never bore her, not in a million years, not so long as he loved her so intensely and passionately. She could visualize herself becoming accustomed to Charles Butler, but Danny Rand would always surprise her.

Was she going mad? A man came into her home, insulted her and beat her and raped her, and here she was falling in love with him! It seemed ridiculous, but a second glance showed that there was good reason for her reaction.

The insults, the beating and the rape were not the acts of a vicious, hateful man. On the contrary they were the acts of a lover, and only a lover who would treat her in such a manner could ever fully possess her. She needed a man who would dominate her, a man who would be the boss and force her to behave.

Once she reached this level of understanding, it was easy for Carla to discover a few basic truths about herself. She sat half-dressed on the edge of her bed, remembering her childhood and seeing how it fit into the total picture. The lack of a father, the absence of a strong man in her life, had left a void in her personality and caused her to seek domination while acting at the same time like a domineering woman. She needed to be mastered and loved simultaneously. She thought of her mother, realizing in a start that the beatings she received from her mother's hairbrush were more than discipline to her—they were also a sign of love.

She finished dressing hurriedly and lifted the phone, dialing Charles's number. He answered after two rings.

“Charles? This is Carla.”

“Oh, hello—”

“Charles,” she cut in, “I want you to listen to me. I'm not going to see you again.”

He didn't answer.

“I'm not angry with you,” she explained. “It's just—”

“I know. It's that you've found yourself, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” he said. “I knew it would happen, dear. When I first met you, I thought of you as just another attractive woman to be taken and eventually discarded. But you turned out to be a lot more than that, Carla. You're a good woman. Do you know what that means?”

“What?”

“A good woman is one you can spend your whole life trying to love. I only wish I could love you properly, Carla. If I were a one-woman man, I couldn't wish for a better woman than you.”

“I think I've found one,” she said softly.