Heat of Night Page 9

  “What makes you so sure you love him then?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody knows why they love someone — ”

  “You just do? He’s got a big house, a big car, lots of bucks to spend on you … or does he buy it from you?”

  She caught her breath, straightened, but saw the ugly words he hurled at her tormented him even more than they injured her pride.

  “Stop it, Ric. I won’t stay here and listen to this.”

  “You’ll stay here. And you’ll listen, slut.”

  “Ric, shut up.”

  “He’s not going to have you. You’re the last thing I got on the face of God’s earth, and that son-of-a-bitch ain’t going to take you away from me.”

  She stared at him, moved her gaze about his car, about the darkened cage of night. “Listen, Ric. I don’t love you. I don’t.”

  “Sure, you don’t. You can’t see anything but that old rich character. He’s got nothing I haven’t got — and by Jesus, tonight you’re going to find it out.”

  “Ric!” His hands were mauling at her body, pulling at her clothes, rough, angered, crude. She fought at his hands, trying to escape him.

  “Lay still! Lay still or I’ll kill you! I know what you did up at his place, slut. Hell, you think I didn’t see you?”

  She whispered it. “You followed us.”

  “You’re goddamn right to hell I followed you. You ought to tell your old stud you can see in those big windows just as good as you can see out of them. Quite a show. God damn you, you slut. Quite a show.”

  “Ric, you disgust me.”

  “Don’t give me that! I watched you. Music. A servant bringing dinner. Stupid son-of-a-bitch. Can’t make you on his own, so he turns on money like water in a tap. Did that do it, slut? That why you sprawled out on the couch with your legs open?”

  “Ric. You’re drunk. Disgusting.” Her eyes blazed. She broke free and struggled with the doorhandle.

  He yelled at her, breath hot with whisky, thick with hate. “I told you, damn you. Stay here or I’ll kill you.” He caught her, thrust her down on the seat, pressed himself against her. “I saw you. Showing it to him. Well, you’re going to show it to me. I’m going to have it, like he had it, all of it. I’m going to look at it, and touch it, and have it — ”

  “Ric. Let me out of here.”

  “All these years, I tried to be somebody big for you. Boy. That’s a laugh. Thought it mattered to you. You didn’t give a damn. All you could think was to run up there and slut for that old stud.”

  She could hardly breathe. She tried to writhe free. He twisted her body, thrusting her lower on the seat. She felt her head reeling.

  “Why didn’t you give him that old song and dance you used to give me, slut? You had to wait, you couldn’t do it until you married — had to be the right man — you’d die if it wasn’t the right man. Had to be like Juan and Rosa, had to stay a virgin, most important thing in your life. Crap. And I fell for it. But he didn’t fall for it, did he?”

  She thrust upward and he struck her across the face. “Did he?” Ric yelled at her.

  She toppled back, stunned, staring up at him, eyes distended. “You’re crazy, Ric. Crazy and drunk.”

  “Sure. I went crazy when I saw that bastard pulling those drapes closed up at that whorehouse of his. I got drunk waiting for you to get out of there.”

  “Oh, Ric,” she whispered. “You’ve no right.”

  “I got every right. I fell for that virginity gag. I waited but you’re mine. You always been mine. Ask anybody. They’ll tell you. Dolores Venzino and Ric Suarez. Ask ‘em, damn you. Ask ‘em.”

  “Ric, I don’t love you.”

  “Sure. You love him, the fine big stud. Well, baby, you’re going to know whether I’m better than he is or not.”

  His hands caught at her dress front, ripping it. His hands moved and he no longer knew what he did, no longer cared. Blood throbbed in his temples. His eyes felt as though they were being pressured from his head. He could no longer see her beneath him. Before his eyes was only this white sick splash of failure. Bum. Coward. Drunk. A nothing. Without Dolores, he was less than nothing, when he lost her he lost every reason for living. But he wouldn’t lose her, he couldn’t lose her. He tore away her clothes, she was no longer the girl he’d loved with tender, and hesitant passion, almost afraid to touch her because he might offend and lose her. Now he saw nothing but those drapes closing across the windows up on the hill.

  “Oh my God,” he moaned aloud.

  His hands moved on her, pressing her, touching her, squeezing her. He saw himself on a muddy field, bowl empty in the practice afternoon, grass spotted and cleat-torn, chilled; they beat him down and made a fool of him, taking away his scholarship and his feeling of accomplishment, and they didn’t even care. And Dolores didn’t care, and he hated them and he hated her. He wasn’t going to let her. go. Couldn’t she see this? Why did she fight him? Why did she gouge at his face? Why was she screaming at him? She belonged to him, didn’t she? He had to have her. He had to keep her.

  “Stop fighting, damn you. You want me to kill you?”

  She screamed but even in the car the scream was lost, unheard in the thick hatred.

  “Ric. For God’s sake. Don’t. Please don’t.”

  He laughed at her, weeping at the same time. “Save the waltz, tramp. Save it. This is in two-time. By God, you might want Hollister after this — but you’ll know about Ric Suarez, about a man wantin’ you. Is this what he did, baby? Hold you like this? Like this? Is this what he did to you? This? This? This?”

  His head rolled back and forth on the seat. She scratched at him, kicked at him. “Don’t. God, please don’t.”

  She began to wail, rolling her head, wild. “I won’t see him again, Ric. I promise. Anything. I won’t see him. Please, Ric. God knows, I can’t stand it! I’ll die, Ric. It’s all I am, Ric. All I have. Don’t Ric. I won’t want to live …”

  His laughter shook the car, his laughter and sobs. “How you know, baby? How you know? Maybe you ain’t ever lived until — right now. Now. Now …”

  13

  STILL THE STORM HELD ITSELF suspended, wind waiting in the empty places, clouds swollen, black, spitting gusts of rain into the silence and dry tension ahead.

  Dolores walked rigidly across the yard and went stealthily into the kitchen. She didn’t know how she got out of that car, or crossed the yard, or entered the house, or even why she bothered to do any of it. Why didn’t she simply die out in the yard?

  She held her breath, afraid she’d meet someone. She didn’t see how she could endure facing any of them now. She was too dirty, she couldn’t face anyone.

  She pushed open her bedroom door only enough to allow herself to slip through. She closed it cautiously and did not breathe until she heard the catch snap into place.

  She turned on the light suspended from the ceiling on a drop cord. When she turned she glimpsed herself in the smoky mirror.

  She bit the back of her hand to keep from screaming. Her face was swollen, bruised, but this didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that Ric had hit her. Her dress was torn, ripped, and she smelled of gun oil and gasoline and whisky and stale cigar smoke and Ric and everything vile.

  She trembled, toppled face first across the bed. She lay inert, refusing even to think. Tears wet the covers. A lump swelled in her throat making it difficult to breathe.

  Her hands shook. She hated Ric Suarez and she hated herself and she hated God’s world and if this were God’s world, then He could have it.

  “Dolores. Baby. Mi corazon.”

  She gasped, spun over on the bed, stared up at Rosa.

  Her mother wore a faded flannel gown that hung like sacking on her. She’d braided her hair haphazardly. She hadn’t slept. Rosa glanced at Dolores’ tear-streaked face but her gaze riveted on the ripped dress, torn underthings. All her nightmares were suddenly true.

  She hugged her breasts, crooning her illness. “The Mother of God.”
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  Dolores tried to pull her dress together. Rosa shook her head, stunned, unable to pull her gaze away.

  “He did this? He tear off you dress?”

  Dolores’ eyes brimmed. Her mouth trembled, she did not speak.

  Rosa answered herself. “You dress … he tear off you dress.”

  “Mama.”

  “Shh.” Rosa’s voice was stricken. “Don’t talk loud. Don’t wake you papa. Don’t let you papa see you this way.”

  She turned trying to lock the door but there was no key. There were no keys on any doors in Juan’s house. He said, “With a key who you keep out? You friends. That’s only who you keep out when you lock a door.”

  Rosa leaned against the door, folding her arms. If anyone tried to open it, she would have warning.

  “This dress, child. Take off. Quick. Give it to me. We must not let you papa see this.”

  Dolores moved woodenly, stripped away the dress, hating her body, exposed now as Ric had exposed it. Rosa gathered up the dress, retreated to the door.

  “Musn’t ever let you papa know. He see this dress, he do something so terrible. We lose you papa. We can’t never lose you papa. No matter.” She shook her head. “You lie down. We got to think. I hear you cry. I come quick. I slip from bed so I not wake you papa.” She looked about, stunned. “I do not think to see this.” Her lips bared her teeth. “Do they call him a gentleman now?” She shook the wadded dress in her fist. “A fine gentleman. My God. I could kill him with my bare hands.”

  Dolores stared at Rosa, shook her head.

  Dolores pressed her face into the pillow. She was too ill to lie there and yet she never wanted to get out of this bed.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and still could not shut out the way it had been, lying there, dead in mind and heart and body and feeling Ric’s whisky-hot breath, feeling his hatred, and dying inside because of what he did to her.

  Rosa sat on the bed beside her, mattress and springs sagging and whining under her bulk. Rosa smoothed her forehead with a cool cloth. Thunder rattled the plankings of the house.

  Dolores trembled, pulling away from Rosa’s hands. She couldn’t endure anyone’s touching her now. His hands … She squeezed her eyes shut again.

  “Tell you mama, what he did — ”

  Dolores rolled her head on the pillow.

  “Tell you mama. When he get you alone, he rip you clothes. Ah, this vile thing. To a child he would do so vile a thing.”

  She touched gently at Dolores’ bruised face. “Now you believe you mama. You see, you mama knows. A vile man. You will not see him again.”

  “I — don’t want to see anybody — ever again.”

  “Shu. This will pass. You will forget. We will not tell you papa. We bury this dress. Of clothes he never thinks.” She crossed herself. “But you face — what we do about you poor face?”

  “It — doesn’t matter, Mama.”

  “Shu. How it matters. This vile thing is evil all in itself but God trembles to think what happens if you papa hears. This we got to think about now. Papa was ready to kill him for coming near you. And now — ” she could not speak of it.

  “You are young,” she said after a long time. “This is wicked. I am sick it is so wicked. But you are young, Dolores. You will forget.”

  “I begged him, begged him not to.”

  “Shu. Of course you did. Quiet, please do not wake you papa.”

  “Poor Papa … Poor Mama.”

  “Try to sleep. Do not waken you papa — you papa get in a rage to kill.”

  Now the first stunning shock had subsided, Juan was her first concern. It had always been like this. All their lives the children lived with Rosa’s terror of the law and Juan’s contempt for it, her fear of the consequences of Juan’s violent temper driving him to commit a crime and thrusting him into the clutches of the law. She did not see how she and her brood could exist without Juan. Her first thought was to protect Juan from himself.

  “We can hate this man, but we got to think what you papa do if he learns the truth. You love you papa but for a little while you disobey him. You think Dolores is so grown up, know all about men. Now you believe you papa, you be all right. We keep this terrible secret, you and me.”

  Her voice softened to a crooning whisper. “You sleep now, my beautiful one. Some way I think on these bruises of your face … we tell you papa you bump something in dark kitchen. This make you cry. Then mama come in to see. Like now. Is this not the answer?”

  Dolores did not move.

  “Tomorrow we go to confession. We ask God to help.”

  “God.” The way Dolores said it made Rosa tremble and cross herself.

  She closed her fingers on Dolores’ shoulders, looking upward supplicatingly, speaking inside her mind: The child is young, God, she does not understand. Such a child. Such a big hurt. Surely in a heart big like yours, you can find it to forgive her?

  Aloud she spoke coldly, “Don’t talk this way about God. Is not God’s fault a man is like this one — dirty and evil — to chase young girls.”

  Dolores lay, eyes closed, remembering the knife she’d seen on the kitchen drainboard. When she walked through the kitchen a sudden flash of lightning glared on the knife blade. She’d paused, trembling, still seeing the knife after the white flare of lightning passed. So easy, she thought, there was the knife, so close and so easy.

  “I want to die,” she whispered.

  Rosa clutched the girl’s body fiercely against her. Her face twisted, tormented: to take one’s life a mortal sin, to think of it, a sin.

  “Don’t talk this way.” Her voice was hard with the fear in it. “No. Don’t you never talk this way — not to you mama, not to nobody.”

  She rocked the girl in her arms, crooning. “You are my body. You are from my body. My child. My heart. So young. So lovely — you mama want to cry when she sees you walk on a street, in a church. So lovely, so much to live for, you must never talk this way.” She shook her head. “When you not see this old man no more, you forget — ”

  “What?”

  Dolores lay back on the pillow, staring up at Rosa. “What did you say, Mama?”

  Rosa shrugged, shook her head. “I don’t know. What? You no see this wicked old man no more. We keep you from him now. You see only nice Cuban boy. We not talk about him no more. We no let you papa talk about him.”

  Dolores shook her head, unable to believe Rosa thought Mal capable of this ugly crime. She felt a sudden urge to hysterical laughter. Why not Mal? A man like him, foreign to them, who else but Mal?

  Dolores cried out, shaking her head.

  Rosa clapped her hand over Dolores’ mouth, pressing her down into the pillow.

  “You want you papa should come in here? You do not have to protect this dirty man from us. Never would I let you papa know what this man has done because you papa would kill him — and he’s not worth you papa’s toe!”

  “He didn’t do it!”

  “You all upset — ”

  “Listen to me — ”

  “I believe what I see. We beg you to stay away from this dirty man, this divorce man. We ask him nice to leave you alone. You go with him — you come back clothes all rip, face bruise. This I see. I believe what I see.”

  “Ric! It was Ric! Drunk. He was — waiting for me — ”

  She covered her face with her hands, shuddering.

  Rosa stared at her a long time, eyes distended, face bloodless. She heard the words but could not believe. Ric was a good boy, a good church upbringing. She nodded to herself, it was clear, Dolores was shielding this man, even from her.

  “Hush. Now hush,” she said at last. “You not know what you say. In the morning we get the priest, we get a doctor.”

  Dolores turned her face to the wall, buried her face in the pillow.

  Rosa stayed a long time, soothing her, crooning, singing the songs she’d sung to all her children. She thought of what Dolores had said about Ric, tried to believe it, tried to reconcile it
in her mind with what she knew about Ric, about his family. She couldn’t do it. She shook it from her mind.

  When she thought Dolores at last asleep, she said a prayer over her, snapped out the light. She stood a long time in the darkness, finally went out and closed the door softly. Dolores rolled over on the bed.

  Her eyes were wide open.

  14

  DOLORES SCREAMED.

  It was the last thing she wanted to do, the last thing she would have done except that a long time after Rosa left her alone, she fell asleep.

  She screamed in Ric’s car when he ripped off her dress. It may have been an instant after she fell asleep, a few minutes, an hour later. It did not matter. She screamed and lunged upward in bed, feeling the chill in the room, the cold against the windows.

  Suddenly everyone in the Venzino household was awake and yelling at each other. The dogs barked, quieted, and then barked again louder than ever. The smaller children wailed, the older ones giggled. Within minutes all were on their feet and every light burned brightly.

  The raging storm could no longer be heard inside the Venzino house.

  Dolores reached out frantically, turned on her light.

  She sat up in bed, shivering, stunned by the sound of her own scream, staring at the limber shadows the wind shook against her window.

  Rosa stood guarding the door to her room, haphazard braids bobbing, bulbous hips almost filling the doorway.

  “Is all right. Is all right,” Rosa was saying. “Go back to bed, children. All of you, back to bed.”

  “Dolores screamed,” Al said. His voice was calm but troubled. Across Rosa’s shoulder, Dolores saw Al, eyes puffed, sleep-swollen, thinning hair standing up about the crown of his head. “What’s the matter with Dolores?”

  “She had — bad dream, this is all. Please — go back to sleep.”

  “Come on, Al,” Bea said from behind him. “Let’s go back to bed.”

  For all of them this had a middle-of-the-night unreality. Al peered over the top of Rosa’s head and his eyes widened, his mouth twisted. Dolores remembered the discolored bruises and turned her face away, covering it with her hands but it was too late.