Stage Door Canteen (35 page)

Breathing hard, he looked at his fingers and palm. “Christ, I burned my bloody hand.” He slung his hand back and forth, obviously in pain. “What a sodding, effing day.” He seemed to be talking to himself. “Sodding snow on top of bloody everything else.”

Jenny watched as Captain Griffiths lifted the bottle of whisky and poured some into a coffee mug. He placed the mug in a saucer, then gingerly picked up the pan of milk. Watching him pour a stream of hot milk into the Scotch, she couldn’t help saying, “I thought you had an ulcer.”

“That’s what the milk’s for. The milk’s for the ulcer. The whisky is for me.”

She leaned against the drain board, needing a drink, too, but too muddled to get a bottle from the liquor cabinet in the dining room. “I got fired,” she said, slurring the words a little. “It’s been a horrible day for me as well.”

He seemed not to hear her.

“I got fired from the show I’m in,” she repeated. “Was in.”

The captain took the mug and the plate with the sandwich, and turned to sit down at the dinette table. He stopped. His arm holding the mug and saucer began to shake, the mug rattling against the saucer noisily. Jenny watched, fascinated, as tremors started from his shoulder and descended, making his elbow jerk outward, wrist and fingers quivering. Hot milk and whisky began to slop over the rim of the mug and splash on the floor at his bare feet.

They both stared at the cup rattling around in the saucer. “What are you doing?” she cried. “What’s the matter?”

He couldn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, beads of perspiration on his forehead, as he stared at his hand.

“Here, let me take it.” She grabbed his wrist and tried to take the mug away, but he wouldn’t let go. Scalding milk spattered the back of her hand. “Ow! Let go of it. What is the matter with you?”

“It’s a cramp,” he said between his teeth. “It’s going away. Give it a minute.”

“Yes, well.” She held onto his wrist. With her other hand she took the mug away from him, then the plate with the sandwich. She put them on the counter behind her.

When she turned back, he abruptly seized her by the arms and lowered his head, face right in hers. “You’re drunk,” he accused.

She tried to back away, and hit the sink. “I am not.”

“The hell you’re not. You’re pissed out of your mind, Mrs. Haller. And my bloody nerves are gone, I’ve got the shakes.” He studied her mouth. “We make a pretty pair, don’t we?”

She stared at him, dizzily, not knowing that to say. So close, the wolfish sense of him was strong. She felt his hands slide down to her hips, tugging her to him. He rested against the dinette table and when she leaned into him her body nestled between his legs and the sides of the robe fell away. He was wearing underwear briefs but she felt the heat of his bare legs through her dress. Then the side of his face, rough with a day’s beard, against her cheek, nuzzling her. His lips touched her chin, found her mouth, and he kissed her.

It occurred to Jenny rather fuzzily that this could have been passed off as something that just happened. The sea captain boarder kissing her in the kitchen because she was tipsy, and because it was snowing, and because it was Christmas. Things like that happened. It had been a terrible day and there was the need of the moment to do something crazy. Anything. To keep from falling into black despair.

But it went wrong. Because when they kissed it was instantly out of control. She opened her mouth to him and he made a growl in the back of his throat. His hands skidded up under her dress to pull at the elastic at the top of her panties. He pulled them down to her knees and quickly inserted his hand between her legs, cupping and stroking. She sagged against him, instantly eager and wet. Already aching.

“You want it, don’t you?” he said in her ear. “Well, I want you, too.”

He pulled her panties all the way off. She stepped out of them and he caught her when she staggered. He picked up the bottle of Scotch and guided her through the kitchen door and the dining room as she shed parts of her clothing with his help: her dress, her slip, her shoes at the door to the living room where the fire burned brightly.

He put the bottle of whisky down and then pushed her to the carpet before the hearth. She rose to her knees and unfastened her brassiere, and he pulled off his bathrobe, then his underwear. He was smoothly-muscled, with dark body hair on his legs and in his groin. He was also large, and aroused. She couldn’t help staring; she’d never before seen a man who wasn’t circumsized.

They moved quickly, silently, in the firelit room, wanting to have each other as fast as possible, wanting to catch and hold the peak surge of desire. When Jenny’s breasts were free of the brassiere he knelt and cupped them with both hands. “Lovely,” he said huskily. “Mrs. Haller, you have beautiful tits.”

He lowered his mouth to kiss and then tease her nipples with his teeth. She clutched his hair and writhed until, with a groan, he pushed her back and lifted her legs to his shoulders and entered her with one hard, bucking motion. For a moment he was so big in her Jenny went rigid, holding her breath.

“Is it all right?” he said in her ear.

She didn’t know. It was too late, anyway. He moved rapidly, his body lifting and then pounding her down against the floor. She wrapped her legs around his back and held onto his shoulders, small shrieks jolted out of her. They both climaxed, he with a short, choked grunt, Jenny with a little scream.

It hadn’t lasted long, in fact it had gone very quickly, but they were covered in sweat. Jenny burst into tears.

“Christ.” He pulled out of her and rolled to one side and took her in his arms. He was still breathing hard. She put her head against his chest and wept, the tears running down the flesh of his ribs and off into the darkness. It went on for quite a while. Finally he said, “I hope all this emotion is for being fired, and not somehow my fault.”

She shook her head, mouth quivering. “Being fired. Everything.”

“Ah, well.” He let her cry some more against him and then, when she grew quieter, he took his arm from around her and sat up. He found the bottle of whisky and took a long drink. He studied her at length as she lay sprawled in the firelight, holding the whisky bottle propped against his bare knee. “What a lovely sight you are. No wonder you’re an actress. I don’t think I’ve seen a woman quite as beautiful. Except for showgirls, of course.”

She was still quite drunk, worn out from so much weeping. She wiped her burning eyes with her fingers. “I’m not a showgirl.”

“No, of course you’re not.” He took another drink of the Scotch and held out the bottle to her. “You are an accomplished actress in the theater, isn’t that what you told me? And I greatly admire your tits. And your legs. Mrs. Haller, you have truly exceptional legs, you don’t know how much I have thought about them in the time I’ve been here, living with you.”

Jenny wasn’t listening. She stared at the fire with unfocused eyes, still in a fog. After some long moments she dropped her head to her knees. “I don’t know why I did this!” she moaned. “I don’t know what came over me, I must have gone crazy. I am crazy. Just look at me, I’m sitting here without any clothes on and oh God, I’ve just let you—let you—”

She straightened up, put her hands to her face, overcome with fresh sobbing. “What happened to me? I don’t care about anything any more! Everything—my whole life—is ruined. I’m all alone here in New York with the war going on and now I don’t have a job, my career is finished and my—my—and there’s no one I can turn to. Oh,” she wailed, “I wish I were dead!”

He stared at her. “Lord, I hate crying drunks.” He held out the bottle of scotch, head cocked to one side. “Here, drink up. You’ll feel better.”

Jenny took the bottle and tilted it and had a very large drink. She got too much and wheezed, then coughed. But he was right, she felt better.

“Come, it’s getting cold in here,” he told her. “They’ve turned off the heat. It’ll be bloody freezing in a few minutes.”

He got to his feet and held out his hand. He pulled her up from the floor and to him, putting his arms around her and holding her close. Their naked bodies pressed tightly against each other, her breasts against his chest, his erection hard against her belly. He bent his head and they kissed. It was a surprisingly tender and thorough kiss. She put her arms around his waist and sighed.

He said against her hair, “Come back to my bed. We might as well be comfortable.”

Steering her with one arm around her to keep her from bumping into the Christmas tree, they went through the dining room and into the kitchen where he reached out to pick up a couple of glasses from the kitchen counter. Then, carrying the bottle and the glasses in his free hand he guided her down the hall to the back bedroom.

The room was cool, spartan in its tidiness, the bed neatly made. Without turning on the light he pulled the covers back, pushed her into it and climbed in beside her. The sheets were smooth and cold against their bare skin; they came together hurriedly, kissing, settling into the bed’s softness in a flurry of comfort. He pulled her over him and entered her, and she rode him like that, looking down in his face in the semi-darkness, while he clasped his hands over her breasts and shuddered and bucked under her.

Afterward he got out of bed and went to the bathroom. When he came out he left the light on and the door ajar so that the room was not so dark, and went to his sea bag and rummaged in it, finding a cigar. Standing before the dresser and the mirror, he lighted it, the flame a tongue of yellow briefly illuminating his face. He took a few puffs. Then, the cigar between his teeth, he picked up the bottle of Scotch and the glasses and got back into bed. He said, turning to look down at her, “You look thoroughly shagged, Mrs. Haller. How do you feel?”

She touched her fingers to her swollen lips. “Genevieve. People call me Jenny.”

“Yes, I know.”

He poured some whisky into a glass and handed it to her. Then some into a glass for himself. He settled back against the pillows and pulled her to him. She curled against his side, her hand resting on his chest. He took a pull on the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke. After a while he said huskily, “Don’t go to sleep.”

“I’m not asleep.”

He puffed on the cigar and took another gulp of Scotch. “Ah, this is the life. A sailor’s dream of paradise, actually. Lying in a soft bed with a naked woman, a bottle of whisky, and a good cigar.”

When she didn’t say anything he went on, “It’s been very fine. I can’t tell you how very fine it has been.” He sounded sincere. “And we’re to be congratulated. You didn’t forget in our moments of passion and call me by your husband’s name. And I didn’t forget and call you by my wife’s.”

She thought about that. She twisted to look up at his face. “I thought your wife was—”

There was a silence. He puffed on his cigar. Then he said, “Dead. Yes, I suppose they told you. My wife is dead, and so are my children.”

He leaned over the edge of the bed and put his glass on the floor beside the bottle, and the cigar in the ash tray. He pulled himself over her, his weight pressing her down against the mattress, and kissed her long and passionately and with considerable roughness. Their bodies came together, familiar now, wanting each other. He buried his face in her throat and her shoulder, kissing her, nibbling with his teeth, inhaling her scent. She ran her hands up and down his back, feeling the power in his body, scratching and teasing with her nails.

Then he drew back, resting on his elbows, and looked down into her face. “I can’t get enough of you, I want you to know that. Is it—do you do—other things?”

She put her hand around him under the covers. He was warm, already rock hard. “Like this?”

“Um, a bit more.”

“Yes.”

She lifted herself to him, her mouth against his rib cage. Trailing it down to his navel, slowly. She could hear his heart beating. He put his hand to the back of her head and stroked her hair.

They made love again.

When Jenny woke she had a terrible throbbing headache. The sunshine was coming in at the window. Squinting, she saw the room neat as usual, bare, no sign of him, the canvas sea bag gone.

She jumped out of bed, wincing with the pain of the hangover, and ran down the hall. The radiators were banging with the rising heat, but the apartment was still cold. Naked, she was freezing. She ran into the kitchen. Mug, saucer, glasses were washed and in the drain rack, the empty whisky bottle on top of the garbage can.

She saw a small package, gift-wrapped in red and gold paper on the cabinet counter. It was tied with red silk ribbon in an elaborate rosette. She pulled the ribbon aside, too much in a hurry to get a knife and cut it, and tore the paper away and opened the box. She found a charm bracelet nestled against a square of white cotton. It was gold with little enameled charms: a black Scotty dog, a white cat, a green Christmas tree, a silver star, a red heart, a pink rose.

There was a card. It said:

Captain David R. Griffiths

Elliot Steamship Company, Ltd.

Newcastle, England

Under that, in black, angular script, he had written with a fountain pen:

MERRY CHRISTMAS

She leaned against the counter top, holding the pretty little gold bracelet with its enameled charms, the Scotty dog, the heart and the star, thinking of the Christmas gift she had bought him, a Lord & Taylor’s gourmet box for servicemen like the ones she had sent Brad. She hadn’t given it to him, and now, without saying a word, he was gone.