Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

     “You're a blip. And Walt is going to play with us, too. That doll keeping you that busy? She must be some piece, the way you been sticking so close to home, and your bed. I...”

     “For Christsakes, shut up!” I slammed the receiver into its cradle. A few seconds later Joe called back, asked in a hurt, kid's voice, “What did you do that for, Georgie? I didn't mean nothing.”

     “I... eh... didn't sleep much last night, my nerves are on edge. Take it easy to-night and don't try to draw to straights and flushes,” I said, hanging up again.

     I didn't want to eat out, I wanted to talk to her and I was afraid she'd make a scene in a restaurant. I told her I was going to get some food, took a cab up to 86th Street and 3rd Avenue, where I bought a cheap pocket German-English dictionary, some groceries, then cabbed back to the house. While I cooked supper I had her sit in the kitchen—I gave her Slob to play with; and as she stroked the big tomcat head, I said, “Look Lee, I know a little of what you've gone through. And I want to help you. Maybe we can find your family, locate your relations. Do you remember where you were born?”

     She was watching Slob and I had to ask her again. “I am not bright, I do not remember such things.” She had her drawl back now.”

     “You must. Where were you born? Think hard—Berlin? Frankfurt? Vienna? Hamburg? Warsaw?” The names had little effect on her, except her eyes seemed to become more alert. I tried a few more, for size. “Rome? Venice? Munich? Prague?” Nothing changed on her face.

     I put the chopped meat in the oven to broil, after I had soaked it in wine, took out my dictionary. “Lee, you must help me. Do you understand what I am saying? What is your name, your whole name?”

     “Lee is my name.”

     “No, that's short for Liebchen. What is your last name?” When she didn't answer, I thumbed through the dictionary, said slowly, hoping I was pronouncing the words correctly, “Wie heissen Sie?”

     She shook her head dumbly, let Slob jump out of her lap.

     The silly dictionary had all sorts of stupid phrases like, “Shall we take a taxi?” “What are they playing at the Opera House?” but nothing as simple as, “What is your mother's name?” I stumbled on with, “Welch... euer... famile... nennen?” This was supposed to be, “What is your family name?” but if she didn't understand my German I couldn't blame her.

     She stared at me, her eyes hard and troubled, then they flooded with tears. I went over and hugged her. “Lee baby, I'm not trying to hurt you. I know it's hard to recall these things, but you must tell me. Where were you born? What's your father's name? Wo... euch... geboren? Welch... euer... Vater... nennen?”

     She had her face pressed against my chest as I leafed through the dictionary, and now she began to cry. It was sort of a horrible moaning, as though she was under physical torture. It was such a dreadful sound, she scared me stupid and I realized what tortures I must be subjecting the poor kid to.

     I threw the dictionary on the table, pulled her to her feet. Holding her tight, kissing her, whispered I would always look after her, she would never have to worry. I got a chill when it suddenly struck me that poor Hank must have whispered the exact same words to her at some time or other. When she stopped bawling, I said, “Lee, you must understand I only want to help you. Nobody will ever harm you again. But you have to help me...”

     Once or twice she surprised me by showing signs of shrewdness: now she quickly smiled, wiped the tears from her face on my shoulder, “George, I want to dance... very much dance... right now, please.”

     It was a neat way of changing the subject. “Well the meat is on and...”

     “We will make it... it wait.” She reached over and turned off the gas in the oven, under the pots. I didn't know she knew how to work a gas-range and I watched her like a proud poppa seeing junior show off.

     She ran into the bedroom and I followed her, as Slob yelled indignantly for his supper. Lee was getting into her rehearsal trunks. I undressed, put on my sweat suit and shoes. She was waiting for-me downstairs, and I put on a stack of records, starting off with the only “German” music I had, Wagner's Parsifal, and one side of Beethoven's Concerto No. 4 in G Major. I don't know why I kept probing her wound.

     Maybe it was the music, or the German words I'd been asking her, my pecking (or trying to) at her mind... for she suddenly danced a wild solo, moving with magnificent, savage, heavy steps that expressed all the drudgery, the torture and fright, she had experienced. I'd never seen any dancing like it and I tried to write down the steps and movements, but it was too much for me. A skilled choreographer was needed. I suppose I couldn't fully understand what she was trying to express. The other records were jazz pieces, and she went back to her usual awkward movements, as I danced around her, in an effort to make her fed she wasn't alone.

     We danced through one set of records, then took a shower, and she still refused to lie tinder the sun-lamp with me, and I wondered what electric and heat tortures she had been subjected to. She put on a robe and we ate, and then she lit a cigarette, went into the living room, stretched out on the couch, patting her stomach with contentment. I realized the animal they-... we... the world... had made out of this child; all she understood was a full gut, a soft place to rest on, and a roof overhead.

     I didn't ask her to help with the dishes and when I finished, she was still on the couch—some ashes had fallen between her breasts and she had thoughtlessly crushed the cigarette butt out on the carpet. She had a faint, blank smile on her face, a faraway look in her eyes. It was only a little after seven. I told her I'd be back soon and I don't think she even heard me.

     I stood outside the house a moment to light my pipe and Henderson called down to ask when I was going over to Joe's: he'd share a cab with me. I told him I couldn't make it, was about to ask if he spoke German, but didn't. It wasn't that I was afraid of his finding out about the money; but rather I didn't want him—or anybody else—to know I was living with this backward child.—

     I walked to Lexington Avenue, went into a drugstore and ordered a quart of ice cream—to please her. While the soda clerk (who am I to call anybody a jerk?) was packing it I called Marion.

     “Why George Jackson! Why haven't you called me? The gay, phony coyness in her voice threw me for a moment. After the usual insane, small talk, I asked, “Marion, when Hank came back with his wife, did he have any papers with him? I mean, do you know his wife's maiden name?” I damn near said, “Lee's maiden name.”

     There was the flustered pause, then the suspicious, “Why do you ask?”

     “Well,” I began, trying to carefully choose my words,” a friend of mine told me he struck up a bar acquaintance with... eh... some refugee girl. She said her husband was an American officer and he had died here, in an accident, and... I wondered if she might be Hank's wife?”

     “I haven't heard from her since that... that... awful day. And believe me, I'm just as happy. That evil bitch! When I think of my poor dear brother and...”

     “Marion, you once said you wanted me to find out... eh... more about what happened to Hank. Don't you see, if this fellow—one of the men in the office—can gain the confidence of this girl, assuming she's Hank's wife, then we might get someplace,” I said, wondering how high she would go if I told her the truth, that I was living with Lee. The phone would probably explode in my ear.

     “I suppose it might do some good, although I've almost forgotten about her. I'm happy you want to help, George. Her name was Lee.”

     “That's not enough, I must know her full name, also what town in Germany she came from. We can't make any mistakes about this, waste time on the wrong girl. Didn't Hank leave any private papers, like a marriage certificate? Or did the girl have any official papers when she came over?”

     “I suppose Hank had some papers, but I never saw them. God knows what she has done with them,” Marion said.

     “Do you have any papers?”

     “No.”

     “Do you know her full name?”

     “Let me think... Lee Unbekant... I believe. Of course Hank...” She began to sob. “My poor brother, when I think of all that unhappy boy went through. Such a fine upstanding...”

     “Marion, this is important: how do you spell the last name?”

     “U-n-b-e-k-a-n-t,” Marion said, her voice still trembling. “I remember because I planned a reception—before I saw her at the plane. I was going to have invitations printed, so I remember how the name was spelt. You know, she isn't Jewish,” she added with a note of pride in her voice.

     “How about her home town?”

     “Hamburg, I think. Or, might be Augsburg, or Nurnberg... some sort of burg.”

     “Do you know if she has—or had—any relations?” I asked.

     “No. I had some sort of paper when I went to meet her. I destroyed that because when I saw her... George you simply have no idea what that bitch put me through. I tried my best to....”

     I finally hung up, two nickels later, with some small information to go on. Then I got a real inspiration—I didn't have a picture of Lee, surely that would be the best identification of all to go on. We used several top-flight photographers on the Sun, but I couldn't have them take her picture, and I wasn't sure if she would agree to go to a neighborhood photographer with me. I phoned Joe and he boomed, “Georgie boy, you're coming over after all. Going to be plenty of action and...”

     “No, I still can't make it. Look, I want to take some pictures. Have you still got that camera Walt brought back from Germany?”

     “You bet. Damn thing is so complicated you have to be an engineer to take pictures with it. You can take them indoors, it's so sensitive.”

     “That's what I thought. Do me a favor and bring it down to the office Monday. I'd like to borrow it for a night. Ask Walt to set the darn thing for indoor pictures, and tell you how to work it, so you can explain it to me in basic English.”

     “That kid knows everything about cameras. Boy is real smart, like his mother. I ever tell you when I was courting Mady she was working in a dry cleaning place? When we stepped out she'd wear some of the ritzy gowns the rich dolls had sent in to be cleaned. Great idea because if she got any spots on 'em, why the next day she could have it cleaned and... Georgie! You old son of a gun!”

     “What's the matter?”

     “You got that doll you're keeping to pose for pictures in your place—you know....”

     The childish excitement in his voice was ridiculous. “You goon, I want to take pictures of Slob.”

     “Oh. Well I'll bring the camera down Monday. Sure you can't make it to-night?”

     “Positive. I'm unwell to-night, dearie,” I said, hanging up, knowing that corn would panic Joe. I walked back to the house with the ice cream, and I was full of a righteous goodness, which felt almost as fine as the self-cleverness I had felt once about keeping Lee with her own money. Now, I told myself (with a straight face, too, I was actually trying to help the poor girl.

     I came in on quite a scene. Lee had Slob sitting on her stomach, holding him gently with one big hand. His tail was moving uneasily, and they seemed to be staring each other down. When I came in, the cat glanced at me over her nipples. I dished out the ice cream and Lee clapped her hands like a kid and I felt so damn good I wanted to cry. I left some ice cream in the box for Slob, and we all ate happily.

     The pare feeling lasted nearly two weeks and paid off—I picked a winning horse every day, placing my two bucks on such hunches as Angel-On-Hoofs, Winsome, Pure Gal, and the like.

Chapter 5

     I DID TRY TO help Lee, find out if she had any family, only all my efforts ran into a series of stone walls. On Monday I asked Jake Webster, the company dick, who was also a big military and National Guard character, if he knew anybody “high up” in the army. Years before, when I had been a minor “planter,” I knew people who had an “army in”—sometimes the soldiers or the navy could be used for a publicity stunt; but by now I had lost most of my connections. After a lot of gassing Jake gave me the name of a captain—“a boon buddy of mine”—who worked down at Church Street, and who was in charge of personnel for the local military district, or so Jake said.

     I dropped down to see him. As I suspected, he didn't remember Jake at all, but he was quite cordial And he was just what I was looking for. I told him about Hank dying and that I wanted to get, or see, a copy of whatever papers Hank had used to bring Lee over. The captain was a middle-aged man with an affected, clipped manner of speaking. He said, “It will be a lot of red tape but I imagine I may be able to secure the records, especially if the widow, Mrs. Conroy, needed them. Are you acting for her?”

     “Well, not exactly,” I said. I couldn't tell him the truth: he would call Lee to the office, and once he saw and talked with her... “You see, as I explained, she's alone in the country, and I'm trying to help her find whatever relatives she may still have in Germany. Therefore I need to know her home town and...”

     He stared at me suspiciously and I knew I had talked too much. “Surely the girl knows her own home town?”

     “Of course,” I said quickly, “but she thought that... well, there might be something more in the records, for instance, information the army might have picked up from official Nazi records. Might possibly state that her father and mother were known to be dead, etc.”

     “Major Conroy would have told her those facts,” the captain said.

     “From what she says, he didn't,” I said, clipping my words as sharply as he did. “Another thing, her knowledge of English is rather slight, and she's a bit hazy on official papers. After all, she spent a number of years in a concentration camp.”