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Something in the way she knelt there sobbing got through to him, and he took a step toward her.
"Eve, I'm just trying to make sense of all this. Quite apart from Francie, and whatever you say happened to her, why did you let Newcomb bring you back here after what he'd done?"
"Stop talking like a lawyer, damn you, David! Don't you understand? I was afraid! Don't you see that? He's a—a very frightening man, so cold, so completely evil— what else could I do?"
"He kissed you goodnight, and you let him. Don't bother to deny it, because I saw through the window, dammit! I was watching, waiting for you.. . ."
"I couldn't stop him, David. He's so damned strong, and I'm so tired. And I came in here looking for refuge, looking for something from you, and you judge me instead. You don't want to believe me, do you? You used me, and now that I've failed, you'd like an excuse to be rid of me. Because deep down you really think I'm cheap —you always did think that. I was good enough to screw but not good enough to marry."
"And that's all you ever wanted, wasn't it? Marriage, a guy to show off to your friends, a meal ticket—"
"That's not fair; that wasn't it at all, and you know it! You always twist my words around and try to make them into something else; you'd like to keep me crawling to you, apologizing, explaining—"
"Goddammit, I deserve some rational explanation, don't you think? You went to this party to find Francie, and you come back at five in the morning with some wild tale about being gang-raped—how can I tell what to believe? I know all about the other men you've had, "the new morality," you called it—what's okay for a man should be okay for a woman, too, and what's wrong with an occasional screw on the side, anyhow? Then, suddenly, I'm supposed to believe that you've changed your viewpoint, that you tried to fight off God knows how many guys just because you're my girl. Well, how do you account for continuing to see Peter while you were still supposed to be my girl? Christ, Eve—" "Shut up, shut up! I can't listen to any more. I can't— I don't want to believe this is you, and this is how you really think about me and that in spite of it I let you use ine. And because I did, you think I'd let all those people use me, too—it wasn't all guys, there were women, too, and oh, I can see your face change again! You really think I'm shit, don't you? And I am—God, yes, I'm shit and even less than that, I'm nothing because that's what you made me into and I let you—"
"You're not even coherent any longer, Eve. Perhaps I'd better leave now and talk to you again tomorrow, later—"
"Oh, no, you won't, David. There'll be no later, no tomorrow. I never want to talk to you or listen to you again. Get out, just get out quickly, will you please?" "You're hysterical, you don't know—" "Oh, yes, I do know! At last, David, at last I know where I really stand with you, and I should have seen it a long time ago, only I— Goddam you, get out! Get out of here, or I'll start to scream and I won't be able to stop!"
She looked up at him with her face ravaged and contorted and suddenly ugly now, with a big purple bruise showing darkly against her cheekbone.
She saw the way he hesitated, and read the irresolution in his eyes, and she hated him for it and for his pettiness and weakness, and most of all she hated her own weakness for him. He didn't really believe she meant it this time; he was still waiting for her to take the words back, crawl to him for understanding. The finality of it, the futility of her pleading for his sympathy and pity hit her like a sudden blow, and she started to whimper with pain and grief.
"You—you self-righteous bastard! What are you waiting for? What am I supposed to do? Would you like me to grovel at your feet, David? To tell you I did what I didn't do?'
There was a note of rising hysteria in her voice that both frightened and unnerved him, and he moved swiftly, grabbing his overcoat from off the couch, skirting her huddled figure.
At the door he turned.
"I'm sorry I asked you to go to the damned party, and I'm sorry if you feel I've let you down, Eve. Perhaps tomorrow—"
"Get out, damn you!" She screamed it at him, and he left quickly, the door slamming behind him.
And after David—silence. Only her own tearing sobs that threatened to rip her chest apart. She lay flat on the floor, fists pounding at die rug while she cried and cried until she was drained of emotion. After some time, she managed to pull herself onto her feet, shaking and sick with reaction.
Nothing mattered now in the face of David's rejection. Nothing that had happened to her counted against David's betrayal. She had disgusted him, and disgusted herself even more. God, he had even managed to forget his own sister in his need to accuse her and show how little he thought of her. If he had been any kind of a man, it would have been Brant Newcomb he'd have gone after, no matter what the consequences.
Eve closed her eyes and opened them again with a shudder, seeing once more the blank eyes and obscene, grinning faces as they had looked down at her body earlier. And David's face just a little while ago—so closed against her.
She walked slowly into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror as she passed it.
It was like seeing someone else—just a vacant face, a body that had been stripped of its humanity along with the clothes they'd torn off her.
She stepped under the shower and let the water soak her. Even her hair, her eyes, were drenched and streaming. Automatically she reached for the shampoo and began to wash her hair carefully. Thank God for reflex action. It was better to be all reflexes than to feel— to do everything like a robot, without a mind, without thoughts that could pursue and tear at her like furies. And she even thought casually that it would be easy to die this way, but far too much trouble right now.
I'm too tired; it's too late. Too late to undo anything or do it over again. I should have a tape recorder, so I could talk myself into sleep. Peter, you should be here now; here I am, a guinea pig.
Toweling herself dry, Eve watched herself in the mirror, seeing her body emerge mistily as the steam began to edge backward. The bruises looked as if they had been painted on, clumsily and carelessly—finger-paints! It was weird to be able to look at your own body this way and to feel as if y
ou didn't belong to it. She wanted to laugh, but laughter would not come. There were not even sobs left in her now—nothing!
Eve dropped the towel and walked into her bedroom, lay back on the bed. Without any real curiosity, she wondered what would happen now. Suddenly, the tiredness welled up in her, enveloping her like a shroud. She closed her eyes and let it take her without a struggle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE TELEPHONE WENT OFF in her ear, ringing insistently, forcing Eve up out of a deep and frightening dream. She thought it was the alarm on her clock at first; she reached out for it with an arm that felt like lead, knocking it over. The ringing went on, and suddenly habit made her think, "David?" She felt the familiar, the unwanted quickening of excitement making her catch her breath.
Still half-asleep, Eve cradled the green trimline against her face, lying on her side.
