69 Barrow Street (17 page)

Stella smiled again, the sick smile, the twisted smile, the maniacal smile.

“The picture,” she said. “I want to see the picture.”

She walked all alone to the easel, the knife still in her hand, the insane smile still fixed on her face. She ripped the cloth covering off and stared down at the canvas while Susan cowered against the wall in the kitchenette, too petrified to move.

“The picture is very beautiful,” Stella said.

Susan barely heard her.

“Very beautiful,” Stella repeated. “Too beautiful to live. Too beautiful to go on living.”

Susan was shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m going to kill you,” Stella said.

Susan wanted to shout at her to go ahead and get it all over with. But something made her stop. And suddenly she realized that the woman was no longer paying any attention to her. Stella’s mind was on the picture, and all her interest was focused upon it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she repeated. “Kill you because you’re too beautiful to live.”

But she wasn’t talking to Susan any longer. She was talking to the picture.

She raised the knife. Savagely she slashed away at the canvas. The first stroke of the knife went through Susan’s portrait diagonally, slicing through the left breast and the right side of the stomach.

The next stroke was a stab wound where the heart would have been in the painting. Then another slash across the groin.

Stella kept on wielding the knife, making ribbons out of the canvas. Finally she was through and the knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. She turned from the portrait and walked back to where Susan was huddled against the wall in the kitchenette.

“You’re dead,” she said calmly. “I killed you.”

Susan thought hysterically,
Ralph’s going to be upset when he sees what she did to the picture
.

“You’re dead,” Stella repeated. “Why don’t you fall down if you’re dead?”

Susan crumpled up, exhausted, and dropped to the floor.

S
TELLA HURRIED DOWNSTAIRS.
As she passed the second floor landing she shouted Maria’s name. Somehow it seemed very important for her to see Maria just now. She wasn’t sure exactly why, but she wanted very much to see Maria.

She didn’t wait for the girl. She continued on downstairs the same smile still on her lips, the same insane light in her eyes.

She felt wonderful.

The strange thing was that she wasn’t quite sure what had happened upstairs. She knew that she had killed somebody but it was difficult to determine just who it was that she killed. A girl, certainly. Yes, she remembered quite clearly that she killed a girl.

But who was the girl?

A knife. Yes, she could remember a knife. She took a knife and cut the girl in the breasts and the stomach and the groin and the legs and the throat. She cut the girl all over.

But who was the girl?

Susan Rivers. Yes, that was it of course. That was who it was. She remembered quite clearly now that she killed Susan Rivers. But which Susan Rivers?

Were there two Susan Rivers—one that moved and one that sat in a chair? That was possible, but how could that be? Maybe they were twins. But if they were twins, how come they both had the same first name? Twins were supposed to have different first names, weren’t they?

Oh, it was all too much for her to try to figure it out. The hell with it. All that she knew for sure was that she had killed a girl and now she felt much better.

And Maria was coming, and that was good also. For some reason she wanted very much to see Maria.

She walked into her own bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed with her back to the door. She reached around behind her and undid her halter, letting it fall to the floor. There—that was much better. It gave her breasts room to breathe, and it was very important for her breasts to have room to breathe.

Then she kicked off her sandals. Then finally she slipped out of her shorts and dropped them on the floor with the halter and the sandals.

To hell with it. Let everything stay on the floor. She wanted her little girl. Her Maria.

There were footsteps in the hallway, then footsteps in the front room. That was probably Maria, she thought. That was Maria, her little daughter, and Maria was coming to take care of her.

She didn’t turn around.

The footstep came closer. Yes, that was Maria. She could recognize Maria’s footsteps, and now Maria was coming into the bedroom.

“Hello,” she said. “Hello, Maria.”

But Maria didn’t answer. That wasn’t very good of Maria, and now she would have to punish the girl. It was all very tiresome but there was nothing else to be done. Maria was being bad and now she would have to be punished. She would have to learn to behave, and it was up to her Mummy to teach her what was right and what was wrong. Why, if her Mummy didn’t teach her, how in the world would the bad little girl ever learn to be good?

There was a slight whirring sound in the air behind her and Stella started to turn around.

She didn’t make it.

The heavy base of the lamp caught her on the skull just an inch or so away from the spot where Susan had struck her the other afternoon.

And, for the second time in as many days, Stella was knocked unconscious.

Maria worked very quickly and economically.

First she took a bedsheet from the linen closet and cut it into strips with a straight razor she found in the medicine chest. She laid Stella down on her back on the bed and used four of the strips to tie her hands and feet to the four posts of the bed.

She took another strip and placed it in Stella’s mouth, tying it around the back of her head so that it would act as a gag and prevent Stella from making any sounds whatsoever.

She was very thorough. All of the five strips were tied very securely. The knots were quite tight and it would be impossible for Stella to move at all.

Then Maria sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for Stella to wake up.

Stella was not unconscious long. After what seemed to Maria like just a minute or two she opened her eyes and stared up at Maria.

Maria stared back. Then she started to giggle, because her Mummy looked very silly all tied up like that. Now she couldn’t punish Maria anymore. She couldn’t hurt her with the palm of her hand or the belt or the cigarette.

Not anymore.

Stella tried to say something, but Maria couldn’t figure out for the life of her what it was her Mummy was trying to say. The gag stopped her from saying anything at all, and that was funny too.

Maria giggled again.

“Hello,” she said. “Hi, Mummy.”

Stella didn’t answer, which was natural enough when you come right down to it.

“I was a bad girl, Mummy,” she said. “I was a very bad girl. I got my clothes dirty playing in the sandbox and I said sassy things to my teacher and I broke Billy Rumsey’s shovel. Wasn’t I bad, Mummy?”

She giggled again. Oh, this was fun! Why, she was having a marvelous time.

“Mummy? Are you going to punish me, Mummy?”

Silence. Why, how nice it was of Mummy not to interrupt her. But Mummy wasn’t answering her questions, and that wasn’t especially nice. Why, it wasn’t even polite, and Mummy always told her how important it was to be polite and answer when somebody asked you a question.

Maria let her hands wander over Stella’s body. Mummy certainly had a lovely figure, that was for sure. Her breasts were especially nice, and Maria stroked and caressed and kissed her breasts over and over, hoping that her Mummy would enjoy what she was doing to her and what she was going to do. She took the nipples of Stella’s breasts in her mouth one at a time and sucked them like a little baby girl until they grew hard and rigid.

Maria giggled.

“Mummy,” she said softly.

Silence.

“I hate you, Mummy.”

Why, what a horrid thing for her to say. That wasn’t nice at all, and now Mummy would punish her for saying that. She was supposed to love her Mummy, wasn’t she?

“I hate you, Mummy.”

Now why did she have to go and say it again? It wasn’t nice at all, and she certainly didn’t want Mummy to punish her again. Mummy punished so hard and hurt her so much.

“Mummy,” she said a third time, “I hate you.”

And she giggled again.

Then she picked up the straight razor. She opened it and held it up to the light so that she could see it very clearly. The metal reflected the light and was very shiny, and the edge was very sharp.

Maria bent over again and kissed each of her Mummy’s nipples in turn.

And then she cut each of them off with the razor.

Ralph sensed something was wrong the minute he saw Susan’s door open. He rushed into the room. She was lying on the floor naked, her chest heaving and a cold sweat covering her forehead. He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms and she grabbed him as if she were drowning.

“Darling! What’s the matter?”

For a few moments she couldn’t answer. All she could do was remain in his arms and tell him how much she loved him. He held onto her and stroked her like a little kitten until finally her breathing went down to normal and she could speak again.

Then she told him.

She told him first how she had gone to see Stella the afternoon before. She told him the whole scene that had taken place between the two of them, with Stella trying to make love to her and attempting at last to rape her until she finally knocked her out and escaped.

Then he interrupted her.

“Baby,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean—”

“I suppose I was a little bit ashamed of myself, Ralph.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I guess so.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed of anything, darling.”

She kissed him and continued, telling him this time about the scene with Stella that had just taken place. His eyes went wide as she recounted what the woman had done, and several times he was at the point of interrupting her, but he let her finish.

“I knew she was sick,” he said slowly after she had finished.

“Very sick, Ralph.”

“Sicker than I realized. My God, she almost killed you!”

She nodded.

“What an awful woman,” he said. “To think I was actually living with her.”

“The painting’s completely ruined, Ralph.”

“To hell with the painting.”

“But—”

“I could paint it again blindfolded. It’s you that I’m worried about. She might try something like that again and there won’t be a painting for her to slash up by mistake.”

“I don’t know she will. She thinks she killed me.”

He shook his head. “I better call the police,” he said. “She ought to be put away.”

He started to stand up.

“Wait, Ralph.”

He turned and looked at her.

“The police can wait.”

“But—”

“Let them wait, darling. There’s something I want you to do for me first.”

“Anything.”

She stood up and came into his arms. She was still trembling slightly, but her trembling was not from fear this time.

“I want you to make love to me, Ralph. All the way.”

He took off his clothes again and put them on the chair. When he was naked and ready for her she was already lying on the bed. He lay down beside her and took her in his arms, kissing her.

She was not afraid.

He kissed and stroked every square inch of her body. He touched her and kissed her and caressed her until she turned into a woman on fire with love, a thing of passion writhing on the bed beside him.

She was not afraid.

And then he took her. He took her slowly, gently, and at first it hurt but a second later she didn’t notice the pain at all because it was all so good and so beautiful, all so perfect and so wonderful, all so absolutely excellent and so unlike the way she had imagined it.

Their bodies moved together. She was on a gigantic seesaw going up and down, up and down, up and down, and she thought that it would never end because it kept getting better and better and she was going wild, wild, and it was so good, so unbelievably good.

And then it was over. Their bodies melted apart and she knew a peace that she hadn’t believed existed. She laughed and then she cried and then they were both very still.

He looked at her and she knew the question he wanted to ask.

She said: “It was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me.”

And it was.

They were silent.

And then she said: “Ralph?”

“What is it, darling?”

“Could you… I feel like a wanton.”

“What is it?”

“Could you…make it happen again?”

When the police came to the first-floor apartment at 69 Barrow Street they found a little brunette sitting on the floor in the bedroom with a razor in her hand. She was giggling hysterically to herself and mumbling baby talk.

What they found on the bed caused one of them to be thoroughly sick in the bathroom.

Another group of men came and took Maria to the hospital for the criminally insane. She became very well known there as the little girl who stole a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the dispensary and poured it into her vagina as penance for what she had done to her Mummy.

Still another crew of men shoveled what was left of Stella into a box. They took the box to the morgue and it stayed there for a few days. Then some other men took it away and buried it.

Ralph and Susan didn’t remain at 69 Barrow Street. Too many things had happened there that both of them wanted to forget. Besides, the Village represented a way of life that each of them had no desire to stick with.

They moved to an apartment on 94th Street near Riverside Drive. It wasn’t long before Ralph landed a good job doing covers for a paperback book outfit. It wasn’t too much longer before they had their first child, a boy.

But the Village remained and it will remain forever. Stella and Maria and Ralph and Susan have left it, but the other Sick Ones will be there forever. Luke and Betty Swinnerton will stick needles of heroin into their arms until they pop their way to hell. The others will smoke marijuana and drink too much and sleep with whoever asks them until they rot and die.