Business picked up again after the war. How tactless of me, I thought, to stand on that pier, amongst that fiery crowd as they waved their flags and blew their kisses to the returning fleet, watching as the men on deck received their mass greeting with a tired, ambivalent pride. I felt ashamed. We cheered for different reasons. Amidst that cacophony of blaring ship horns, cheering, trumpets … all I thought about was money. Business. What I saw on those ships were customers.
To my credit, it wasn’t due to any callous irreverence, or any cynicism. Only desperation. Money was tight during the war. I lived off of savings that had all but run dry by the time that victory was announced over the radio. As implausible as it sounds, I couldn’t find work. I was manufacturing munitions for a short time, but the pay was terrible. I was a store clerk for about a month until I was fired for showing up one morning drunk. Of course, I did have the occasional client, usually men who weren’t fit for war and needed a warm body to cure them of their guilt, but it wasn’t enough. Most of my time was spent in leisure, thinking, worrying, hoping … I couldn’t wait for the war to end. I didn’t care if I had to whisper my sweet nothings in German or Japanese by the time things were finished. I needed the familiarity of my work – that which I knew I was good at. The work that, beyond paying my bills, gave me purpose.
The men who had returned were, however, not familiar. These were broken men. Men who hadn’t so much as seen a woman in months, years. Men who had received letters describing how their wives had left them, only to return to combat the next morning. For these men I became more than a way through which they could relieve themselves. I was proof that they’d survived. I’d become a symbol of their victory, a trophy. I didn’t know how to feel about that, but it didn’t matter. I could finally work.
I was desperate, too desperate, that I now know.
It was about a couple of weeks after that welcoming ceremony on the pier – I’d returned to my apartment after a short meeting with a sweet boy, a corporal, who wanted something gentle to clear his mind. I lounged in my apartment reading a new magazine, carefully ignoring the articles pertaining to the war. I had a passing interest in fashion, and now that supply lines (and my funds) were stabilizing I was on the hunt for a nice new dress. I expected to have the rest of the night to myself.
Instead I received a phone call. A short one.
“Hey, sugar,” I said, sensually, in a way I had practiced dozens of times.
“Maria?” A low, discreet voice answered.
“That’s me.”
“How much?”
“Jeez, you in a hurry?”
“Huh?”
“I said, you in a rush or something, baby?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”
“Four dollars an hour.”
He gave me an address and hung up.
I didn’t think twice about how he’d sounded. Lots of guys were like that. I noticed these soldiers came in two types: overconfident, tough guys who wouldn’t shut up about themselves, or guys who were shy, like they’d shrunk back into being kids who hadn’t ever been with a woman in their lives. Some of the younger ones really hadn’t. I’d assumed this guy fell somewhere into the latter.
I arrived at his place as the sun began to set. His house was beautiful – just short of a mansion. Real Victorian. There was a large elaborate flower garden in the yard, and flowers lined the tiled walkway leading to the big arched portico over the main entrance. I thought to myself, either he’s the gardening type, he hires somebody, or he’s cheating on a gal who really knows how to put a yard together. He had a Cadillac parked outside; I didn’t know much about cars, but I knew that was a fancy one. I gave the front door a few knocks.
I must’ve stood there for a full minute before he opened the door, slowly, as if nervous that whoever was on the other side wasn’t somebody he wanted to see. He was a tall, skinny guy, with a square face and a chiseled jaw, dirty blond hair and blue eyes. He was handsome. He was also, oddly, in uniform.
“Hey baby,” I said.
“Come in,” he replied quietly.
The main entrance was jarringly barren, save for a few potted plants by the door and a large white rug. The door echoed as it shut behind me.
“You do the flowers outside yourself? You hire somebody? They’re beautiful, you know,” I said, trying to goad him into saying something that was longer than three or four words.
“Thanks.” It didn’t work.
The atmosphere was off, but not in an alarming way. There was a haze of mundanity, like when you walk into a room and suddenly forget what you were doing. The house itself felt as though its mind was wandering.
“Follow me upstairs.”
“Sure.”
I studied him from behind as I followed him up the staircase. I got a better look at his stature. Lots of my clients had wounds, I mean, it felt like half the men I slept with were missing one limb or another ... But this man, apart from the slightest of limps, was ordinary. There was, however, something I’d recognized in the way he carried himself. He moved in the same way that those injured men did; hesitantly, without rhythm, without direction, dragging himself along. Like he was sleepwalking.
“In here,” he said, holding open for me the door to his bedroom. I could feel his eyes on my back as I entered. His bedroom was dull – a king-sized bed with an austere white headboard, white sheets, a window with its white lace curtains drawn. The air was stale. I noticed a jar of strawberry jam on his nightstand.
“What do you want, honey?” I asked with a smile, one I think he could tell I was forcing.
“Take your clothes off, please.”
“Sure thing,” I said, and began to undress. He watched me in a sterile way, as though he were a medical professional conducting an exam. As I reached my undergarments he stepped closer to me. “Wait,” he said, extending his arms.
He took my bra off himself, with the grace of someone who’d done so a hundred times before. He sunk down to my waist and slid my panties off. As I stepped out of them he paused for a moment, gazing into the garments strewn around my feet. He rose slowly, not to meet my eyes but instead to fixate on my chest, through my chest, as if my skin was as clear as glass. He grazed my breast lightly with his rough fingers, careful not to shatter it.
“Lie down,” he said.
I stepped toward the bed. He stopped me. “No,” he said, “on the floor.”
I hesitated for a moment, then moved down to the floor. The cold hardwood shocked my bare skin. I looked up at him and saw no discernible expression on his face. He took my clothes and placed them aside, then knelt down next to me. He took hold of my wrists. “Lie very still.”
He began to pose me. First my arms; the left bent crooked, at a strange angle to where my hand was almost touching my head, the other by my side, limp, even taking the time to position each individual finger, obsessing over the smallest of movements. He moved my hips to be twisted, my legs to be spread. He gently splayed my hair around my head. He looked for a moment at my hair, and then, as if realizing something about it, stopped and stood above me, scanning for any further imperfections in this display he’d created.
After making several more minor corrections to my pose he turned to his nightstand and opened a drawer, removing a small silver butter knife. He took that jar of strawberry jam from his nightstand, opened it, and stood above me once again.
“Wait, wh –”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupted, “it’s dull,” as if saying that was enough to satiate any concerns I might have going forward.
The situation was growing too absurd for me to make any objections. Besides, I now desperately wanted to know where he was going with all of this. I knew how to handle myself – it wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to hurt me – although I wasn’t quite worried about something like that happening anyways. Nothing in his demeanor suggested I was in any sort of danger.
He straddled my body and began painting my skin with jam, spreading it heavily on the left side of my face, on my neck, my clavicles, my breasts, my arm, my left leg. Splotches, smears. It would almost be erotic if it weren’t so utterly confusing. The cold floor on my back, the texture of the jam, the warmth of his body as he straddled me – all oddly salacious. He painted me with a fervent creativity, and I could see in his eyes that whatever image of me he had in his mind was coming to fruition.
Finally, he stepped back and looked at whatever it was that he’d done, as an artist would with his canvas.
“Now,” he said, “stay still and quiet.
There fell a deep, tense silence. The sweet scent of the strawberries was beginning to nauseate me.
Then, out of nowhere, his expression morphed. His face contorted into fear, into deadly urgency. His lips began to quiver.
“James?” His voice was shaking.
“Jesus … Jesus, James …”
He collapsed beside me, trembling.
“Hey, hey, can you hear me?”
He put his hands on my shoulders. There was such a genuine, horrible look of dread on his face ... it froze me.
“You look good, James. You look real good. You’re all right, pal, just keep looking at me. You’re bleeding a little bit, we just gotta stop this bleeding, all right?”
He started, frantically, to apply pressure to my shoulder.
“You’re, hey –” he moved my head to face him, “– you’re all right, buddy. Your brother’s gonna be on his way, OK? I’ll get him for you. I’ll – MEDIC!” he shouted, suddenly, loudly, desperately. It echoed throughout the house. I flinched. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Your brother’s coming, all right? Your brother’s on his way. We just have to stay low. We’re gonna get you out of here. Your daughter’s waiting, James, we’re gonna get you home. Stay with me.”
He continued to comfort me, saying that I was going to make it home, that I was going to be OK, that I would be reunited with my daughter and that my brother, the medic, was on his way. He smeared the jam with panicked carelessness over my body and on his hands. As he continued this act I began slowly to realize the role I was supposed to be playing. I turned my breathing shallow. I began to relax my muscles. I thought about things that I could say, stuff I’ve read in war novels, I see you, I’m all right, I’m cold, it’s getting dark, but I was reminded of his command to stay quiet, and I felt a duty not to spoil the moment that he was immersed in.
His comforting words diminished in intensity over time, until they were nothing but somber whispers as he brought himself closer to me.
Finally, the air grew still.
“James?”
I was hardly breathing at all.
“James?” Once more, hopelessly.
He embraced me then. He began to whimper, I felt his tears on my neck. It seemed that I’d died.
He held me for a while, for how long I couldn’t tell. Then the tears stopped. As quickly as he had changed before, he returned to inanimacy. He stood, his eyes still red. I noticed his pants were wet.
He took something out of his pocket. “You can stand now,” he said, his voice hoarse. He handed it to me.
One hundred dollars.
“Go clean up,” he said.
I don’t quite remember the process of cleaning myself, or putting my clothes back on, or returning to my apartment. Clarity returned to me only when I found myself vomiting into my toilet. I felt guilty for a reason that I couldn’t understand. I’ve done strange things before, strange things indeed, but nothing as strange as that.
I met with him again, about four or five times after that, doing the same thing over and over again. I began to learn the pose he wanted me to strike, the way he wanted me to breathe. I memorized the things he said to me, the stages he went through, which were identical every time, the characters, my brother – James’ brother, my daughter, waiting for me at home … I’d assumed he was shell-shocked, that something in his head had snapped during the war, leaving him with this strange pseudo-sexual compulsion to reenact this one moment, the death of this “James,” this moment that seemed to have broken him. His pants were wet every time we finished.
I indulged in his obsession for as long as I could stand it. It was the money that kept me coming back. I’d never made money like that in my life … But one night I decided that I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d stopped eating jam on my toast in the morning. I began having strange, desperate dreams, where I woke up gasping for air, where I was jolted awake by the sound of a gunshot. It had started to affect my performance with other clients. One told me that I had seemed “ghostly today.”
Finally, when he called again, I had the challenge of informing him that I couldn’t play the role of James anymore.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Same time this evening?”
“No, I – look, I’m sorry. I … I can’t do this anymore.”
A pause.
“I understand.”
“I’m sorry, I really am. I just … you’re a nice guy. I mean it. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“I hope you’re doing well. I’m sorry. Have a good evening, um – hey, what’s your name, anyways?”
He hung up.
