The Spiked Heel

“Griff, please don’t say anything else because I’ll bust out crying, and I don’t want to cry, Griff, please, it’s been such a lovely night.”

“Let’s go back to clams,” he said. “They’re safe.”

“You’re a nice boy, Griff.”

“You’re a nice girl.”

“And I don’t really think you have no sense of humor. And I don’t really think you’re a clam.”

“But I am,” he said. “I thrive on sea vegetation.”

“No, really,” she said, smiling.

“Really. Clams never lie.”

“I think I’m beginning to sober up,” she said.

“Good.”

“But I’d still like a cup of coffee. You’ll come up, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it terrible for a girl to get drunk? Whenever I see a drunken woman, I lose all respect for her.”

“No, it’s not so terrible.”

“Did I do anything silly? Like putting a lampshade on my head or anything?”

“No. Unless…” He drew the word out.

“Unless what?”

“Well, that dance you did,” he lied.

“What dance?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“When you took off all your clothes.”

“Griff, I didn’t!” she said horrified.

“You were quite a hit.”

“Griff, no! No, please, I didn’t!” She hesitated uncertainly. In a small voice, she asked, “Did I?”

“No.”

She let out her breath. “Now I am sober. Oh, God, you gave me a scare. You’re a stinker.”

“Where do you want to get out?” the cabbie asked, turning suddenly.

Marge leaned forward. “Oh, are we here already?” She peered through the windshield. “The third house there, on the left,” she said. The cabbie nodded and edged the cab over toward the curb. They got out, and Griff paid the man, and then they started up the steps of the red brick building.

“This is the tail end of Greenwich Village,” Marge said. “Those smelly things on your right are factories.”

“Nice,” Griff said.

“Yes, very pleasant. I work in a factory all day long, and then I come home and look out my window at other factories. I guess it’s really immature, but I like living in the Village.”

“Besides, it’s cheap.”

“No. No, it’s very expensive. The days when an artist could suffer in the Village are dead and gone. All the landlords know the Village is a desirable place now, so you have to pay an arm for a hole in the wall. Well, you’ll see. You know, I’m quite sober now.”

“I’m glad.”

“I am, too. It’s fun being drunk, but it’s better being me.”

She began fishing in her purse as they started up the steps. “I’m on the fourth floor, so conserve your breath.”

“All right.”

“On your left is the apartment of my landlady. She is probably drunk. She always is.”

“Um-huh.”

They climbed steadily. On the third floor, Marge said, “Adjust your oxygen masks.”

“Roger,” Griff answered.

They reached the fourth floor and walked to a door at the end of the corridor. Marge inserted her key and twisted it. Griff threw open the door for her. She bowed and made a grand gesture with one arm, like a courier in the presence of Queen Elizabeth.

“Enter. It isn’t much, but it’s homely.”

She snapped on a light, and they stepped into the small apartment.

“The kitchen,” she said. “Ignore the dishes in the sink, please.”

“They’re ignored.”

“In there, the combination sitting room, living room, bedroom. The john is right there, if you need it.” She took off her coat and hung it in one of the closets. “Your coat, sir.”

Griff began taking off his coat. She saw him fumbling with the buttons.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Let me see your hand,” she said.

“No, it’s all—”

“Let me see it.” She took his hand, and her eyes widened. “He did hurt you! Oh, that dirty bastard.” She looked at the hand more closely. “Griff, it’s all swollen.”

“It’ll go down.”

“Can’t we do something for it? Some hot water? Yes, some hot water and boric acid.”

“I don’t think—”

“Let me help you with the buttons.” She unbuttoned the coat for him, and then pulled it off his shoulders, hanging it in the closet alongside hers, closing the curtains over the closet opening.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll put up the coffee and begin treatment. I once wanted to be a nurse, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes. Why’d he want to hurt you, Griff?”

Griff shrugged.

“Did it… Did it have something to do with me?”

“No.”

“It did, didn’t it?”

“No. He was testing his strength, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“He just felt like testing it. He’s a strong man, McQuade. Strong men have to test their strength every now and then, to make sure it’s not weakening.”

“Where… where was he taking me?” Marge asked suddenly.

“I don’t know.”

“I think I have an idea.” She bit her lip. “I must’ve made a little fool of myself, Griff.”

“No, Marge. Honestly, you didn’t. You were high, but that’s all. You had a right to get high.”

“What a fool,” she said.

“No, you weren’t.”

“And you were right about McQuade, weren’t you?”

Griff didn’t answer. She stared at him for a moment and then went to the stove. “I use instant coffee, is that all right?”

“Fine.”

She put up a kettle, and then she filled a second pot with water. She came to the table and sat opposite him. She reached out and touched his swollen hand gently.

“Poor Griff.”

“I’ll live,” he said lightly.