Inside, the big room was dim. The view overlooked nearby buildings—a regular geometry of illuminated windows. Several carefully placed square table lamps gave off a cold white light inside the apartment, and I heard murmuring conversations and chuckles and innocuous low music. Jeff introduced me to “Rick,” a man who appeared suddenly, a short person, not fat, but with a small round belly. I recall the fabric of his expensive shirt had pulled open at his paunch to reveal skin and a few hairs. The hair on his head was swept back, and he smelled very slightly of cologne. Rick was friendly in that crisp, perfunctory, impersonal way that has become familiar to me in New York, and he had a high voice, almost womanly. He offered me a glass of champagne. I took it and stared out the window. Jeff had wandered over to a large sectional sofa and seated himself beside a young blond man, whom he seemed to know well. I can see the blond man with his mouth wide open: “Oh my God, Catherine Bales. How could I forget that night!” Jeff’s eyes were lit with amusement as he remembered Catherine Bales. I liked him less. Mr. Blond-of-the-Catherine-Bales-Comment let his fist fall onto the big square glass coffee table in front of him for emphasis. A vase on the transparent surface rattled, and a woman with a sleek red bob in the style of Louise Brooks said, “Watch the crystal, darling.”

  Was I bored or tired or both? I was beginning to feel lonely and restless. It’s such an old feeling. I call it “the margins feeling.” Maybe it’s the gulf feeling—a chasm opens up between me and wherever I am—a great divide of difference that keeps growing and can’t be bridged. What is it that separates me from so many people? Is it a slant of mind? I walked over to the table and noticed lines of cocaine carefully cut and isolated on a piece of foil. I watched a man with smooth brown hair sniff the fine white powder through a rolled hundred-dollar bill and then pass the bill to Ms. Sleek Red Bob, who leaned over to do the same, and, as she lowered her head, I noticed that her dress had an open back. I can still see the knobby row of her vertebrae, and I had a sudden feeling of vulnerability—whether hers or mine I don’t know.

  Once she had partaken, she nodded at me, but I shook my head. I probably smiled to hide my pity for her but also my distaste. The idea of stuffing my nostrils with an expensive drug through a hundred-dollar bill made me think of “compounding and confounding.” I had a cold and beastly thought: I have dropped yet again into the land of the idiots, decadent, empty-headed idiots. What was the half-Italian Yale “crew” boy doing here? Maybe they were fashion people, associates of his mother. Ms. Sleek Red Bob pulled me down next to her on the sofa and called me “honey.” I saw that her eye makeup had smeared. She patted the side of her nose delicately with her fingertips, sniffed, and began a lecture on the joys of cocaine, “the perfect drug. Really, it is. You feel just marvelous. You feel just like yourself, only better, and it’s not addictive.”

  I noticed Jeff studying me. He looked alert. Mr. How-Could-I-Forget-That-Night beside him also looked alert. I told Ms. Sleek Red Bob that she was wrong. “Why, what do you mean?” I told her Freud had felt just as she did about the drug. He had written about cocaine and its beneficial properties, but then he discovered it was extremely addictive, dangerous. Freud changed his mind. She could find the story in his Cocaine Papers. Rick grinned. “I see Jeff’s girlfriend is an expert on nose candy.” The word girlfriend jarred me. I should have said, “I’m not his girlfriend. We just met.” But when I think about it, why didn’t he address me? Do I remember how many people were at the party? Twenty? It was early this morning and except for Rick, Red Bob, and How-Could-I-Forget-That-Night, the others are no more than hazy, milling human forms. I wanted to leave. For an instant, I considered taking the subway downtown to look for Whit and Fanny. Maybe they were already home and asleep. I would splurge on a cab across town. I had enough money. The thought of three subways at that late hour, the lurches and squeals, the faltering lights, the cars occupied by a louche singleton here and there, half asleep or drugged or crazy or all three, repelled me. I lingered for several minutes anyway as the others talked. What did they talk about? Real estate. Rent. Addresses. Does it matter? Why does it matter? I want to remember everything. That’s why. I want to understand it.

  I approached Jeff, thanked him, and told him I was going home. I was tired. He stood up from the sofa, faced me, and said, “A girl who comes with me leaves with me. I’ll take you home.” He smiled, but it was a false smile. I could see that.

  What did these words mean? Do I know what he meant by them? Why did they make me feel vaguely ashamed? Was it some macho Italian thing? Was he insinuating that I didn’t know the rules? Was I “a girl”? I said nothing for several seconds. Why? I had walked through the door with him, it is true, but we had picked each other up at a party only hours before. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted. I must think carefully now. I must try not to read the past through the present. “A girl who comes with me leaves with me.” Did I receive that sentence as a threat? I heard it with some alarm. Then why did I stay? There is something in me I don’t understand.

  I thanked Rick, shook his hand, and walked toward the hallway that led to the elevator. Behind me, I heard Jeff in conversation with Rick and That-Night. Rick said, “A kiss to your mother.” Low talk. A minute later, I heard the three of them laugh, and the harsh melody of their mingled voices made me think that one of them had told a coarse joke, and I asked myself how without listening to the content of the exchange it was possible to guess even the rough meaning of what three people have said to one another. Men laugh in ways they don’t laugh when women are listening. This is certain. I waited for Jeff outside the elevator. While I waited, I felt uneasy. Why did I wait? I waited because it was polite to wait, and I am polite. But that does not explain it. There was something else—something more—wasn’t there? I worried that if I didn’t wait, it might be awkward. He had been emphatic that he would leave the party with me. He would be insulted, perhaps even humiliated if I left on my own. But why did I care? That is not a full explanation either. Why didn’t I get on the elevator and disappear? What was my restraint about? Why did I feel bound by him?

  He didn’t say much in the taxi at first, but I felt tension, a taut irritation. He was probably drunk. I had seen him drinking bourbon. And yet, he didn’t slur his words. His movements weren’t sloppy. He was big and could probably swill down a lot. He asked me in an arch voice what I was reading “at the moment.” Was I reading Marx or maybe Freud? This seems important now. He sounded annoyed about my reading. My reading seemed to be an affront to him personally. He didn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm. He supposed it was something “difficult.” I felt annoyed and threw Wittgenstein at him, the Investigations. I had worked hard on the book. I had read it slowly, had studied, taken notes. I could quote from it. I was tempted to quote from it, but I didn’t. His handsome face had begun to look stupid to me, almost venal. He scratched his nose and the gleam of his gold watch in the shifting light of the traffic suddenly repulsed me. It was a Checker cab, roomy. I remember I moved closer to the door and stared out the window as we drove fast through the park.

  I was so glad to see good old 309 West 109th Street that if I had been able to hug the dear, ugly building I would have done it. I reached into my bag and offered him the same ten-dollar bill I had tried to give him earlier. He rebuffed it curtly, and I said, “Thank you. Good night.” I am always thanking people. Good God. What is the matter with me? I leapt out of the car, my keys at the ready. I heard the cab door shut, heard the car pull away, took a happy breath, and then stopped breathing when I heard the fast, strong footsteps of Heavyweight Crew behind me. My key had already turned in the lock, and I felt his hand push open the heavy door. I pulled the key violently out of the lock and closed my fingers tightly around it. In the hallway, I turned to him. I told him I didn’t need an escort, and he said, “I will take you to your door.” Did I say okay? No, I did not. Did I nod? No, I did not. And yet, I didn’t run up the steps ahead of him. I didn’t yell for Mr. Rosales or run downstairs to his basement apartment. Did I believe I could “handle” the situation? Was it because I didn’t want to make him angry, or rather make him angrier than he already was? Did he know then what he would do?

  When I pushed the second key into the lock of 2B, he pressed his body against my back and pushed me flat against the door. I felt his hips move into my tailbone and then his fingers in my hair as he gently tugged at a bobby pin. Didn’t he understand me? Now I wonder if these were practiced gestures of seduction. They had probably been successful in the past. I turned around abruptly and looked up at him. He was smiling and expectant. I could see his gums. I found his mouth ugly with its red gums. It’s odd that I had time to think about his gums, but I did. My chest was tight with anxiety. I said, “It’s time for you to go.” He looked down at me, his eyes indulgent, patient. “You don’t really mean that,” he said. “I’m afraid I do.” I must have believed then that my will was still in play. I put my key into the lock, prepared to turn it, rush inside the door, slam it, and make sure to fasten the chain, but he placed his hands on my hips and pushed me through the door, closed it behind him, but didn’t lock it.

  Then he went on with his strange game. It was as if he hadn’t forced his way into the apartment, as if I hadn’t told him to leave. “Let me help you with your sweater,” he said. He reached for me, but I removed the sweater quickly and draped it over my arm. He smiled and waved at the room. “So this is where you live? Cozy.” He eyed the bookshelves to his right and then the one across the room. “Lots of books. I wouldn’t have expected anything else.” Then he pointed at the blue chair. “Where did you get that, Bloomingdale’s?” This sentence strikes me as hostile now. Then I was simply baffled: What did he mean? He paced up and down a couple of times, still smiling.

  “I’m asking you to please leave,” I said. Did I say anything else? Am I forgetting something? No, I don’t think so. Why did I speak in a quiet voice? Why was I calm? Why did I say “please”? Did I believe I could persuade him to get out? He approached me as if I had said nothing to him. He ran his fingers from my shoulders down my arms to my elbows. All my senses seemed to slow down then, as if they were trapped in a long yawn, and yet, this peculiar temporal lag had the effect of augmenting their preciseness. My vision gained sharpness. I surveyed the books on my bookshelf just to the right of his head and paused on Journey to the End of the Night. A fitting title, I thought. I can’t understand why I was able to think this, but I did. I also heard him breathing. Was he breathing too quickly?

  He placed his hand on my back and said, “Come on, baby, let’s dance.”

  I removed his hand and took a couple steps backward. I was all dignity. I didn’t raise my voice. It was as if I were playing a part, reciting the dialogue of a character in a novel. It strikes me now that each of us had taken on a role, but the roles belonged to different stories. “I don’t want to dance. I want you to go. Your behavior ceased to be amusing hours ago.” I chose those words. I chose exactly those words. I recall every single one. I heard the elevator. Was it coming down? He laughed, gums on show. I thought to myself, His teeth are too small. Why hadn’t I seen this before? He didn’t hear me. He didn’t believe me.

  “Come on, baby. I’m asking you to dance.”

  I ran to the door and opened it. Did I yell? No, but I said, “Get out.”

  He leapt toward me and shut the door. I backed away from him, but he rushed me and grabbed me by the shoulders. I yelped or squeaked. A high noise came out of me that was not a scream. My throat had almost closed, but I gulped air. Now I have to think carefully because I want to reconstruct what happened exactly. It isn’t easy. He pinned my arms to my sides in a bear hug, smashed his face toward mine, and began to slobber, his tongue seeking my mouth. I turned away from him and struggled to release myself, the word straitjacket in my head. He was a straitjacket. “You want it,” he said. “You know you want it. I saw you looking at me. You were hungry. You want it.” I began to wail. The unearthly noise shamed me even as it escaped my mouth. I seemed to hear it reverberate in the air.

  He flipped me around violently, covered my mouth with his hand, and hissed into my ear, “Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you can drive me crazy and then ditch me?” Again, I remember every word. They are scored into my consciousness. He dragged me across the floor. I lost a shoe. I felt it fall off, but I didn’t see it. I bit into the palm of his hand so hard my teeth hurt. He cried out. I am certain of all this so far.

  Then I must have been thrown. He must have thrown me. I hit the bookshelf. My head. I fell. I slid to the floor, my bare feet in front of me. I saw him, the room, the books, all in black and white. I noticed this. He had taken his penis out of his pants—an extremely thin, small, hard one. I saw his penis clearly. Fanny calls it a pencil dick. I had never seen one before. His enraged face. Where did the rage come from? He was panting, face flushed as he stood over me, looking down, hideous penis sticking out from his open zipper above me. The refrain had already begun by then: “Please, no. Please, no. Please, no.” There are tears clogging the voice. I can hear the begging, pleading, sobbing voice now, but it was as if I were someone else, some other unfortunate, desperate person. It wasn’t my mouth moving. The mouth belonged to her. I was no longer inside me. That poor girl on the floor wasn’t part of me any longer. I am telling the whole truth. I am awed by this truth now. She had feelings, but I didn’t. She begged. I didn’t.

  Did the pounding from next door start while the girl was on the floor moaning, “Please, no!”? Maybe it started earlier. Bang. Bang. Bang. Banging on the wall. Lucy’s voice, her Ted voice: “Get out! I’m calling the police! Get out!”

  I watched the colorless Jeff run for the door. That’s all I see in my memory, the back of his jacket above his legs as they make long strides. The door opened. It remained open. He was gone. He was gone, and I felt strangely unconcerned.

  Then Lucy appeared in the doorway, clutching a broom with both hands. It must have been the tool she had used on the wall. I remember I examined her purple tunic, her straight black trousers, her hair loose down to her shoulders. She was in color. My black-and-white vision had been fleeting. I suspect that when he threw me against the bookcase, I jolted my optic nerve. Haven’t I read about that somewhere? Lucy leaned forward and peered from side to side, then she looked directly at me. “Are you okay?” A large round face with several chins entered the doorframe. The face was surrounded by short gray hair. It had a vehement gaze and a small, almost lipless mouth set between deep jowls. Then the formidable body that belonged to the head arrived. From its broad shoulders downward, it looked perfectly square in its proportions and was covered by a long brown muumuu. The big woman gave Lucy a light push in her upper back and lumbered into the room. She craned her neck to look behind her, and barked: “Moth, why are you cowering in the hallway? Get in here!” I remembered Hoarse Voice. Moth had a face as long and narrow as her companion’s was big and round. She scurried into the room on tiny steps, warbling, “Patty, Patty, I didn’t know if he was gone.” Patty and Moth. Moth was Screech Voice.

  I lowered my eyes to my own body. My nice, new blue pants were badly wrinkled, and I saw a dark spot on my thigh. For reasons that amaze me now, I felt upset by the wrinkles and the stain. The trousers were securely on me, however. My blouse had been twisted to one side, so the buttons no longer headed straight down my front, and blood ran from my shoulder onto the white fabric. The blouse, too, I thought. Too bad. I wondered idly if I could get it out with bleach. I felt no alarm about the departed Jeff, however. It’s hard to overstate my indifference. I know I said to myself, You are alive, not dead. He did not rape you. You were not raped, but I had no feeling of relief, no gratitude, no nothing. It was merely an observation.

  Lucy, Moth, and Patty bustled around me. My attention flagged. I felt nauseated. It’s happened before. I thought I might faint. There were tiny white lights twinkling in my peripheral vision. Moth’s high voice: “She’s bleeding. She’s bleeding. Oh my God, she’s so pale.” Patty had lowered herself onto her knees in front of me, and she took my face in her hands. I felt myself losing consciousness. She said, “We’re here. It’s okay.” I said to her, “I don’t want to move. I won’t move.” No one was going to make me move. Lucy’s face came into view again. “You’re going to be fine, child, just fine.” I didn’t faint.

  The three ran back and forth between my apartment and Lucy’s for supplies. Despite my stubborn refusal to move, they manipulated my head up and down and decided that, thank goodness, the wound wasn’t bad, just a small cut near the top of my neck. “Lots of blood, but not serious.” Patti pressed it with ice wrapped in a towel, and then Moth, with a pair of scissors and tape, bandaged it, and said repeatedly, “Does that hurt you? Oh, am I hurting you, sweetie?” I had no pain at all. I wondered why. Lucy worried about a concussion. “We have to watch her. If she gets dizzy or vomits, it’s straight to the emergency room.”

  This was followed by police talk. Patty was going to call. I said no. I felt her warm fingers on my cold right hand. She spoke to me in that deep, cloudy voice. “You’ve been assaulted.” I said, “No police.” She was on all fours and the size of her body impressed me again. Such a big woman. She had moved her face right in front of mine so I could look into her eyes, her intelligent eyes, and I noticed her milky skin, not a mole or a spot, flawless skin with soft folds of fat. I had a desire to lift my hand and touch it, but I did not want to move. I said to Patty, “I never should have gotten into that cab with him. I was stupid. But he didn’t rape me. You stopped him. I’m fine, really.”

  These facts were eminently clear to me, and my thoughts ran in whole sentences, not fragments. Lucy said that I had time to decide about the police. They had heard me cry out. “We’re witnesses,” she said. Moth hovered at my ear. “She’s in shock now.” I listened to a discussion about what to do with me. They couldn’t leave me there alone. They would take me to Lucy’s. I agreed to move. The three of them helped me to stand up. When I was on my feet, Moth said, “Oh, Lordy, you’re a tall drink of water, aren’t you?” She straightened my blouse and patted my arm twice, a timid pat. Lucy took my right elbow, and Patty took my left elbow. I began to step forward as the two women looked up at me solicitously, eagerly, and the absurdity hit. I was in a comedy. I began to laugh. “I can walk,” I said. “I’m fine.” I shook them off. I walked and laughed. “I’m just fine.” The whole thing was ridiculous, hilarious. I was, in fact, a little dizzy. My laughter distressed the three women. Patty told me to quiet down in a strict voice, and I did.