Marilyn the Wild by Jerome Charyn Read Free Book Online Page B

Rican. Brian couldn’t fail once he had Isaac for a “father-in-law.” So he escorted Marilyn to a bar on Spring Street, fondling his visions of a detective’s shield.
    The barkeep winked at Marilyn, and stuck a bottle of gin in Brian’s arm. Cradling the bottle, Brian waltzed around the bar stools in his floppy coat He had to gesture three times with his long neck before Marilyn would follow him into the back room. “I thought we were drinking beer,” she said. The door clicked shut behind her.
    â€œBrian, this is a real Bronx reunion. You haven’t changed any of your tricks.”
    â€œIt’s damp at the bar. In here we can have some quiet.” Brian was in a quandary: should he make her first, or squeeze promises out of her to whisper his name and badge number in Isaac’s ear? “Marilyn, tell me about your family.”
    â€œWhat’s there to tell? I’m a victim of combat fatigue. I’ve been through three husbands. Brian, how many wives do you have?”
    Mother of Mercy, she’s still a fucking tramp, Brian sang to himself. He made no attempt now to hide his erection.
    â€œI’m single, Marilyn, I swear. Which husband did you like best?”
    Marilyn had to lie. “I can’t remember.” She wouldn’t tell him about the husband she adored, her first one, Larry, a blond boy with a lisp, whom she brutalized with her affectionate rages and jealousies. Reared by Kathleen, the real estate goddess, and Isaac the Pure, she’d been much too tough for a blond boy. The beautiful Larry ran away. Coen, the blue-eyed orphan, could remind her of him.
    Brian sucked on his bottle with an angel’s smile. He was thinking of gangbangs in cellars, weightlifting rooms, and the woods of Isham Park, with Marilyn satisfying each and every star of the Inwood Hill Athletic Club, her lean body trembling under the impact of Brian and his friends, who could assuage their dread of purgatory with the knowledge that Marilyn wasn’t wholly Irish. The boys interpreted her willingness to undress as a spiteful Jewish streak.
    Brian rinsed his tongue in sweet alcohol. His smile turned sullen, giving his teeth a wolfish edge. Marilyn’s three husbands enraged him. Whore, bitch, he babbled in his head, she’s always going down for bunches of three. He poked a finger into Marilyn’s blouse. The finger stood on her collarbone. Brian didn’t know where to explore. His brains were swollen with gin.
    Marilyn removed the finger from her chest without cursing Brian. She wasn’t mean. She bad cookies to deliver. She saw Brian’s cheeks explode. The gin was in her face. The blouse came off her shoulders in one hard rip. Brian’s knuckles mashed against her cheekbone. She had little mousies under her eye. She wanted to vomit blood. Brian stooped with his thumbs in her hips, and Marilyn’s skirt fell under her knees. The cloth around her ankles prevented her from kicking him. She made feeble shoves with her elbows. Brian knocked her to the floor.
    He was struggling with Marilyn of Isham Park. He could eclipse husbands, wedding bands, and marriage beds with the mesh pants he took from her and rubbed in his fist She was Brian’s whore child. Isaac didn’t exist. The split of her bosoms, the trembling line of her ribs, the rise and fall of her complicated navel, proved to him she was a creature of the cellars, someone with tainted blood and a vague history. He pushed her knees apart and dug with his hand. He tolerated scratching elbows and the mischief of a whore’s fingernails. He kept his knuckles in Marilyn’s eye. He snapped her head back with a tug of her scalp. He punched her until she grew quiet.
    Marilyn tried to think of Larry. But she started to cry. So she thought of Coen. She imagined the shape of his neck, the aroma of talcum powder on Amsterdam Avenue, the feel of Coen’s blond knee, and the pressure that knifed