"What's your name?" Her voice was husky. He could smell her.

"Jack Cutler." He gripped the plastic edges of his chair.

"Do you know what apartment I live in?"

"Yes." He felt like he was ten years old.

"Come up in a half-hour." She left the laundry room on unsteady legs.

Jack felt as if his head were filled with bees. A numb buzz ran through his body. He sat motionless and blank for five minutes, then wandered around the cinder-block labyrinth of the basement checking his wristwatch every thirty seconds, a periodic whimper catching in his throat.

***

Marie's hands were shaking so badly she couldn't separate the door key from the other keys on the ring. Once inside, she bumped around the apartment. Her heart was beating so fast her ears hurt. She ran to the vestibule, locked, chained and bolted the front door. What did she ask him up for? Maybe he was crazy. Dangerous. A lunatic. He hung around laundries all day. She had never slept with another man but Tommy. What if he butchered her? She ran into the kitchen, grabbed up all the knives in the drawer, clutching them to her, and threw them under the living room couch. She roamed around the living room in a daze, then bolted into the kitchen, grabbed up all the forks and dumped them under the couch. Then with a squawk of alarm she kneeled down on all fours, swept all the knives and forks from under the couch and ran with them into Albert and Stony's room and piled them in the closet. Then she raced into her room, tore off her clothes and searched her drawers and closet for a nightgown or a negligee. Nothing. She ran into the bathroom and dumped out the few remaining clothes still in the hamper until she found a wrinkled acetate tangerine shorty nightgown. Slipping it on, she dashed into her bedroom and slapped on some perfume, spritzed her armpits with scented deodorant and ran a slash of lipstick across her lower lip. When the doorbell rang she screamed, collected all the knives and forks and threw them out the window.

***

After fifteen minutes of waiting around the basement. Jack had the panicky thought that his mother was home. He sped up to his apartment. She wasn't there. But maybe she was on the way home. Maybe she got that virus that was going around and was coming home early. To make sure he called the dress factory where she worked just to make sure.

"'Lo, Pollyanna Dresswear."

"Is Mrs. Cutler there?"

"Yes, one minute."

"Never mind. I just wanted to know if she was there." He hung up.

No. Shit. That was stupid. What if that woman told her mother a man called for her and then hung up? She might get scared and come home. Or call home. And he wouldn't be there.

"'Lo, Pollyanna Dresswear."

"Is Mrs. Cutler there? I'm her son, I called a minute ago. Can I speak to her?" Jack was sweating.