Automatic Woman by Nathan L. Yocum Page A

and walked through an equally Spartan living room adorned with a kitchenette, two ladder-backed chairs and a blank painter’s easel. The voices grew louder. Whoever was in the ruckus was outside the front door. The female voice grew louder, more shrill. Something thumped against the wall. A fist, a person, who knows? My investigative nature got the better of me. I opened the door and peeked out.
    Mary Kelly was there, as was a man I had yet to meet. He was dressed like a dandy: three piece suit, vest, all argyle. A gold watch fob linked a vest button to his jacket pocket. All very natty. His hands were on her shoulders, holding her up against the wall. Her face had the look of fear a person gets when they are trying not to cry, that moment when we have no words and our throats close and we wish we were anyone else, or anywhere else.
    “Excuse me, mate,” I interjected.
    The dandy turned to me. Surprise didn’t quite cover his expression.
    “Are you armed?” I enquired.
    “What?” he asked in genuine confusion.
    “Are you armed? Do you have a knife or a gun?”
    “No.”
    I let the quilt drop to the ground. All my greasy nakedness was displayed to the world. The dandy took his hands off of Mary.
    “That’s a shame, mate. Because if you were, I’d feel like this was a fair fight. As is, I’m going to have to tear your fancy fucking arms off and I can’t imagine you’ve got the means to stop me.”
    I held my fists out and clenched my hands until the knuckles popped. In my head I was praying that he stepped down. I didn’t have much more than the show of fight in me. In my experience guys who press girls to walls are cowards one hundred percent of the time. This dandy didn’t disappoint. He got the message and left in shameful haste and bluster. Mary knelt down and gripped her knees. She was hyperventilating a little. I presented my hand.
    “This is your place?”
    She took my hand and nodded.
    “That was your pimp?”
    She nodded again.
    “Sorry to intrude.”
    I walked her back inside. The living room kitchenette contained a hotplate, pantry, and sink. I proceeded to make a kettle of Earl Grey. I presented my tea selection to Mary, and she nodded in consent, still frazzled by the encounter.
    “Look, dear. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, but if that man comes back I’d very much like to hit him.”
    Mary giggled and nodded her head. I’ve never felt the better man in my life than in that moment.
    I made her a cup of tea, and one for myself. We sat and drank and listened to the Gaelic songs of old from her melodious neighbor. I reached out and grasped her hand. Words were lost to the occasion. We just sat and sipped and let the world around us do whatever it is it does. She eventually broke the silence.
    “I got your things.”
    “Did you?”
    “Your clothes. Your lockbox. Some toiletries, they’re all in the room.” She reached her hand behind her ear. A move of idle, embarrassed hands. I was at a loss.
    “Thanks, love.”
    I returned to the room. In the closet were two new shirts, a pair of trousers, undergarments and wool socks. Everything in my size.
    “Couldn’t salvage my clown shirt?” I asked.
    She smiled at that. I dressed in solid respectable colors. Cream silk for the shirt, gray for the trousers, and a brown belt. A man’s outfit. She’d even found a replacement for my long coat. I went through my lockbox. Scotch, Boschon cards; my savings were down to about eighty pounds. I gave Mary a scrutinizing look.
    “I had debts to pay. I earned that,” she said.
    I couldn’t argue with her, but still, funds were running short, as were my days.
    “How long have I been here?”
    “Four days. The porter you sent out never came back. People at the Piece started getting nervous and I figured you were better somewhere else. Dr. Doyle helped me get you here.”
    She sipped her tea. I watched her little fingers encircle that blue porcelain China and bring the cup to her red painted