As he said, it wasn’t really rape. She had not screamed once, or even struggled very much. To her, it was worse than rape because she felt circumstances had not permitted her to scream. As Tommy Odds said, he was just a lonely one-arm nigger down on his luck that nobody had time for any more. But she would have time—wouldn’t she? Because she was not like those rough black women who refused to be sympathetic and sleep with him—was she? She would be kind and not like those women or any other women who turned him down because they were repulsed and prejudiced and the maroon stump of his arm made them sick. She would be a true woman and save him—wouldn’t she? “But Tommy Odds,” she pleaded, pushing against his chest, “I’m married to your friend. You can’t do this.” “You don’t have to tell him,” he said, undoing her braids and wrapping his hand twice in her hair. “Kiss me,” he said, pulling her against him. Water stood in her eyes as she felt her hair being tugged out at the roots.
