Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not really.”

  He looked at her. “Smile.”

  She made the effort against the stiffness. “In a couple of days the swelling will go down and it’ll loosen up. But no deep lines.”

  “But,” he sang, “I’ve grown accustomed to your lines, your frowns, your ups, your downs.”

  “Well, Mr. Higgins, get unaccustomed because they’re gone. And maybe a few other things. I’m thinking of getting my lids and nose done.”

  “Okay.” He pulled the car onto Route 9 South to 95 North to take her back to Carleton.

  “I’m just wondering if we can afford it.”

  The “we” hovered in the air like a hummingbird.

  “If I get them done at the same time, it would be only eight thousand. Separately, twelve.”

  “You mean a package deal?”

  “Because he wouldn’t have to arrange two separate surgical teams and anesthesiologists.”

  “We have the money.” He didn’t know if joint payment meant that they still had a future together or that she was squeezing him before their divorce. The very notion made his stomach roil.

  “Good,” she said.

  “So, I take it you’re pretty happy with him.”

  “Yes. He’s got a terrific reputation and he’s very nice—”

  “And very rich, famous, handsome, and, I hope to God, as gay as Elton John.”

  “Stephen, I’m not interested in Aaron Monks.”

  “Then why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring? Or did you take a shower up there?”

  She looked at her naked finger and opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a reply. For several minutes they rode in silence. Then she turned her head toward him. “Are you all right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve been distracted since you picked me up.”

  Distracted? Only because I might have killed a woman because she reminds me of you. “How do I seem distracted?”

  “Look, if it’s the expense that’s bothering you, I’ll pay with my own money.”

  “That doesn’t bother me.” He waited for an explanation of her naked finger, but decided he didn’t want to hear it.

  When they pulled onto Hutchinson Road, she said, “I saw an article on the Farina murder. How’s the investigation going?”

  “Nothing solid yet.”

  “That’s too bad. It’s all over the papers that she was a stripper, and almost no mention that she was dancing to save money for school.”

  “And that bothers you.”

  “Yes, because the message is that her death was her own fault. She was a stripper so she took self-imposed risks—she asked for it. It’s the same old stuff: when it’s a woman, blame her, especially if she’s sexy.”

  He nodded.

  “But never would those club guys be blamed if their pickups got stolen,” she said. “Maybe you should lock up all the sexy women to prevent men from risking a murder rap.”

  He made a noncommittal grunt and pulled up their driveway. Dana thanked him and got out of the car. “I hope to God you get the bastard.”

  He nodded and drove off. Suddenly his mind was a fugue again.

  Well, Bunky, looks to me like you got the bastard. Sitting on him in fact. The question is, you gonna turn him in? Or we gonna keep nosing in the sand for truffles?

  But there’s no hard evidence, just circumstances.

  Bullshit, circumstances. The means. The opportunity. The motive.

  The means: she had a bureau full of stockings. May have been wearing them. Or maybe you brought them.

  The opportunity: you were with her just before she was killed.

  The motive: you were juiced and full of rage. And she was there and looked like your wife.

  If it’s evidence you want: You found her sunglasses and you looked through them and saw a plan. You called to say you found them, can be right over. Picked up the Taittinger. Went up for a little Sylvia action, except this one had glorious spun-copper hair that you love. Maybe she resisted. Most likely you did. And ye ancient guilt trip kept the mojo from cranking. Maybe embarrassment. Shame. Rage and the fact that she reminds you of You-Know-Who. In a moment of fury, the old reptile cracked out of its egg and nixed her, the image of the wife who dumped you, and your guilt for adultery. A threefer!

  And all the king’s horses and all the doc’s meds couldn’t put Stevie together again.

  He was passing under the BU bridge heading East on Storrow Drive when his PDA jingled. The caller ID said it was Captain Reardon.

  You did it. Now do the right thing. Do the right thing: tell them.

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way in. What’s up?”

  “We’ve got Pendergast in custody.”

  “What?”

  “Crime scene found some latents in Farina’s apartment, on a wineglass and a bottle of Pinot Gris in the fridge. According to the girlfriend, Farina drank only red, and the bottle of white had his prints all over it. He also admitted to having been up there.”

  “He did?” Steve’s brain could barely process the message.

  “We brought him in on a few things and he started telling other stuff.”

  “You saying he confessed?”

  “Stopped just this side, but he might as well have. Arraignment’s Monday.”

  Jesus! “Who did the questioning?”

  “Neil.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  33

  WINTER 1974

  Lila loved Jesus almost as much as she loved men. But it was the men who got her in trouble. Like that night.

  It must have been midnight when she and his father returned from a Christmas party at a Portsmouth restaurant. Lila had landed a small part in a horror movie called Rough Beast, shot in part in New Hampshire. But she had had too much to drink and had gotten too chummy with the director who was lining up actors for his next production.

  He could hear them as they entered the house. Their voices cut the silence like gunfire.

  “Don’t give me that crap.”

  “For God’s sakes, Kirk, we were just talking. I wanted him to call Harry. It could be my break.”

  “You’re supposed to do that through auditions, not fawn all over him at a Christmas party. Where’s your sense of dignity.”

  “Sense of dignity?”

  “Yeah, dignity.”

  “Stop yelling or you’re going to wake him up.”

  But he was already awake and had slipped out of his room and squatted at the dark top of the stairs with his knees to his chest. They were in the family room so he couldn’t see them, but their voices carried. They assumed he’d sleep through their fight, but a headache woke him up.

  “You weren’t just talking. I saw you. Every time he’d say something, you’d put your hand on his arm and lean over ’til you were practically in his lap. He’d make some dumb joke and you’d squeal, ‘I love it!’ like he was Johnny Carson. It was embarrassing.”

  She slammed something down. “Even if it was, so what?”

  “So what? How the hell does that make me look? Gee, there’s Kirk sipping his wine while his wife makes a move on Vance Loring. Nice performance, Lila.”

  “Well, maybe if you paid a little more attention to me—” Her voice cracked.

  “I did pay attention to you, and you made a thundering ass out of yourself.”

  “You know what the hell I mean. If you took some damn notice of me. Of me!”

  “The hell you talking about? I take notice of you. I tell you when you look good.”

  “I mean if maybe you’d just say something nice, put your arms around me, say how you want to make love. Just act normal like other men.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You used to be loving. You used to say I was pretty, that you loved me.”

  “You know, Lila, your neediness is pathetic.”

  “Pathetic? Is it so pathetic to want to hear some nice
words? You’re so damned self-absorbed that you haven’t even noticed that I’m dying inside.”

  “Sounds like you’re reading a bad script.”

  “Kirk, I just want to be loved, to be touched like any other woman.”

  “No, you just want to be screwed because you can’t get enough. And it makes no difference who it is. Your father was right: you’re an easy date.”

  “Don’t bring him into this.”

  “‘Don’t bring him into this,’” Kirk mocked. “That’s where it started.”

  She let out a cry of anguish. “Goddamn you. He raped me. He raped me. And I told you because I wanted you to know. Because you’re my husband. It’s something I shared from the bottom of my soul and you’re throwing it in my face, you bastard.” She threw something at him.

  “You’re crazy, you know that, Lila? Crazy.”

  He heard his father clomp down the cellar stairs. He had an office down there with a sofa bed. It was where he retreated when they fought, when he wanted to punish her. The hideaway was as far away from the master bedroom as he could get without leaving the house.

  “You bastard! I hate you!” she screamed down the stairs, and slammed the door.

  She began to head upstairs, so he scrambled to his room and into bed. His chest hammered as he lay in the dark, half-expecting her to enter his room the way she sometimes did. She stopped at his door to listen, the shadows of her feet moving in the light strip. Then she went to her own bedroom and closed the door. Through the walls he heard the toilet flush. Then all was quiet except for muffled sobbing. He had heard that before. He had heard so many things through the walls. Sounds of anger. Sounds of her begging forgiveness. Sounds of her pleading with him to tell her what she had done wrong. Sounds of sex—mostly Lila, who made noisy love.

  He stepped into the hall. The place was dark. His father was in the cellar for the night. He padded to the master bedroom but didn’t bother to tap the door. She never did when she dropped in on him. The notion of personal privacy did not exist in the house. The interior was dark but for a night-light. In the dull glow he could see Lila on her side in bed, clutching a pillow.

  “Kirk?”

  “No, it’s me.”

  She sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I heard you crying.” He moved to the side of the bed.

  She reached her hand to him. “You came in to give me comfort. How sweet.” She shifted so he could sit and she put her hand on his shoulder.

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah. Sorry we woke you up.”

  “That’s okay.”

  She shifted over. “Come on, lie down.”

  He lay next to her as he had for years to chat or to hear bedtime stories. Sometimes she told him about growing up in Georgia or the plays and movies she was in and her dreams of going to Hollywood. He stretched out beside her, face-to-face. “Did he hit you?”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that.”

  “He’d get mad if he knew I was here.”

  “He won’t know. He’s in the cellar and won’t be up, I guarantee that. If I were screaming bloody murder he wouldn’t come up.”

  He knew what she meant. His dad didn’t have time for him either. And when he did, it was like he was only half there. When he turned ten, his dad took him to a Red Sox game only because she had insisted. But throughout the game Kirk kept checking his watch as if he couldn’t wait for it to end. He didn’t know the players’ names and couldn’t follow the game. It was like going to Fenway Park with a Martian. During Little League and soccer season, his father came to only a few games. The same with his school plays. His mom didn’t miss a one.

  “You’re so considerate,” she said, and gave him a hug.

  They lay still for a few moments, and then he felt her hand rub his shoulder and move down his arm. He could hear her voice begin to break up. “I’m so tired of all the stress and fighting. I’m so tired of waiting for a break. Nothing ever seems to change.”

  He fingered the crucifix around her neck. She always wore it, no matter what her outfit—evening dress or blue jeans. “Do you pray a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you pray for?”

  She thought for a moment. “Well, mostly that Jesus will show me the right way to live. That he’ll hold me back from…you know, making mistakes.”

  “What kind of mistakes?”

  “Weaknesses. The stuff that makes us human.” She didn’t elaborate, and he felt only vaguely satisfied. “What do you pray for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must know if you pray. What do you ask for?”

  He thought for a moment. “Do I have to?”

  “No. It’s your own private business,. But it’s just you and me here and you know I can keep a secret.”

  “I prayed for the bike I got.” They had gotten him a Schwinn in candy-apple red.

  “And you deserved it. What else?”

  “I pray for you and Dad to get along.”

  “Yeah. I wish we did.”

  She held up the crucifix in the scant light. “I guess I pray for the same thing.”

  “You believe in Jesus?”

  “Of course, and so do you.”

  “So how come you both still fight all the time?”

  She was silent a moment. “Well, sometimes Jesus decides we have to work out our own problems. But he listens. And he cares, because he loves you. You can bet your life on that.”

  “What else do you pray for?”

  “That my ship will come in someday, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  He didn’t get the ship part, but he comprehended the message.

  “But I’ve got you, my Beauty Boy.”

  “Why do you call me that?”

  “Because you’re beautiful.”

  “Not beautiful like you.”

  “What? You’re so beautiful I feel invisible next to you.”

  They were quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I pray that I weren’t me.”

  “You do? What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes I wish I were somebody else.”

  “Who would you want to be?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s it like to be you?”

  She made a muffled chuckle. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

  They were silent for a while. Then her hand began to move gently up and down his arm. Then to his back and down, urging him to press closer to her. He did. He could smell the wine on her breath and cigarette smoke in her hair. And through that sugary wisps of Shalimar.

  “You’re such a sweetie,” she whispered, and shifted until her thighs were against his.

  He felt himself become tense, as if he were entering forbidden territory. Her breathing became shorter, more rapid as she rubbed circles on his back. “Up,” she whispered suddenly.

  He jumped off the bed. “What?” His first thought was his father.

  But she held up the covers for him to get under. “Come on, it’s freezing.”

  Because she slept with the window open, the room was cold. She closed the covers over them, her body radiating a comforting warmth as she pressed against him, separated only by the material of his pajamas and her nightgown. She put her arms around him and slipped a leg over his, pulling him flat against her front. He froze because he could feel the contours of her body and because he had an erection. He pulled away, terrified that she felt it, terrified that it would pop out of his fly. He made a move to get up, but Lila tightened her grip on him.

  “Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay,” she said dreamily, and reached down and took hold of him with a gasp of delight. “Oh, baby. My sweet Beauty Boy.” And gently she began to stroke him.

  “No, Mom, don’t.” He tried to stop her but she persisted.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Her voice sounded as if she were in a trance of some kind. And he knew that if the lights were on, she’d have the scary out-of-focus look in her eyes.

  “Don
’t move. Everything’s just fine.” Her voice was soft and syrupy—a voice she had used in one of her movies. “Don’t move.”

  And he didn’t, frozen in a swirl of pleasure and fright.

  While his heart thudded wildly, she made him lie flat on his back while she positioned herself against his thigh. Then, in maddening rhythm, she continued stroking him and rubbing herself against him, all the while making soft purring sounds in his ear. Sensations he had never before experienced pulsed through him—deeply satisfying sensations that built to some darkly primitive pleasure point.

  In the back of his mind, he suspected that what they were doing was wrong, but she was his stepmother, so just how wrong could it be? So he lay back, scared but excited in anticipation that something big was going to happen. Meanwhile, she was lost in a spell, moving hard against his thigh, which she had leg-locked against her. Her head was back, her eyes pressed shut, her mouth open and panting groans out of some deep place.

  And then it happened. At the moment that fluid spurted from him, Lila let out a sharp cry.

  “Look what you made me do. Look what you made me do,” she screamed, and in the dim light he could see her wiping her hand on her nightgown.

  He scrambled out of bed, terrified. The change in her was so sudden, so volcanic that he thought her mind had snapped.

  “You little bitch.” Her voice was full of gravel. Not even hers. “You made me dirty.” She held her hand out in front of her as if it were some foul creature. “You made me do this. You made me dirty. You made me dirty. Now I’ll burn in hell and never see Jesus. Never.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll show you sorry.” She backhanded him in the face. “Get out of here, you little slut. Get out.” And she shoved him out the door.

  He stumbled back into his room, crying and terrified and feeling scalding shame in his chest.

  He crawled into his bed and prayed that he would die.

  34

  By the time Steve pulled into headquarters Neil had gone home. Spent by the interrogation, he had taken the rest of the day off.

  But Reardon was in his office. “Pendergast’s in central lockup,” he said. “Monday he’ll be in court, and all’s right with the world.”