by Joy Fielding
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he told her. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t like.”
“But I’m not sure I like this.”
His response was to kiss her. Again, she felt his tongue deep inside her mouth. Again, she thought of the snake, tried to banish it from her brain. Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy herself, the way her husband was directing?
Because it’s hard to relax when your hands are tied behind your back, a little voice said.
Not when you know nothing bad is going to happen, she admonished the voice. Not when all you have to do is lie back and let yourself go. Not when your husband is merely trying to spice up your lovemaking.
When had their lovemaking ever required spicing up? Hadn’t this part of their relationship always been the most natural? Hadn’t they always fit together like a hook and eye, two conjoining pieces of a puzzle?
A horse and carriage? the little voice added playfully. Two peas in a pod? A hand in a glove?
What was she doing? Was she trying to wreck everything?
Maybe, a distant voice cackled. Who’s asking?
Bonnie closed her eyes tight, forced her mind to go blank. She wouldn’t think of anything but what was happening right now. And right now her husband was tracing a series of tiny lines across her naked body with his tongue, moving down between her legs. Her body arched to accommodate him, her hands struggling to touch him, to caress him, but unable to reach him.
When had tying her up become part of his fantasies? Certainly, he’d never shared such impulses with her before. Maybe it had been something he’d decided at the spur of the moment, standing in Linda Loves Lace. Perhaps Linda, herself, had suggested it. Perhaps he’d been too embarrassed to refuse.
Or perhaps it was Rod who’d suggested the scarves. Perhaps he’d been inspired by a movie he’d seen, or more likely, by something someone had confided on his TV show. Do you have a secret sexual fantasy you’d like to share with our millions of viewers? Call 1-800…
Everybody had fantasies, Bonnie told herself. Just as everyone had secrets, a little something of themselves hidden from others. You couldn’t possibly know everything about everyone else. So what if Rod had never shared this fantasy with her before? He was sharing it now. She was its prime beneficiary.
Instantly, Bonnie thought of the insurance policies Rod had on her and his children, policies of which she hadn’t even been aware until so recently. How well did she really know this man? she wondered, this man who was on top of her, who was pushing his way inside her, to whom she’d been married for five years? “You don’t know my husband very well,” she’d said to Caroline Gossett.
“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know him,” Caroline had replied.
“You’re beautiful,” Rod was saying. “So beautiful. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” Bonnie said, tears running down her cheeks. What was the matter with her? Where were these ridiculous thoughts coming from? Of course, she knew her husband. He was a good man, a kind and wonderful man. They had a good marriage. She had no reason to be suspicious of him. If she wasn’t careful, she could end up letting other people’s petty and jealous suspicions ruin everything. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up like her mother.
Oh great, she thought, her arms straining at their delicate ties, inadvertently tightening the knots at her wrists. It wasn’t bad enough that she’d allowed Caroline Gossett and that crazy old woman from the Melrose Mental Health Clinic into the room—now her mother was in bed with them too.
“Are you ready?” Rod was asking, sitting back, lifting her legs over his shoulders.
Bonnie nodded, focusing on her husband’s handsome face, as he plunged toward her, like an image in a 3-D movie, pounding into her over and over again, his lips fastening on her lips, his arms stretching toward the bedposts, his fingers intertwining with hers, locking in place.
“I love you,” he said again. “I love you. I love you.”
Bonnie felt as if she were on a merry-go-round, traveling in ever-increasing circles, growing dizzy with delight, every fiber of her body stirring, reaching for the brass ring, as the music of the carousel built to an impossible crescendo. Hold on tight, she thought, arching her back, wrapping her legs around the back of her husband’s neck. In just a few more seconds, the ride would be over.
“Daddy?” a thin voice called from somewhere far away. “Daddy?” The voice slithered onto the carousel, wrapped itself around the neck of one of the wooden ponies, stretched toward Bonnie’s throat.
Bonnie opened her eyes as Rod pulled abruptly out of her, throwing the bed sheet across their naked torsos, although nothing could hide the fact that Bonnie’s hands were tied.
“I don’t feel well, Daddy,” Lauren cried, her voice a moan. “I feel really sick.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” Rod said. “Go to your bathroom. I’ll be right there.”
Lauren quickly fled the room. Rod jumped out of bed, grabbing for his bathrobe.
“Rod, for God’s sake, untie me,” Bonnie urged.
He was immediately at her side, fumbling with the chiffon scarves. But her squirming had rendered the scarves too tight around her wrists, and he was only able to untie them from around the bedposts.
“My God, what she must think,” Bonnie said, trying to work the stubborn scarves off her wrists, but unable to do so. “Seeing me tied to the bed like that.”
“She couldn’t see anything. It’s pitch-black in here. Her eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the dark.”
“We don’t know how long she was standing there.”
“Daddy!” Lauren cried from down the hall. “Help me.”
Rod ran from the room as Bonnie struggled to her feet, her body cramping in protest at having been so rudely disturbed. Just a few more seconds and it would have been all over, she thought, going to her closet, pulling on her bathrobe, tucking the chiffon scarves inside its sleeves as she headed for the bathroom at the end of the hall. A few more seconds, and they would have been finished, her body would have been satisfied, her wrists would have been freed.
Was Rod right? Had it been too dark for Lauren to make out what was going on? Or had she seen everything? My stepmother, the pervert, Bonnie thought, approaching the bathroom, the unmistakable sound of someone retching coming through the door. Bonnie took a deep breath, then entered the small room.
Lauren was hunched over the toilet, her auburn hair clammy against her forehead, her face ashen, her body racked by a succession of violent heaves. Rod stood by the window, looking as if he were about to be sick himself.
“Why don’t you go back to bed,” Bonnie told him, moving to the sink. “I’ll take care of things in here.”
Rod needed no further prodding. His lips twitched into something approaching a grateful smile, and then he was gone. Bonnie soaked a washcloth in cool water and pressed it against Lauren’s forehead. “Take deep breaths,” she urged as Lauren shoved her hand aside. “Come on, honey. Take deep breaths. It’ll help.”
Lauren struggled to comply. For a few seconds, it looked like she might be all right, then the heaving started up again. Bonnie tried again to apply the cool compress to Lauren’s forehead. Again, she was rebuffed.
Obviously the dinner she’d made tonight hadn’t agreed with Lauren’s delicate stomach. Bonnie sat down on the edge of the bathtub, feeling guilty, wondering why she’d sent Rod away. Lauren didn’t want her here. It was her father she’d called for. Certainly Bonnie could think of more pleasant ways to spend the balance of the night than watching someone throw up. Yet, she didn’t leave. She waited, feeling the enamel of the tub cold through the warmth of her velour bathrobe. “You’re a good girl,” she heard her mother say.
“I feel so sick,” Lauren moaned, tears flowing from her eyes.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.” Bonnie wondered again whether Lauren had seen her tied to the bedposts, whether that might be adding to her
misery. “This might help,” she said, again holding out the damp washcloth. This time, Lauren offered no resistance, allowing Bonnie to press the soothing compress against her forehead. “Is that better?”
“A little.”
“Keep taking deep breaths,” Bonnie advised.
“My stomach hurts so much. I feel like I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die, I promise you. You’re going to be fine. Just fine.”
Lauren fell back against the wall, Bennie immediately surrounding her with her arms. She wiped the girl’s forehead, then moved the cloth to the back of her neck. “How’s that?”
“A little better.”
“Good.” They sat this way for the better part of an hour. “Do you thing you’re ready to go back to bed now?” Bonnie asked, no longer able to block out the unpleasant smell of the small room, beginning to feel queasy herself.
Lauren nodded, allowed Bonnie to lift her to her feet. One arm wrapped itself around Lauren’s waist, the other held her trembling hands.
“Slowly,” Bonnie cautioned. “We’re not in any hurry.”
“What’s that?” Lauren asked suddenly, nodding toward Bonnie’s wrist. A lavender chiffon scarf peeked out from underneath the velour bathrobe.
Bonnie dropped her hand to her said, her fingers pushing the scarf back inside the sleeve. “It’s nothing,” she said. “The lining of my bathrobe is ripped….” Her voice broke off. She led Lauren to her bedroom.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you and Daddy,” Lauren said.
“You didn’t disturb us,” Bonnie said quickly, wondering again how much Lauren had seen earlier, praying that Rod was right, that it had been too dark for her to make out anything. She helped Lauren into a fresh nightgown, then tucked the girl into her bed. Then she leaned over and kissed her on the forehead before heading for the door.
“Bonnie,” Lauren called after her weakly.
Bonnie stopped. “Yes?”
“Could you sit with me until I fall asleep?”
Tears filled Bonnie’s eyes. This has been quite a night, she thought, returning to Lauren’s bed and sitting down, making sure the chiffon scarves were tucked safely out of sight. Then she took one of Lauren’s hands inside her own, and waited until the child fell asleep.
16
On Friday afternoon, Bonnie went to see Dr. Walter Greenspoon.
It hadn’t been a good day. Rain clouds had been hovering since early morning, and the cool temperatures were more suited to late October than early May. Lauren still wasn’t feeling well, leading Bonnie to suspect it wasn’t her cooking that had done the child in, but a case of the flu. Whatever it was, Lauren was still in bed when Bonnie left for school that morning. She hadn’t bothered waking her up, deciding the girl needed her sleep more than she needed whatever was on the curriculum of Bishop’s Private School for Girls.
Rod had disappeared early again. Another breakfast meeting at the studio in preparation for the upcoming Miami conference. Nothing further had been said about the possibility of her accompanying him to Florida. That option seemed to have disappeared with Joan’s murder. Besides, how could she even think of going anywhere and leaving the children? Despite the fact that the police had called yesterday with the news that test results revealed the blood thrown on Amanda to be animal, and not human, the fact remained that someone had hurled a pail of blood at her innocent baby. The child was in danger, just as Joan had warned.
I’m in danger, Bonnie thought, her car climbing Mount Vernon Street in Beacon Hill, watching as a white Corvette pulled away from the curb just ahead. My child and I are in danger, and nobody seems overly concerned. The police are indifferent; my husband is in denial; nobody has a clue what to do next.
Except maybe Joan’s killer, Bonnie thought, a shiver vibrating through her upper torso. Somebody walking over her grave, her mother would say.
It’s up to me, Bonnie thought, pulling her car into the spot just vacated. She stared up at the elegant redbrick house that was the office of Dr. Walter Greenspoon, then checked her watch. It was ten minutes to two. Just what was she planning on saying to the good doctor? What did she think she could get him to say about Joan?
Bonnie leaned back against the tan leather seat, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She certainly hadn’t had much success so far. Josh Freeman was still studiously avoiding her. He hadn’t set foot in the staff room since their last meeting, and every time she passed him in the halls, he lowered his head and quickened his pace, refusing to meet her gaze. Then there was Haze—he’d missed her last two classes, and the phone calls she’d placed to his grandparents had gone unanswered. She’d left a message asking them to attend next week’s open house, but she didn’t hold out much hope of seeing them there. Her talk with Caroline Gossett had raised more questions than it answered, and her visit to Elsa Langer had been an exercise in futility. So, what exactly did she think she’d accomplish by coming here and lying to Boston’s premiere pop psychologist?
“Oh well,” Bonnie said, pushing open her car door and stepping onto the sidewalk, “it keeps me off the streets.”
The redbrick town house was typical of the homes in this most exclusive section of Boston. Stately was the adjective most often applied, and it was the right one. The eighteenth-century dwellings were cared for by prim and prosperous hands, the top windows arched, the small front gardens neatly contained inside low wrought-iron railings, the brass knockers on the latticed doors shining, as if never touched. Bonnie walked slowly up the eight front steps, eyes scanning the discreet side panel of doctors’ names, pressing the button for Dr. Greenspoon’s office.
“Name, please,” the voice said clearly through the intercom.
Bonnie jumped back, looked around, as if to make sure she was the party being addressed. “Bonnie,” she answered, hesitating. “Bonnie Lonergan.”
The buzzer sounded—short, low-key, to the point. Bonnie pushed open the heavy front door and stepped into the black-and-white-tiled foyer. A gold arrow on the wood-paneled wall indicated that Dr. Greenspoon’s office was on the second floor. Bonnie proceeded up the dark blue carpeted stairs.
Dr. Greenspoon’s office was located to the right of the staircase, behind double mahogany doors. Bonnie knocked gently, as if not sure she wanted to be heard. Another buzzer clicked open the door, and Bonnie stepped inside the office.
Two secretaries, one black, one white, both young and impeccably groomed, sat behind a large curved desk. They looked up in unison and smiled solicitously as she approached. Brass name plates identified them as Erica McBain and Hyacinth Johnson. “Ms. Lonergan?” Erica McBain asked, her husky voice a well-practiced whisper.
“Yes,” Bonnie answered, noting that the secretaries’ clothes seemed to have been selected to coordinate with the decor. Soft shades of gray and rose were everywhere, from the deep rose of the matching love seats by the window to the pale rose of Hyacinth Johnson’s blouse, from the muted gray of the carpet to the charcoal gray of Erica McBain’s skirt. Bonnie felt out of place in her green-and-white-checkered pantsuit, like a weed in an otherwise well-tended garden. Surely, her outfit alone would reveal her as the imposter she was, and she would be unceremoniously yanked from the premises.
“The doctor will be with you shortly.” A well-manicured hand with raspberry-colored nails pushed a clipboard across the desk. “If you wouldn’t mind filling this out. The doctor’s fee is two hundred dollars an hour, payable after each session.”
Bonnie glanced at the clipboard. Name, address, phone number, social security number, age, occupation, marital status, referral, childhood illnesses, recent illnesses, medications, reason for visit. “Oh God,” Bonnie muttered. So many lies to be written.
“Sorry?” the secretary asked. “Were you not aware of the doctor’s rates?”
“It’s not that,” Bonnie said, scarcely aware of the amount. “I don’t have a pen,” she said, knowing she had at least half a dozen in her purse.
“Here
you go.” Hyacinth Johnson rolled a black ballpoint pen across the top of the desk. “Why don’t you have a seat?” Dark eyes blinked toward the matching love seats.
“Thank you.” Bonnie carried the clipboard to the sofas, lowered herself into one, surprised to find it firmer than she expected. What am I supposed to do now? she wondered, her hand gripping the pen, her fingers refusing to write. Come on, she urged. You’ve come this far. Just fill in the blanks. A half-truth here, a half-truth there. You’re the teacher—do two half-truths equal one whole truth? Enough of this nonsense. Name: Bonnie Lonergan. Address: 250 Winter Street. They aren’t going to check, discover that the name doesn’t match with the address. Give them your phone number, for heaven’s sake. They just need it for their files, in case they need to get in touch with you. They aren’t going to go to the phone company, looking for discrepancies. Excuse me, but our investigation shows no one by the name of Bonnie Lonergan living at this address and registered to this phone number….
Bonnie couldn’t remember her social security number, although she’d always known it by heart, and had to fumble in her purse for her wallet. She found it, dropped it, watched her driver’s license tumble onto the carpet, reveal her true identity for all to see. Except that nobody was looking. Erica McBain and Hyacinth Johnson were too busy answering the phones and working at their computers to worry about her misplaced identity.
“This is ridiculous,” Bonnie muttered under her breath, copying down her social security number. She had to calm down. Otherwise, she’d have a nervous breakdown right in the doctor’s office, and he’d have her committed. Which might not be such a bad idea, she thought.
“Ms. Lonergan?” a male voice asked, and Bonnie jumped. Once again, her wallet slipped off her lap to the floor. The man knelt down to retrieve it, Bonnie recognizing his bald head from his newspaper photograph. She held her breath as Dr. Walter Greenspoon picked up her wallet, his thumb across her driver’s license, blotting out her name. “Why don’t you come inside?” he asked, returning the wallet to her clammy hand.