The Sopaths

by Piers Anthony

  So much for normalcy. She knew. “Come in,” he said numbly.

  She took a seat in the living room and started talking without social preamble. “You have lost your family. The only reason you survive is because you killed the sopath. Others, even your own relatives, don’t understand. You have become a social outcast. You are in shock. You don’t know what you’ll do tomorrow, let alone the future. You need help.”

  Obviously someone had told her. “You have help?” he asked somewhat dryly.

  “I do, Mr. Slate. I represent Pariah. This is an organization of survivors of sopath infestation. We are all pariahs. We help each other in any and all ways necessary, to enable us to survive and eventually prosper.”

  Suddenly he was interested. “You suffered—similarly?”

  “Let me clarify that at Pariah we have a policy of Don’t Ask. That is, don’t ask the details of a particular person’s experience with the sopath. They are universally ugly. But we can tell our own cases, if we choose, and receive a sympathetic and empathetic hearing. So I will tell you mine. It was last year. I had three children, and the youngest was a boy I thought was just being difficult, as they can be at that age. The terrible twos, you know. Then he started killing his older siblings. When he put rat poison in my husband’s drink—” She shook herself. “My eyes were finally opened. I did what I had to do, though it was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life. I filled the bathtub and held the devil child under until he drowned. Then I vomited, cleaned up, and turned myself in.”

  “And the police brushed you off,” Abner said.

  “Exactly. My family cut me off. The police have known about the sopath menace for some time, but kept a lid on it so that the public won’t panic. I think this policy is a disaster, as it guarantees that families will continue to suffer as mine did.” She looked at him. “As yours did.”

  “You do understand,” he agreed.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but then he was in her arms, sobbing while she comforted him. There was nothing romantic or sexual about it, and they weren’t even friends. It was simply a necessary release.

  “We all have to let go sometime,” she said as they separated. “The multiple horrors overwhelm us.”

  “Thank you,” he said as he wiped his face. It was a small blessing in the inferno of hell to have an understanding person. “You were saying?”

  She picked up as if there had been no interruption. “So I formed a local chapter of Pariah, which is a quiet global organization without official status or many paid personnel, doing what needs to be done on a voluntary basis. Social organizations and the police inform us of new cases, and we step in. We seek no publicity. We have no pride; we merely do what is necessary. It does seem to give our ruined lives meaning. We will help you if you want it, and expect you to contribute what you can. The need is constant and growing, unfortunately.”

  “You are a kind of family,” Abner said.

  “We are,” she agreed. “We are widely diverse, with a few things in common apart from the dreadful one. We are of reproductive age, we are suffering, and we understand. That last is what binds us together.” She gave him a straight look. “Mr. Slate, no one at Pariah will condemn you or avoid you. We all have similar sorrow, shame, or criminality, whatever one chooses to call it. All you have to do is join. There is no formal membership, but we do have meetings on a daily basis, just pariahs getting together, helping with new cases. I will give you my address so that you can come in when you are ready. There is no obligation.”

  “I’m ready now,” Abner said with sudden decision. This was exactly what he needed.

  She hesitated. “I would take you in now to show you our literature and facilities, and have you meet other members, but I have another call to make. It is the nature of these things that they should not wait long. The—the suicide rate is high. I would have come for you yesterday, but there were children to pick up. We are especially sensitive about newly orphaned children.”

  “I understand. I’ll come with you.”

  She nodded. “As you wish. My car is outside. You can follow in yours.”

  He did. She led him to another section of town. There was the smoking ruin of a house that had just burned down. The sooty hulk of the car showed where the garage had been. The fire truck was just departing.

  Sylvia parked, and Abner parked behind her. They went to the house. There was a woman on her knees beside the ashes, her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. No one was comforting her. No neighbors had gathered. That gave Abner the hint already: there had been a sopath in the house.

  “Mrs. Falcon,” Sylvia said.

  The wretched woman didn’t seem to hear her, unsurprisingly.

  “Bunty Falcon,” Sylvia repeated more loudly. “I am Sylvia. I represent Pariah.”

  The woman noticed her. She tried to get to her feet, but fell on the ground, too distraught to make it alone. Her hair and bathrobe were coated with ashes, her face streaked with grime and tears. Abner felt guilty for noticing the flash of her well-formed legs as the robe parted.

  “I’ll help.” Abner stepped in and put his hands on the woman’s shoulders, carefully heaving her to her feet. It was in part his way of masking his embarrassment for his peek, though he hoped it had gone unnoticed. How could he be tuning in on legs, in the throes of his own grief?

  She had caught her balance; he could tell by the shifting of her stance. He tried to let her go, but she turned into him, flung her arms around his body, and sobbed into his shoulder. Pretty much as he had done with Sylvia.

  He stood there, holding her, his awareness of her slender torso compounding his guilt. She needed honest comfort, not masculine appreciation. He looked over her shoulder at Sylvia.

  Sylvia nodded. “Let it be,” she murmured. “Whatever is needed.”

  He had become a member of Pariah. He discovered that this eased his own pain to a degree. He was helping another person, a woman who had evidently lost not only her family, but her home, her car, clothing, everything. She was worse off than he was.

  After a time, the woman calmed and drew back a little, without stepping clear of his embrace. “I—I apologize. I am normally a very rational, self-possessed person. I was just so overwhelmed.” Her face, under the dirt and dark, frazzled hair, was becoming, like a work of art amidst ruins.

  “No need,” he said. “I understand. I just lost my own family similarly. I am suffering too.”

  She essayed a faint smile. “Bunty.”

  “Abner. Maybe you had better come home with me. For now. Until the insurance—your home—”

  She made no pretense of hesitation. She knew her situation was dire. “Thank you. I appreciate the kindness of a stranger.”

  He looked questioningly at Sylvia. “That is exactly how it works,” she said. “Come to my house tomorrow, both of you. Here is my card.” She pressed it into his hand.

  Thus simply he was driving Bunty to his house. It seemed to be the proper thing to do. She was a total stranger, but he understood what she was suffering.

  “Before you take me in, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said as she rode beside him.

  “The policy is not to inquire,” he said. “It’s a painfully private matter.”

  “But I have to tell you. I murdered my son.”

  “I murdered my daughter. She was a sopath.”

  “We had heard of them, of sopaths, but were in denial. But when the house burned—he had locked the doors and windows—we never expected anything like that! It was sheer chance that I had gotten up early to use the toilet. I smelled the smoke and ran downstairs, not realizing how serious it was. I picked up a chair and bashed out a window and leaped through before the smoke got me. I ran around the house, somehow hoping my husband and daughter had escaped before me, but they hadn’t. Then I saw him there, still holding the gasoline can, watching the fire and chortling.”

  “They have no conscience,” he reminded her. “They can ki
ll from anger when disciplined.”

  “I was so enraged that I came up behind him, picked him up, and heaved him headfirst through the window into the burning house. He must have been stunned by the impact, because he never even screamed. He died in the fire. Now you know. I am a murderer. If you prefer to take me to the police station--”

  “They won’t listen,” he said. “My sopath daughter came after me with a kitchen knife. I held her by her feet and swung her head into a dresser. I must have broken her neck. She had already killed my wife and son.”

  “You do understand,” she said, shuddering.

  “Oh, yes, God help me.”

  “God help us both,” she agreed.

  They continued in silence.

  At the house he showed her briefly around. “It’s not fancy, and not cleaned up for visitors. It—it happened just yesterday. I haven’t paid attention.”

  “Could I—if you don’t mind—clean up a bit?”

  “Of course! Use the upstairs bathroom. It’s got soap and towels. You’ll need clothing—you’re about my wife’s size. Just rummage for what you need. She won’t be needing it anymore.” Then, overcome by sudden grief, he turned away.

  “I truly understand. Thank you.”

  Abner gave himself over to the emotion, knowing it was best to experience it rather than try to suppress it. Before long, wrung out, he recovered equilibrium. He sat in the living room, feeling almost like a guest in his own home, listening to the sound of the shower followed by the hair dryer and the squeak of the bedroom closet door. A third time he felt guilt for imagining her nude. He had no business thinking of her that way. Not now in his grief. Not ever.

  In due course Bunty reappeared. Abner took a breath.

  She was in one of Zelda’s outfits, clean, with her damp hair spread out about her shoulders in a dusky cloud. She more than fit the clothing, which she must have cinched here and let out there to accommodate her figure. She was beautiful.

  “All right?” she inquired gently.

  Abner felt himself blushing. “Was I staring? I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be concerned. I have been known to have that effect on men. I didn’t mean to overdo it.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” he said weakly.

  “Let me explain that I am the type of person who maintains control during an emergency, then collapses once whatever needs to be done is done. I will collapse again tonight. Fair warning.”

  “Warning taken,” he said. “I’m the same way. I will give you whatever distance you need. Just treat my house as yours. It needs the attention of a woman.”

  “Now let’s see what needs doing.” In a moment she was exploring the kitchen, especially the cupboards and refrigerator. “You are low on supplies.”

  “Zelda was going to grocery shop today.” He was suddenly overwhelmed again, and had to sit down. “Sorry. Right now I seem to lack your ability to stiff it out. But I recover quickly.”

  “Of course. We had better shop now.”

  “I don’t really know what to get. Zelda always handled it.”

  “Not your department,” she agreed. “But it is mine. If you will take me to the store, I’ll shop. I’m afraid I will have to use your money. My purse was lost, with my money and ID. It will take time to untangle that.”

  Abner didn’t argue. He drove her to the store, and she circulated through it with authority, knowing what she wanted. He gave her money, and she used it efficiently. They returned with a grocery bag full.

  Back at his house, she fixed him a nice lunch. This made him feel awkward. “This is—you really don’t need to—” he protested.

  “This is something I need to do,” she said.

  “I appreciate it.”

  In the afternoon they talked. Bunty was alert and clever, evoking similar qualities in him. He liked her. Then she lay on the couch and slept, fitfully. They had, it seemed, settled in.

  He gazed at her as she slept, admiring her form. It was simply an automatic male response to a woman who looked like her. She had mentioned along the way that she was thirty, his age, and in repose the lines of her face did hint at it. But she had by no means lost the bloom of youth. Her knees were drawn up, her skirt was bunched around her rear, and it was one fine example of its kind. He shouldn’t be looking.

  Tomorrow they would go to Sylvia’s house, other arrangements would be made, and Bunty would be out of his life. Then he would be alone again.

  He dreaded the prospect. At least today he had some distraction, of whatever nature. He needed that.

  She woke after an hour. “Oh, I think the afternoon is gone,” she said, chagrined. “I shouldn’t have slept.”

  “You needed it. You have had a terrible day.”

  “A terrible morning. You have been kind, and I truly appreciate it.”

  He spread his hands. “I appreciate the company. It makes the awfulness retreat.”

  “Yes. Let me see about dinner.” She got up and went to the kitchen. He let her.

  It was another nice meal. She did know her business. She even took care of the dishes, which had accumulated in the past day.

  Then it was evening and time to retire. “I’ll fetch a blanket and pillow for the couch,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “So you can have the bedroom.”

  “We will share the bedroom.”

  “But it’s a double bed.”

  “Room for both of us.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure you understand. You’re a comely woman. If I share the bed with you, I will get ideas. I know we’re both in severe grief, but it’s a male thing. I react despite knowing better.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “Abner, you are being kind to me. I mean to return the favor. We may never see each other again after tomorrow, but while we are together I will do my part. I am not a woman of many talents, but this is something I do know how to do. Please let me do it. I have seen you looking. I will not be a tease. It is not as if either of us can be unfaithful to our spouses, and we will not be, in our hearts.”

  He was dumbfounded. “Are you saying?”

  “I am.” She took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

  He tried to demur. “This—this really isn’t necessary. I brought you here because I saw how desperately you needed help, and I knew you wouldn’t get it from your family or friends. I did not have sex in mind, and I think it would be wrong to ask it of you.”

  “Exactly,” she repeated.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You did a generous thing. You’re a nice man. I have known you only hours, but that’s long enough to take your measure in key respects. You’re decent, and you like sex. You will never clasp your wife again, nor I my husband. It is better for us both to be realistic, and fulfill each other’s needs.”

  “Isn’t that like doing it for pay?”

  She nodded. “Not for money, in this case, but for mutual advantage. It’s a fair analogy.”

  “Not one I like.”

  “There is nothing about this situation that either of us likes. If we could wave a wand and restore our families, we’d do it instantly. But we can’t. We are up against a new reality. The faster we adjust to it, the better off we will be. That’s simply common sense.”

  “Common sense!”

  “I’ll be a weak woman before long, as I mentioned. At the moment I am riding the hard rail of necessity. This is something I need to do for you.”

  “You don’t need to do it!” he protested.

  “My realism says I do. Please, further argument will simply make it more difficult.”

  He realized that she was determined. She was certainly desirable. There were limits to his decency. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t want any part of it. But I have to do it. I don’t think I can kiss you; that’s too intimate. But I can do the rest.”

  “I still don’t kno
w—”

  She disrobed so efficiently that it was as if her clothing had dissolved. She stood splendidly nude before him. “Will you undress, or do you prefer me to do it for you?”

  Something clicked into place. “If you really mean to do this, then you can prove it by undressing me. You can stop at any time and I will not pursue you.”

  “A fair compromise,” she agreed. She approached him and started removing his clothing, beginning with his shirt.

  “You’ve done this before,” he said, not really surprised.

  “It was a game with my husband. He liked to be seduced.” She tackled his shoes, making him lift one foot and then the other. Then she addressed his trousers.

  “My wife became passionate when upset,” he said. “It was her way of coping.”

  “I like your wife.” The trousers dropped to his feet, and he stepped out of them.

  She drew down his undershorts. His penis sprang out, fully erect. “The—she was on the pill.”

  “So am I.” She stroked his member, encouraging it to further rigidity.

  “Lubricant helped.”

  “I have applied it.” She stooped to kiss the tip.

  She really was prepared. “I am running out of excuses.”

  “I noticed.” She drew him down on the bed. He found himself kissing her fine breasts, which had somehow come up against his face. Then she guided him to mount her, and her hands steered his eager member. Suddenly he was inside her, with volcanic urgency.

  There followed a sequence such as he had hardly dared imagine. It seemed he would never stop pumping out fluid, encouraged by her rhythmic contractions. She was correct: she did know how to do it.

  He subsided, gasping, but remained connected. She held him close against her, his head beside hers. He did not try to kiss her mouth, per her preference. He doubted she had climaxed with him; her action had been for him alone. That was about the only way the experience fell short of perfection.

  They cleaned up after, and lay down on the bed again, she in Zelda’s pajamas. “Are you satisfied?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he agreed, amazed.

  “Understand, this next has nothing to do with you or your performance. I am letting go.”