by Chris Belden
“Thank you—and I was wondering how you managed to come up with such a marvelous concept.”
“Well,” Shriver said, his eyes still focused on her uneaten cracker, “I don’t really know. It’s been so long.”
“Oh no, Mr. Shriver. Don’t disappoint me. I’m sure you remember.”
“Not really.”
The doctor devoured the cracker, her teeth making loud crunching sounds as she chewed. With her other hand she still had hold of his elbow in a manner that was strangely intimate.
“Come with me,” she said. “I want to show you something.” And with her fingers still gripping his arm she directed him down a hallway and into a dark room. He thought of the mystery writer and wondered if their affair began this way.
She turned on a light. Shelves lined the walls from the floor to the very tall ceiling, each shelf crammed with books of all sizes. Shriver felt his sigmoid seize up at the smell of decaying paper.
“This is my favorite room in the house,” she said. “I told the architect he could do what he wished with the living room, the kitchen, the bedrooms, but with this room I was to have complete and utter control.”
Beside a stone fireplace sat a tall-backed reading chair and standing lamp.
“It’s very nice,” Shriver said, resting a hand on his lower belly. He could feel his duodenum rumbling, like a kicking fetus at eight months.
Dr. Keaudeen went to a rolling ladder that was attached to the shelves and climbed several steps. She reached out and took down a book. He recognized it as Goat Time.
“A first edition,” she said as she held it out for him. From a side table she produced a silver pen. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to get you to sign this.” She smiled. A bright green sliver of spinach showed between her otherwise gleaming front teeth.
Nearly doubled over now, Shriver was unable to take the book and pen from her.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice strained, as if talking too loudly would let loose everything from inside his bowels. “I’d be happy to sign it, but first I need to use the facilities, if you don’t mind.”
Her face showed surprise, but she was not insulted. “Of course. Use the one upstairs. It’s much nicer.”
She pointed to the door, outside of which he could make out the foyer and a set of marble stairs. He ran.
“Are you all right?” she called out after him.
He scrambled up the marble stairs and found himself in a long dark hallway lined on both sides by closed doors. The first door led to a large closet. The second opened into a guest bedroom. The third room was some sort of recreation room, with a huge television and a Ping-Pong table. In the fourth room he found a small boy sitting in a chair reading a book.
“Hello,” the child said. Five or six years old, with well-combed brown hair and freckles on his nose, he wore a long-sleeve shirt and sweater vest. At his feet lay a tuxedo cat. The animal resembled Mr. Bojangles in every particular: the black fur with white socks, the white tummy and chest, even the uneven splash of white under its chin. The cat raised its small head and gazed up at Shriver as if to ask what he was doing here.
“Are you looking for the restroom?” the boy asked. Shriver nodded emphatically. The boy pointed next door. Though Shriver wanted very much to stay and pat the cat’s furry little head, he shut the door and moved on.
He entered a vast bedroom, apparently the master suite. He crossed an expanse of white shag carpeting past a king-size bed covered in a crimson comforter and a dozen fluffy, matching pillows. A lamp on the bedside table illuminated the room in a soft pink light. A door in the corner led to a bathroom nearly as large as the bedroom. He almost slipped on the pink marble floor as he made for the commode. With no time to even shut the door, he yanked down his trousers and plunked down on the seat, reigniting the fire of his bruise.
In the peace of the moment, Shriver wondered who the author of “The Imposter” could be and how he knew Shriver’s secret. Was he dangerous? Had he done something to Gonquin? Was he some kind of literary serial killer? Shriver groaned. One little error of judgment, he thought, one foolish step out into the world, and I might get killed for it? It serves me right, he told himself, for pretending to be a writer.
“Mr. Shriver?” he heard the gynecologist call from the bedroom.
He stood and, with his pants bunched at his ankles, waddled to the still-open bathroom door and shut it.
“Are you okay, Mr. Shriver?”
“Fine!” he called as he sat back down. “Ouch.”
“My son says you looked distressed.”
“I’m really quite all right.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be back down in a moment.”
There was a pause, and then, “Very well.”
He finished up, washed his hands, and splashed some water on his face. Several soft-light bulbs lined the mirror, like those in a backstage dressing room. He had rarely seen himself this way—so well lit, without shadows. “How long can you keep this up?” he asked. A pale face with graying whiskers and bloodshot eyes stared back at him.
He opened the door. Dr. Keaudeen sat on the edge of the bed, reading Goat Time.
She smiled, as if he’d returned after a very long absence. “I was starting to worry.”
“Sorry. My system is a little out of whack. All this excitement, I guess.”
She held the book aloft. “I just adore the airplane scene. So amusing.”
“Thank you,” he said from across the room.
She patted the spot on the bed beside her.
“Don’t forget—I would love for you to sign it for me.”
“Of course.” He wanted to get this over with and go back downstairs to the food. He felt hollowed out, like a Halloween pumpkin. He went to the bed and, without sitting, took the book and pen. He opened the book to the title page and wrote, To Margaret, Thank you for the lovely soiree. He signed the author’s name and handed it back to her.
“Thank you so much!” She set the book down on the bed without reading his inscription. “Now, please, sit here with me for a while and speak to me of literature. It’s the least you can do.”
She took his hand and, with that surprising strength of hers, pulled him down to sit on the bed, where he nearly toppled over. It was a waterbed. The surface rippled and swayed beneath him.
The doctor laughed. “You have no idea how much this bed weighs, Mr. Shriver. I had to have the floor and walls below specially reinforced to hold it. But it was worth every penny, believe me.”
For a long, grueling moment they sat in silence. Shriver stared down at the shag carpet, but he could sense the doctor’s eyes boring into him.
“So,” he said. “That was your son?”
“Reggie.”
“And where is Reggie’s father?”
She laughed. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
Probably a writer, Shriver thought.
From behind her the doctor produced a bound manuscript.
“This is my novel,” she told him. “Will you look at it?”
She thrust it into his lap. Through the clear plastic cover he could make out the title: Between the Knees.
“It’s about a gynecologist who discovers a deep, dark secret. Oh, I know, I’m writing about someone like me—a vivacious, beautiful physician—but we have to write what we know, don’t we? I mean, your book is about you, isn’t it, when you get right down to it?”
He hefted the thick manuscript.
“A patient dies,” she continued, “and leaves behind some mysterious information, a kind of code, if you will, and Dr. Modine—she’s the protagonist—must embark on a journey to discover the truth. It’s a guaranteed bestseller, I can assure you. There is lots of adventure, sex, and violence. It’s got everything!”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“Will you read it, and tell me what you think? And you must be honest. I know that revision is important when y
ou’re writing a novel.”
“That’s what they say.”
“I would be ever so grateful. You must tell me what I can do for you in return.”
She leaned toward him, her big, bleached teeth looming, her eyes large and dilated. He could smell nicotine on her, mixed with perfume and perspiration.
Just then, the door creaked open and the tuxedo cat rushed in and leaped onto the bed.
“Mr. B.!” Dr. Keaudeen shouted. “Bad kitty!”
“Mr. B.?”
The cat sniffed at Shriver’s hands and began to purr. Shriver ruffled its soft ears and thought of his own Mr. B. back home. The cat then looked up at him with its green eyes, hissed, and swatted at Shriver’s hand with claws extended.
“Bad pussy!” Dr. Keaudeen cried. She picked up the cat and tossed it across the room. She then grabbed Shriver’s hand to examine it. “He drew blood!”
Three thin red lines had formed on the back of Shriver’s hand.
“Let me get a cloth,” the doctor said, rushing to the bathroom.
“I’m fine, really,” Shriver called to her, though his hand did sting.
“You have to be careful of lymphadenopathy,” she called back over the sound of running water. She returned a moment later with a wet washcloth.
“Lympha what?”
“Cat-scratch fever, silly.” She covered his hand with the warm cloth. “We may love our kitty-cat friends, but they are little germ factories.”
The wet cloth felt soothing on the scratches, which had begun to pulse. Shriver shut his eyes.
“Does that feel nice?” Dr. Keaudeen asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
Shriver felt her remove the cloth and then reapply it, but this time the cloth felt different—smoother, warmer. He opened his eyes to see Dr. Keaudeen licking his hand and fingers. He yanked his hand back.
“Oh, darling!” Dr. Keaudeen grunted, grabbing his hand again. She pulled him closer, and the waterbed waves forced him forward until his face landed in her lap. “Yes!” she cried, forcing his head down so that his nose touched her crotch. Before he knew what was happening, she had somehow pulled her skirt up to her waist, leaving Shriver face-to-face with a leopard-print thong. He tried to pull away but the gynecologist gripped his ears and pushed his face deep into the musky triangle.
“Kiss me there, Shriver,” she growled. “Please!”
“Mmffpf,” he said, arms flailing.
She lay back and the bed heaved and roiled beneath them. Shriver attempted to pull himself up, but the mattress was all give, and he could not find the necessary leverage. Meanwhile, Dr. Keaudeen tugged at his ears and writhed as if his nose were a cattle prod.
Then she grabbed him by the hair—“Oww!” he cried—and yanked his head up toward hers.
“Take me!” she grunted. “Take me now!”
Her face was dark pink, her eyes glassy.
“Doctor,” he said, but, with nostrils flapping, she pulled his face down and kissed him so forcefully that their teeth clattered together. Her tongue, which tasted as if it had soaked overnight in cheese and tobacco, forced itself into his mouth.
“Mmffpf!”
As he squirmed atop her, unable to roll off with her legs clasped tightly around his sore rear end, Shriver felt something land on his back—four small points of pressure. Just when he’d figured out what was happening, the cat sank its claws through his shirt and into his skin.
“Ouch!” he screamed into Dr. Keaudeen’s mouth.
She laughed. “Oh, that’s just Mr. B. He likes threesomes.” She groaned and ground her crotch against him while keeping his legs pinned.
“Mr. Shriver!”
The voice was familiar. Shriver somehow managed to turn his head and saw a flash of blond hair.
“Simone!”
He pushed himself up to see the now-empty bedroom doorway. He heard steps—angry steps, somehow—descending the marble staircase.
“Wait!” he shouted. The startled cat leaped from his back. Shriver flopped and rolled his way to the edge of the bed.
“No,” Dr. Keaudeen pleaded. “Don’t stop now!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, clambering over the wooden bed frame and onto solid ground. He felt as though he’d stepped off a rowboat onto a dock. “Simone!” he shouted again.
He ran out of the bedroom into the hall.
“But you forgot my novel!” the doctor cried.
Shriver took the stairs two at a time, nearly slipping on the slick marble, and entered the crowded party room. For a moment no one noticed him, and he took advantage by scanning the room for Simone. There: a blond head exiting through a set of French doors.
Shriver pushed through the crowd.
“Hey, Shriver!” T. hollered.
But Shriver slipped out to the back patio and shut the doors behind him. Something flashed overhead. Lightning? He saw another flash and heard a deep, teeth-chilling buzz. He looked up to see a large insect-killing device mounted on a pole. Flash! Zzzzzch! Another mosquito sizzled on an electric coil.
In the blue glow of the bug killer Shriver made out a figure dashing across the grass.
“Simone!”
She turned and in the glow of yet another eviscerated bug he saw her face. Then she disappeared into the darkness. Shriver ran across the patio. As soon as he stepped onto the grass, away from the safety of the bug killer, the mosquitoes descended upon him.
Waving at the bloodsuckers, he ran around the huge house toward the front yard. With each step his hands, his wrists, his neck, his ears prickled beneath the probing sting of a hundred insects. He heard the familiar rumble of Simone’s car.
When he reached the front yard he saw the leviathan backing out of the driveway. Shriver ran across the lawn, yelling, “Wait! Wait!” Simone braked and switched gears. Shriver managed to jump onto the foot rail on the passenger side just as Simone accelerated out of the driveway. He held on to the side-view mirror and yelled her name through the closed window.
“And here I was beginning to like you,” he thought he heard her say through the glass. Or maybe she said, “Isn’t that just like you.” In any case, he was almost certain he saw tears rolling down her face.
“Please, Simone,” he cried, but she ignored him. He held on for three blocks before realizing she really was not going to stop. She made a hard right turn and the wheels jumped a curb. Shriver went sailing and landed hard on the sidewalk.
He lay on the cement, rubbing his now doubly sore behind, and watched Simone’s taillights disappear into the night. “Simone,” he shouted after her, “I am an imposter!” But she was gone.
“Well,” he said to a stop sign, “that didn’t work out very well.”
On the brief but hair-raising ride, he’d gotten all turned around and was not at all sure which way led back to Dr. Keaudeen’s house. On still-shuddering legs he walked a block or so in one direction, but nothing seemed familiar, so he headed in the opposite direction, but that didn’t seem right either. Eventually he found himself on a major town road. He walked on for several blocks, then, totally lost, he sat on the curb and rested.
How could he possibly screw this up more? he wondered. Still, there was one silver lining: Simone must have had feelings for him to have reacted that way.
He was consoling himself with this thought when a single sheet of paper, blown by a warm, mosquito-infested breeze, landed at his feet. He picked it up and saw a block of the familiar font. At the top: “The Imposter, page 6.” He started to read:
“. . . and as he gazed down at the clouds far below, the imposter wondered if . . .”
And then the words turned into little black rivulets, and he was unable to read further. At that moment, he felt like the loneliest man in this harsh, unforgiving universe.
Then he heard the familiar rattle of Edsel Nixon’s jeep. He looked up to see the unmistakable vehicle pass through the intersection a block away. He jumped up and ran down the street, waving his arms like a madman. “Edsel!” he
shouted, his eyes half-shut as the bugs bounced off his face. At the intersection he turned left. He thought he saw the jeep’s taillights, now two or three blocks away. “Edsel!”
He ran on, seeing only a few feet of sidewalk through his slitted eyes. There was no way he was going to catch the jeep. The tiny red taillights were getting smaller. He considered slowing down but feared the loss of blood—at least at his present velocity the insects seemed to have a hard time landing and digging in—so he carried on. But after a few blocks he felt his lungs burning, his legs losing steam. It had been years since he’d run like this—so long ago he couldn’t remember.
Walking now, his lungs aching, he felt the mosquitoes latch on to his hands and neck, but he didn’t care. In the pale light of the street lamps he saw only a deserted block. An insect buzzed into his open mouth. He gagged and spat it onto the sidewalk.
Wait. He recognized the street. He’d been here before. Across the way stood a familiar building—Slander’s Restaurant. He reached the restaurant door and pulled. Locked.
“No!” he cried. Inside, the place was dark, chairs upturned on top of tables. Bugs ricocheted off the windows.
He looked up the street, saw a red neon light: OPEN. He ran to the door. Inside, he found a large room lit by weak fluorescent tubes that hummed across the ceiling.
“Hello.” On the far side of the room a young woman sat behind a tall counter reading a book. Shriver took several steps toward her. “Mr. Shriver?” she said. He looked closer. Cassandra, from Teresa Apple’s class. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’m just taking shelter,” he answered, peeling another bug from his tongue.
“Uh-huh. That’s a new one.”
“No, really. It’s the mosquitoes.”
“Whatever.” She turned back to her book. “Take your time. Let me know if you have any questions.”
As he stepped farther into the room he saw that display cases lined the walls, front to back. He paused, taking in the bold titles of the magazines there: Swank, Cavalier, Stud, Gent, Wet, Slit, Juggs, Hombre, Pump, MiLF, GiLF, 18 & Anxious, Horndog, Hard, Wood, Spunk, Facial, Hole, Hairy Hole, Aureole, Skank, Slut, Teen Slut, Slut Mamas, Boobs, Bodacious Boobs, Tiny Tits, Splooge, Babysitters, Candy Stripers, Teabaggers, Teen Teabaggers, Ho, Dirty Sanchez’s House of Ho’s, Golden Shower, D Cup, A Cup, Cleveland Steamer, Mammal—and the endless cover photos of naked flesh.