by phuc
Bare wood floors. A brass rail bed, higher than usual. A single old dresser facing the bed with some sort of wood cabinet on top. A tawdry pole lamp lit the corner with hooded bulbs pointing different directions. The lights looked like cones, or wizards' hats. Weirdest of all was some kind of long varnished nightstand on casters, with a tacky flex arm fluorescent lamp on top.
All four walls stood bare. No pictures, prints, no decoration of any kind. The room's only adornment, it seemed, was the lone window to the left, with shutterslats instead of curtains, and a closed closet door.
"This used to be my father's den," she said. "Now I sleep here."
She turned off each cone on the pole lamp. All that lit the room now was the meager fluorescent light on the castered stand. She stepped out of her shoes, and went to look out the window.
Pure ass weird, but who cares? Johnny remembered. He'd never see her again after tonight. She could be as weird as she wanted. He took another sip of the cheap burgundy, then set it down.
The room smelled funny. Like (She said she worked in a hospital?) a hospital, a faint yet biting antiseptic scent. At least the brass bed looked promising. He could tie her up good on those big shiny rails and fuck her over in grand style. Gotta play the game awhile first, he reminded himself. He didn't want to be scaring the shit out of her yet. A little later for that, once I've got her tied down.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
She was just standing there, her back to him, staring out the little window. She made no response. The fluorescent light tinseled the room's darkness, which she seemed to be a part of now. Half blended, half formed. She slipped out of the black jacket, never turning. Then she squirmed out of the tight gray jeans.
Now we're rocking. Johnny stripped down to his BVDs in less time that it took him to flex his cock. "Lie back on the bed," she whispered. Johnny obliged. For a moment he had a strange image as she moved through the dark: that she was just a pair of legs walking around the room.
No body. Just legs. That was all he could see 'til his eyes adjusted. Those two bare, beautiful white legs. She opened the closet door to get something; Johnny noticed several wigs hanging inside. Was she wearing a wig? She can be bald headed for all I care, he thought. Then she turned, approached the bed. She still had on the see through black blouse, and black panties. He could see her smile.
She was holding something in her hand.
"What's that?" he asked, hands behind his head as he lay back.
"Massage oil." She held the plastic bottle up. That's what it said on it: MASSAGE OIL. "Turn over so I can give you a back rub."
I'm easy, he thought and flipped over. The bed creaked a little when she climbed on. She sat on him, her crotch just behind his ass. Next he felt several spurts of the warm oil land on his back.
Her hands deftly massaged it into his skin. Then a few more squirts 'til he was slick with it. He could hear the slick sound as her fingers worked over his muscles. Then her hands opened flat and pushed up and down as she leaned forward. This ain't bad at all, he thought, closing his eyes.
In moments it was like a dream. It was like he was floating. "Is that good?" she kept inquiring.
"Yeah," he kept murmuring back. Her fingers were turning him to putty; he could drift off to sleep. This was the best back rub of his life.
He concentrated on the sensation: the nimble hands sliding up and down in the oil, the nimble fingers plying every muscle. Then they opened around the back of his neck and over his shoulders, rubbing, rubbing...
"Is that good?"
"Yeah."
"Let me get these panties off," she said, and climbed off.
Johnny rolled over. He felt stupidly relaxed. She climbed back on, sitting on his thighs. Aw, what a bush! he thought. It splayed between her thrust legs: dark, plush, but not straggly. Her hand tickled over his erection in his shorts, then she leaned forward again, running her hands smoothly over his chest and the tops of his shoulders. Johnny raised his hands
"No," she nearly snapped. "Not yet. You can't touch me yet. I touch you first. That's the deal."
"Sure, babe. Whatever you say." He lowered his hands. What's her hang up? he wondered. But it was better to let her do what she wanted first, that way she'd be more inclined to trust him.
"Anything you want," he droned. "Anyway you like it."
He watched her lean up a moment, and skim off the sheer black blouse. That about did it for Johnny; he doubted he'd ever seen a rack of tits so perfect in his life. No implants, either. Large but no sag, firm. Gorged dark nipples sticking out. Johnny wished women had milk in their hooters all the time, not just after they'd dropped a rug rat. Wouldn't that be great? he thought. I'd suck this pair bone dry.
She rubbed his chest a little longer, then sat up. "You can touch me now," she whispered.
"Anywhere you want."
The words sounded echoed, hollow. Johnny didn't quite yet realize what was going on. His eyes pasted on her breasts, her pubis, diverting him. She looked like something made of smooth marble, and her smile appeared more Buddahlike even than human: gleefully empty. Then he saw her hands
What the hell's that on her hands?
The thought beat down.
She was wearing rubber gloves.
Surgical gloves.
And when he went to raise his arms
God in heaven what the hell is wrong with me?
his arms didn't move at all.
The wine. She musta put something in the w
"Look," she whispered.
She knelt up, thrust her hips forward.
"See?" she whispered. "See?"
Johnny's vision sunk in muck
"See?"
his eyes closed to slits
"See?"
through which
"See?"
he could barely
"See?"
see.
The madwoman's fingers parted the outer lips of her sex.
"See, Daddy? You can't hurt me anymore."
But he could see enough, before consciousness winked out: the pink minora sewn shut by wide surgical stitches.
And now, awake again, Johnny realized that his own mouth had been similarly sewn shut.
Through the chaos, some sliver of his psyche attempted to reassemble order not an easy task when one awoke to find himself handcuffed to a brass bed in some interstice of hell, with a demon at the bedside.
"Don't worry. You won't die. I have a coagulant salve."
In the half light, off to the left, he could see her, her sleek back to him as she busied herself in some arcane chore.
"But you won't pass out, either. I've injected you with about 200 milligrams of Desoxyn. It'll keep your heart rate in high enough numbers to prevent your nervous system from shutting down against the pain."
He heard metal clinking. She seemed to be assembling something, some object with a crank of some sort. Then she was picking something up, which glinted.
"Because that's the important part. What you feel. What I make you feel."
His heart was ticking like a bomb. Each time his arms and legs fought against their fetters, a loud metallic snap! resulted.
snap!
"Stop that."
snap!
"It's annoying.
snap!
"Stop it!"
Then she turned. She was still naked. She still wore the hideous, tight rubber surgical gloves, the color of condoms.
Bobby pins held her short, black hair tight to her scalp. She'd been wearing a wig, and he could still see the other wigs hanging on the inside of the closet door.
And what was that thing with the knobbed handle? And she was holding something now, wasn't she? In her gloved hand, against the smooth, flawless white abdomen, something glinted.
What is that? he thought, squirming. What's that thing in her hand?
Perhaps she'd deciphered the question. Perhaps, as she gently and so silently approached the bed perfect in her naked beauty, and even
more perfect in her madness perhaps she'd seen him ask the question through the sinking, melting, coalescing terror in his wide open eyes. For, next, she held the implement up in the hellish white light and answered:
"These are Bruns serrated plaster shears."
| |
Chapter 25
(I)
Kathleen's eyes fluttered open to weird dices of light. It was the television a cable sports channel with the volume all the way down. She'd fallen asleep on Maxwell's couch, and here was Maxwell himself, asleep in her lap. One arm curled around the back of her waist, the other under her thigh; he was using her stomach for a pillow. The colors from the TV throbbed in and out of the apartment's cool, air conditioned darkness. She thought back...
Did I dream? she wondered.
She couldn't remember, which was just as well. The recurring nightmare was draining all her energy. Even thinking of it made her grow gooseflesh.
Someone was dreaming, though.
She'd never known Maxwell to snore thank God but he did occasionally utter silly noises in his slumber. Sometimes he even talked, nonsensical fragments or errant words. In her lap now, he snuggled her and murmured: "They're coming.'
"What? Maxwell? Are you awake?"
He was not awake. His arm tightened about her thigh. "They're coming to get you, Barbara," he mumbled.
Barbara, huh? Kathleen faintly smirked. So he's dreaming of old girlfriends. She couldn't very well hold that against him, though it irked her just the same. You could at least be polite enough to dream about me, Maxwell. That or keep your mouth closed when you're off in slumberland.
Baseball men were running around the lit TV screen. Kathleen looked around. Highlighted against the slider window, and the moon, the silhouette of Maxwell's typewriter stood out. A sheet of paper wagged from the roller.
The poem, she thought. Earlier he'd said he was writing a poem for her. It would be shitty of her to read it without his permission, but...
She couldn't help it.
Very gently she edged out from under Maxwell, then stood up. When she was sure she hadn't wakened him, she turned and tiptoed toward his desk.
She squinted over the sheet of paper in the machine and began to read: A KEATSIAN
"Don't you dare," sprang Maxwell's voice.
Kathleen turned guiltily back around. "I thought you were asleep. I "
He was sitting up in the dark. "You're not supposed to read it yet. It's not finished... Did you read it?"
"No," she said.
"But you were going to, right?"
"Well..."
"How much did you read?"
"‘A Keatsian' and that's all."
Maxwell hesitated. "I don't think I believe you."
"I don't care!" she said. "And you're hardly in a position to be giving me a ration of crap. Who's Barbara?"
Maxwell leaned forward. "Who?"
"Who?" Kathleen haughtily mimicked. "You know who. Barbara, your dream girl."
"Kathleen, I don't know what you're "
"You said her name in your sleep."
Maxwell fell silent a moment, deliberating. "Barbara? But I don't even know any Oh, wait a minute. The movie."
"What movie?"
"While you were sleeping I had the USA network on. They were running Night Of The Living Dead. One of the characters' names was Barbara."
"Come on, Maxwell," she replied. "Can't you lie better than that?"
"I'm serious," he insisted. "This guy with glasses was saying ‘They're coming to get you, Barbara,' and then this zombie started chasing her. I think he wanted to eat her."
Well, I guess he's not lying, Kathleen concluded.
"Aw, can you believe it?" Maxwell complained. Scores flashed on the silent TV. "The Yankees lost again. Looks like I'm going to owe Chizmar another case of beer this year. Highest paid batting staff in baseball and the best of them couldn't hit a beachball with an ironing board.
Nobody loses to Baltimore four times in a row. Nobody."
"I have to go now, Maxwell," Kathleen said. She slipped on her shoes and picked up her purse.
"It's almost four in the morning," Maxwell protested.
Was it that late? "I really should go "
"But I don't want you to go. Stay here with me."
"I need to get up early," she excused. "I'm pretty much done with the outlining. I'm ready to begin the actual text."
"Text? What text?"
"For the book, Maxwell. The book about the killer."
Maxwell let that one sit a while. He seemed to percolate from the couch. "What does the book have to do with you not staying here tonight? Did I forget to use my deodorant?"
"I like your deodorant, Maxwell."
"It's foolish to leave now. You shouldn't be driving home through the city this late."
"I'm a big girl," she said. She knew she must be confusing him now, sending mixed signals. But she wanted to go home. She wanted to be fresh in the morning to begin. Perhaps she'd even begin tonight. Nighttime seemed the best time to start such a book. The dead of night, she thought. "I'll call you tomorrow," she insisted. "Besides, you need to work on my poem."
"I never see you long enough to give it to you. I guess I could always give it to Barbara."
"And I guess I could kick you hard in your poetical ass, couldn't I?" She quickly kissed him on the lips.
"Why don't you reconsider and let me make love to you?"
"I wouldn't be very good tonight."
"I would," he said. "Guaranteed. I'll give you boundless orgasms."
Yes, you probably would. The extemporaneous suggestion sparked a crude lust, but it didn't feel real. She felt too distracted for sex right now, too pent-up in other things. Better that she wait, when it could be real, and good for both of them.
"Soon," she promised. "You'll see."
"Is that what you tell all the guys?"
"No, just you. All the other guys I lie to."
"Oh, well, in that case..."
He looked forlorn sitting there in the dark. He seemed to fidget, hands clasped. "I love you," he said.
She kissed him again and left.
Her shoes clapped rapidly down the steps. In the lobby, the desk guard glanced up from a magazine with the bizarre title Palace Corbie. He eyed her, pinch faced, as she pushed through the exit doors. P Street lay before her, abandoned. The warm night air refurbished her anticipations about the book. She hustled across the street, heels scuffing asphalt, and when she was halfway into the parking lot, Maxwell's voice echoed high to her rear.
"I love you," he said.
The words boomed in the street, a swarming concussion. Kathleen turned and looked up to see Maxwell standing on his dark, second story balcony. A tepid breeze sifted the fine, blond hair.
"I guess that sounds pretty corny," he considered. "Such words, spoken from a balcony, in the middle of the night."
"I doesn't sound corny, Maxwell," she said, and laughed as she unlocked her car door.
His next words echoed louder. "Come back up here so I can make love to you. We can do it all night."
Kathleen's face turned hot red. "Maxwell! The whole neighborhood will hear you!"
Maxwell shrugged. "So? I want them to know; I want everybody to know that I love you."
The empty street amplified the words to something greater than words, it seemed. She and Maxwell could've been the only two people in the world just then. She looked up at him, nearly staring, as if adrift. "I love you too," she said.
"What? Hey!" Maxwell almost fell off the balcony. "What did you say!" he shouted.
Kathleen slid into the T Bird, closed the door, started the engine. She could still hear him shouting: "What did you say! Did you say what I think you said? Say it again!" Now I've done it, she thought. She pulled out of the lot and drove off. Maxwell's booming voice followed the car all the way up to Dupont Circle: "Come back here, Kathleen! Say what you just said a minute ago, damn it!"