by Joanne Fluke
He met Mac’s level gaze. The big Irishman was thinking. Jerry had always liked Mac. He was usually impartial and he never spoke unless he had considered his words carefully. Surely Mac would not condemn him!
“I can see you feel bad, Jerry.” Mac spoke up at last. “We all do. And I know you didn’t deliberately try to hurt Doug. Do you want to talk about it?”
Mac had turned on him, too! His statements were carefully couched in the proper psychoanalytic terms, but Mac blamed him as much as the rest. There was no use staying there. They all condemned him!
“There’s nothing to talk about!” Jerry stood up and glared at them. “I’ve got a root canal scheduled for this afternoon, so you can have your stupid therapy without me. Trying to meet without Dr. Elias is crazy! You’re all meshuggenas!”
He knew they were watching as he slammed out the door. The sidewalk was slippery and he had forgotten his boots in Kay’s closet, but he wasn’t about to go back. He’d never see any of them again. They were all sick, and he was the only one who had guts enough to get along without Dr. Elias.
Jerry didn’t know why he was crying as he got on the freeway and drove toward downtown. They weren’t worth it. Maybe the tears were for Doug. He had been a good buddy and the accident was a tragedy, but it was an accident. He had to keep on remembering that.
He got off at the Lyndale exit and turned onto Hennepin. He had to pick up a Christmas tree on the way back to the office. As he drove past the basilica, he had a crazy urge to turn in and confess his fears to a priest. He had seen Going My Way on television last night. Barry Fitzgerald was perfect as the Father-confessor, but real priests were probably more like Father Marx.
Jerry began to chuckle as the copper dome receded in his rearview mirror. His grandparents would spin in their graves if they knew he had been tempted to set foot in a Catholic church. They had been Orthodox Jews. Jerry had lived with them until he went away to school, and then he had shed his restrictive life gratefully. All those dietary laws and traditions were a bother. Now he was a confirmed atheist. Religion meant nothing to him.
The Christmas decorations were up along Hennepin. Giant six-pointed stars flanked by evergreen boughs hung from every light post. Jerry couldn’t help it. He started to laugh again. Leave it to the goyim to use a Star of David for a Christmas decoration!
The Dayton building loomed on his right as he stopped for the light on Seventh Street. Each year Jerry and Dotty walked around the Dayton’s block to see the animated displays. Last year the huge department store had done the Twelve Days of Christmas, one window for each scene. They would have to take Betsy with them this year.
Just the thought of his niece made Jerry’s hands sweat inside his gloves. She had arrived last night, ten years old, with a sweet young body and a golden California tan. He kept Dotty by his side as a shield. Things would work out just fine as long as he was never alone with Betsy.
Cars were honking behind him. Jerry put his foot on the gas and his car jumped through the intersection. He could think about it later. Right now he had to pick up the Christmas tree and get back to the office.
“Dr. Feldman! You remembered!”
His receptionist smiled as he came through the door carrying the tree. Jerry supposed the girls would spend all afternoon decorating the damn thing. He still felt a twinge of guilt each time he passed the tree in his waiting room, but he had learned to live with it. Dotty even put up a tree at home.
“Mr. Jackson called, Dr. Feldman. He’ll be a little late.”
Jerry nodded and went to wash up. He hadn’t done a root canal in years, but Herb Jackson was an old college friend. Cosmetic reconstruction was his specialty now.
When Herb arrived, red-faced from the cold, Jerry suffered through the hail-fellow-well-met routine. He put Herb on nitrous oxide as fast as he could and shot him up with plenty of Novocain. With Herb set up with two suction tubes and a tiny rubber dam in his mouth Jerry was safe from his corny jokes.
The root canal went off without a hitch. Herb got a huge kick out of the card Jerry gave him: I’m not on drugs. I’ve just come from my dentist’s office. The cards were Dotty’s invention, her Christmas gift to him last year. It was past four when Herb left, his face still stiff with Novocain.
At four-thirty the girls locked up and Jerry was alone. He went to his office and reheated the last of the coffee. There was no work left to do, but he didn’t want to go home yet. He was still too upset. Dotty would notice and he’d be tempted to break down and tell her about the group. Dotty had no idea he was in therapy. She had never guessed his carefully guarded secret.
There was a message on his desk. Dr. Pearson had called again. Jerry crumpled the pink sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it into his wastebasket. He refused to start up with a new shrink. His therapy had begun and ended with Dr. Elias. He was cured. Nothing bad would happen if he kept himself under tight control.
Even though he tried not to think about it, Jerry’s mind slipped back to the girl and the awful secret that had sent him to Dr. Elias. Years later, he could still feel the sticky heat of that August night. Dotty had gone to visit her mother for a week. The apartment was lonely and stifling. The air-conditioning was broken. And Jerry was restless without his wife.
He needed some air. Jerry took the car out of the underground garage and zipped onto the freeway. He was wearing his oldest shorts and a thin shirt. The night air felt good on his body and he rolled down the windows all the way. He took an exit at random, Bass Lake Road. He’d never been out in that part of the suburbs before.
The streets were wide and lined with trees. In some places the branches almost met overhead. Old-fashioned lampposts stood on every corner. Their bulbs glowed softly. It was a stage setting of a small town, only fifteen minutes from the heart of the city.
There was a church, the old-fashioned kind with a bell tower and steeple, painted white. And a small corner drugstore, the kind he had only seen in movies. As he turned the corner he could hear children laughing and splashing in the community swimming pool.
He pulled up and parked across the street. There was a breeze and the leaves rustled overhead. A rustic wooden sign told him this was Lawrence Park. Jerry got out to sit on a green slatted bench beneath a huge oak tree.
The lights at the pool across the street blinked three times. It was too dark to see his watch, but Jerry thought it must be about ten in the evening, obviously closing time. In a few minutes a group of boys passed him, carrying towels and wet bathing suits. They were laughing and friendly. One or two smiled at him as if they knew him.
Five minutes later, the lights went off at the pool. Now Jerry was alone again and he leaned back against the bench. The stars were bright and he heard the rustle of small animals in the park. A dog ran down the path, stopping to sniff at several bushes. It was so quiet and peaceful there that Jerry began to long for a house in the suburbs. Then he saw her.
She was lovely. A small blond girl, budding breasts hugged tightly by last year’s swimsuit. She smiled at him, a complete stranger, in a very adult way. Jerry felt his heartbeat quicken. She took the path through the park, towel swinging lightly over her shoulder and just touching the rounded curve of her buttocks. She turned to look back at him once or twice. It was dark, but he was sure she was smiling.
Before he could think, he was following her into the heart of the park. It covered an extended city block, paths winding among huge trees and bushes. He could hear her footsteps on the path ahead, and the white towel she carried gleamed in the moonlight.
The lamppost in the center of the park was burned out. Jerry watched as she stopped and trailed one slim hand in the fountain. Then she turned and looked in his direction. He was sure he saw her hand rise and beckon to him in the shadows. Could she be older than she looked?
Something seemed to snap inside him. All the dark urges surfaced and he was running. She was running, too, but that was only a game. She wanted him. Hadn’t she deliberately beckoned to h
im in the darkness?
He caught her at the darkest spot in the park and wrestled her to the ground. Yes, she was playing at resisting. He could tell. His hand covered her mouth and she whipped her head from side to side, wet blond hair stinging against his fingers. Her skin was blazing with soft heat as he pulled down the top of her bathing suit and grasped her young breasts. As she squirmed and fought, he laughed, playing the game, taming her token resistance. She wanted him. It was her dream, her fantasy, and he would give it to her.
Hot and tight. He could not believe the power of her young muscles as he spread her legs. He was a match for her, his body hard and well-muscled from hours of tennis and racquetball. His fingers found her, explored her roughly, the way she wanted. She was so small and fierce beneath him. He threw himself on her, covering her completely.
As he lunged forward, his hand slipped from her mouth and she screamed. His mind cleared with the sudden shock. He looked down at her closely, without the cloud of his fantasy, and he knew the truth.
He ran and took the nightmare with him. How close he’d come! How terribly close to losing his wife, his career, his sanity.
Jerry had started with Dr. Elias the next day. He’d paid the high therapy costs and never told anyone he was in the group. And everything had been fine until Betsy had arrived. Betsy, the same face, the same age as the girl in the park. What if he lost control and raped his own niece!
His coffee was cold. It was after five and Dotty didn’t expect him home until nine-thirty or so. She approved of his rigid physical fitness program and she always had a light dinner waiting when he came in from the spa.
Jerry took out his running outfit and sighed. He didn’t feel like jogging his usual six miles. He was still upset about the way the group had turned on him and he wanted to see Dotty. She had a knack for jollying him out of his bad moods. He put his Adidas back in the closet and locked up the office. Then he drove to his Lake Minnetonka home. He hadn’t told Dotty he loved her in an awfully long time.
“Hi, Uncle Jerry!” Betsy was just coming down the stairs from her bath, wrapped in a fluffy towel. She ran to him and hugged him tightly.
“Hi, honey.” Jerry kissed the top of her blond head and managed to disengage himself. “Where’s Aunt Dotty?”
“Oh, she went out to get a pizza.” Betsy watched as he sat down in his recliner chair and then hopped up in his lap. She reached over to get the remote control and turned on the console television. “What do you want to watch, Uncle Jerry?”
“The news, I guess.” Jerry cleared his throat uncomfortably. He really wanted to tell Betsy to sit in another chair, but she was probably missing her parents and he didn’t want to be abrupt with her.
“You smell like my daddy.” Betsy giggled and squirmed on his lap. “That’s Pierre Cardin aftershave, isn’t it, Uncle Jerry? All the girls in my class think it’s sexy.”
Betsy moved to nuzzle his neck and Jerry noticed that one bare leg was completely exposed. He couldn’t help but stare at it. Light blond hair glistened on her thigh. Jerry tried not to notice, but the towel was just tucked in on top and it was starting to come loose. He could see the budding swell of her small breasts. Even though he knew that his niece was not being deliberately provocative, it was all Jerry could do to hang on to his control as he put her down firmly and made a show of glancing at his watch.
“I’m going jogging, honey. Tell your Aunt Dotty to save a piece of pizza for me and I’ll heat it in the microwave later. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He saw Betsy’s face fall as he rushed out the door, but that couldn’t be helped. He had to get away from her! His hands were shaking so hard he had trouble fitting the key in the ignition.
Jerry didn’t relax until he was back on the freeway, heading toward downtown. He had thought that part of his life was over, but now it was happening again. All those years in therapy hadn’t helped. For a moment he actually considered calling the new therapist, but that was ridiculous. If Dr. Elias hadn’t cured him, no one could. He was better off with his own method of coping. He’d jog the full circuit and exercise until he was exhausted. And he wouldn’t go home until Betsy was safely in bed for the night.
CHAPTER 5
“It looks like a church in here, Greggie!”
The girl giggled and Greg smiled back. She’d be all right if she stopped giggling like a teenager. She was at least twenty. He’d known right off that she had a great body under her punk clothes and she was more than willing to go home with him after the concert. Most girls played up to songwriters. And they all wanted a special song dedicated to them.
Greg lit another candle and placed it in the ring around the bed. It did look rather like the inside of a church, with all the votive candles in a circle. The girl thought it was kinky, and that was fine with him. She had been very eager to shed her clothes and play in the firelight.
“Do you want another glass of bubbly, Greggie?”
She ran one gold-tipped nail down the inside of his leg, and Greg nodded. It was easier than trying to remember her name. Sherry, Shelly, something like that. Her little-girl act was annoying, but he hadn’t brought her up here for conversation. To be entirely honest, he hadn’t been after sex, either. He’d just needed companionship tonight. Greg desperately feared being alone. And she certainly kept him from moping about Doug.
“I never had anyone write a song for me before!” She kissed him lightly as she filled his glass. “Will you sing it for me again, Greggie?”
Her face was very pretty in the firelight and Greg felt himself getting hard again. He went quickly to the piano and played the tune with a flourish. It was the standard little ditty he used for all girls. When he came to the part where the name belonged, he used baby.
The expression on her face was rapturous, and for a moment Greg felt guilty. She had moved to the bed and her skin was golden in the glow of the candles. Points of fire were reflected in her eyes, and he forgot all about his little deceit.
“Come over and play with me, Greggie.”
Her voice was low and teasing. She gasped when he rose from the piano and then she held out her arms. She thought his excitement was for her, not the fire. It was best she think that.
Greg stepped over the flames. As he felt the heat on his legs, his passion grew. It was all he could do to contain himself as he joined her on the bed in the glowing, flickering light. The circle of light. The circle of flame. The circle of power—and he was at the center.
It was late and she was sleeping, curled up like a kitten in the center of the bed. Greg finished the rest of the champagne. He had been drinking for hours, wide awake and listening. The flames were calling him, singing to him to build them higher. Very slowly, so as not to wake her, he moved from the bed.
There was a gold box of Dunhills on the table. Greg took one and knelt down before the tallest candle. He held his breath as he pushed the end of the cigarette into the fire. His heartbeat slowed and a trancelike expression came over his features as he watched intently.
The flame licked around the edges of the cylinder, daintily tasting his offering. It split in two at the point of intrusion and then rejoined at the tip, stronger and higher than before. The Dunhill blackened and scorched. A pencil-thin column of black smoke rose toward the high ceiling.
There was a light curtain of smoke in the room when the Dunhill was finally gone. Greg could feel the flame’s disappointment as it resumed its former shape. Fires were hungry things. They needed fuel to survive. Now the candle was burning low with only a thin wafer of wax to feed on.
The girl’s scarf was draped over the end of the bed, brightly printed silk in a checkerboard design. He reached for it, feeling the thick, smooth material slide over his fingers.
At first he only held it close, so the flame could admire it. He saw the flicker of greedy anticipation. Closer. Closer. The tongue fluttered out to caress and scorch. Silken fibers resisted the fiery kiss, smoldering defiantly. The flame licked higher, sp
reading and heating the woven threads to the combustion point. The dyes turned translucent as the scarf burst into light, holding the pattern for an instant past consumption.
Greg fed the flame slowly. The scarf was long and they had plenty of time. Blackened threads dropped to the rug and turned to ash. The flame danced joyously, romping nearly to his fingers as it begged for more. The pile of ash grew at the base of the candle.
Only one hungry mouth of flame was left and Greg could not bear to kill it.
He laid it down carefully in the pile of clothing by the bed and watched as it gathered new strength. It was growing, changing before his eyes, turning into a bright, powerfully beautiful blaze.
As the smoke in the room grew thick, the girl coughed and began to wake. It was her scream that finally roused him.
She grabbed a heavy wool blanket from the bed and threw it over the flames. “Help me, Greg! Get some water! And then call the fire department!”
As he rushed to the kitchen, Greg realized she had dropped her little-girl act. They doused the blanket thoroughly and beat at it with their hands. By the time the fire department arrived, the blaze was wet and dead.
After the firemen left, the girl said she had to go home. She had an early class in the morning. She was a sophomore at the university, majoring in mathematics.
Greg gave her some money for a new outfit and called her a cab.
While they were waiting, she went to the piano and picked out her song with one finger. When she came to the spot for her name, she stopped.
“Just fill in the name of your current companion. You wrote this same song for half the girls in my dorm.”
She laughed and gave him her telephone number. Then she kissed him. There was no giggle in her voice when she said good-bye.