The Kissing Game

by Marie Turner

  “And how do you propose we get there?” I ask. “Neither one of us has a car.”

  “We could rent one.”

  My lungs stow away air, offering no room for new oxygen. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I just need to think.”

  “Look, just sit down with me and let’s think this over.” Ted hooks his fingers around my elbow and guides me to the couch. We both sit down in the dark.

  But before I have time to contemplate anything, I notice two shadows outside Ted’s sliding glass window. They walk in tandem, jingling as they approach. Ted must notice them too because he thrusts his hand over my mouth and shoves me on my back on the couch, before launching his whole body on top of mine. “Shhh,” he whispers. Ted smells like honey-scented shampoo, and his knee feels like a rock gouging my shin. It’s déjà vu suddenly. A man on top of me on the couch.

  Smack. Smack. Smack. Sounds like rocks hitting the window rather than a fist rapping on glass.

  “It’s those policemen looking for you,” Ted whispers so quietly in my ear that I feel his warm breath more than I hear his words. “Don’t move.”

  Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack.

  Ted and I lie there prostrate, unmoving, the weight of him less than that of Robert, but still heavy enough to make me sink far into the couch. I can hear the policemen’s radios talking loudly, feel Ted’s hot breath on my ear, feel the panic dragging and moaning inside my chest, culminating into a firelight of dread until my brain reaches for something soothing, something to calm that sensation that threatens to completely deprive me of oxygen. And for no apparent reason, I think only of Robert. In my mind, I see him. Robert at his desk looking like a suited deity while mere mortals schlep by, Robert with his hands defensively in front of him after I’ve just kissed him in the elevator, Robert in his office babbling about land claims to Judge Herrington while his hand touches my knee, Robert trembling and leaning over his father’s hospital bed, Robert acting like a madman while his hand rises up my skirt. And instantly I feel it. The room closes around me in a razorous calm while a crimson revelation rises vast and shivering, pricking millions of cells inside me with tiny tinctures of truth. I love him. I love Robert, not the kind of love that clouds judgment and waivers at the slightest provocation, but the kind that passes through the broken ruins and ugly villages that exist inside all of us and still loves despite that unsightliness, the kind that rides across the infinite breadths of space and time, armored and impenetrable by the savagery of speculation or words or weapons. It’s not the pale revelation that dissipates but the kind of knowledge that serenades like the soprano of boneflutes until it becomes you, until it is you.

  In this moment of life-altering reflection, I feel Ted’s lips on my cheek, and then my neck, and then my cheek again, his hand seizing my hair while the other hand still covers my mouth. Meanwhile, the officers rap on the sliding glass door again, and I can’t yelp or squeal for fear of being discovered, so I lie there feeling the violation of Ted’s mouth. Ted Bundy, the serial kisser, and I, his victim. And yet, I want more than anything to climb out from under Ted, grab my cell from my bag, and call Robert to tell him I love him, however foolish that may be. As Ted attempts serial seduction, I listen intently to the sounds of the officers as their radios stride away, back towards wherever they came from before I steal Ted’s hand away from my mouth, shove him off me, and roll off the couch onto the floor. I scramble from my knees into a standing position.

  “What’re you doing?” I demand breathily in the dark.

  “What do you mean? I’m kissing you, obviously. I like you, Caroline. This can’t be a surprise,” Ted states, sitting there on the couch looking accused. “Why do you think I come to see you so often? Why do you think I’m always outside when you’re on your way to work in the morning? You think I like the freeway noise? The ambiance of our ghetto neighborhood? Why else would I want to help you now? Because I like you. I’ve liked you for some time. I want to be with you, spend time with you, help you, especially now.”

  His murky apartment feels sinister and confined, the white walls like a jail cell. His small kitchenette nearby reminds me of that of some seedy motel.

  “Ted, look, the thing is, I appreciate your friendship,” I say while Ted wheezes. “I really do. I like you, too, but not … not in that particular way. Don’t get me wrong. You’re … you’re very very attractive, and I’m sure you could get any girl you want. It’s just that I can’t … I don’t…”

  “Why? Because of him? Because you’re into him, aren’t you? Your boss?” Ted asks, his lower jaw extending forward.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “How can you care about him when he clearly treats you like shit?” Ted demands. His face looks small and cavernous suddenly.

  “How do you know?”

  “The walls are thin, Caroline. I hear you talking about him to your friends on the phone. I know the stuff he does to you.”

  “You listen to me through the walls?” I take a step backwards. Ted rises and walks toward me.

  “Yes, I do. I listen to you through the walls. I know what kind of person you are. You’re kind, forgiving, generous. You deserve someone much better than that monster.” Ted steps close enough to me to kiss me again, and I briefly fear him the way you fear serial killers who want to sodomize you.

  I put my hands up in front of me, while Ted puts his arms around my waist and pulls me into a kiss, this one on the mouth. His tongue is wet and watery and suddenly I have the urge to pee, perhaps out of fear, shock, or just plain need. I’m not sure. Like a rabid lesbian, I shove him away from me. “Look, Ted, really, you’re great, but I really have to use the bathroom.”

  His face briefly looks as though he’s dying before he says, “Sure,” and points down the hall.

  In the blackness of his apartment hallway, I run my fingers along the uneven surface of the plastered wall until I reach the bathroom, step inside, and close and lock the door before flicking on the light. In the mirror, my hair is a red cataclysm, my skirt is wrinkled, and my shirt uneven. I don’t care. I sit down to pee when I realize the toilet paper holder is empty. Classic bachelor bathroom. After reaching over to open the cabinet under his sink, I rummage around to find a new roll when several magazines spill onto the floor. On the covers of these magazines are red-haired women, all big breasted and mostly without clothes. The titles of the magazines say it all: The Natural Red, Redheaded Ladies, Red on Red. The magazines are tattered and frayed at the corners. Finally, my fingers find the softness of a roll and I yank it out.

  After I wash my hands, I grab the magazines off the floor and walk out to the living room. Ted is standing there, his back facing me. He’s watching the sliding glass window for the police officers.

  “I think these are yours,” I say.

  Ted turns around. Upon seeing the magazines in my hands, his shadowy face seems to harden to stone. “Oh,” he says, taking them from me and curling them into a fat tube.

  “Like redheads, huh?”

  “It’s just a little porn, Caroline. No big deal.” He walks over to the kitchen and tosses them into the trash.

  “They’re redheads.”

  “So I have a thing for red-haired women. So what? You have a thing for cruel lawyer bosses.”

  “He’s not cruel.”

  “No? And what makes you think he would do anything other than use you? I know guys like him. Lawyers like him. They just enjoy the power, the prestige, being hot shit. They’re not interested in anything other than being worshipped and having a fan club. He would just use you, you know. And besides, after what you’ve done to him, you think he’d ever really want to be with you? Sure, you’re a hot piece, he’d enjoy it, but then you’d be refuse to throw in the trash. He’s a narcissist, Caroline. He lives only for himself. That’s the way narcissists think. And if he did want to keep you around, you’ll just be stuck with a self-centered fat, old, bald asshole and wonder why you ever fell for him in the first place.”
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  “You met him for ten seconds. How would you know?” I raise my voice before realizing I should keep quiet in case the policemen return to Ted’s sliding glass window. But even as I do, I know Ted has a point. Ted’s making sense. The serial kisser with a brain.

  “I met him long enough to know, and besides, I hear you talking about him, like I said. I know the shit he pulls with you at work. Making you wear that uniform every day, even when it’s ninety degrees outside, making you cry about timesheets. What kind of an asshole makes someone cry about timesheets?” Ted’s hands are exasperated and he raises his voice, too, like a preacher on a soapbox. “Why is it that sweet women always fall for assholes? It’s so textbook that it’s almost sickening. Could you be more of a cliché?”

  “You heard me talking about timesheets?” I ask. The walls must really be thin.

  “Yes.”

  I sit on the couch and reach for my bag, thinking I should leave. But where do I go? What can I do now? And Ted is right about Robert. He wouldn’t want me anyway. He just wants to get even, to use me. He hates me now that he knows what I’ve done. I rub my face with my hands and wish I could just take a hot bath and forget about everything, maybe just press rewind on my life. Start over. Ted sits down next to me.

  “I’m sorry for being so blunt. It’s just that I’m a guy. I know how guys think. You don’t.”

  “So you’re all villains basically?”

  “Basically,” he says, smiling and rubbing my back.

  The hand on my back feels nice, and I wish it were Robert’s hand, and wishing it were Robert’s makes me want to cry, but I refuse to cry about Robert in front of Ted. I wait for the lump to subside before I speak again.

  “I need to get back up to my apartment to get some things,” I say, referring to the clothes, my toothbrush, and the cash I keep hidden in a zip lock baggie inside a cereal box. Maybe it’s time for a little vacation. Maybe Ted is right. Maybe we could slip away to a bed and breakfast in Fort Bragg. Who knows? Perhaps the inn could hire me as a maid or a cook, and I could live in a tiny room in the basement, assume a new identity, disappear. This idea begins to formulate into solid stone in my mind. Yes, maybe I’ll run. Why not?

  “So you think this Bed and Breakfast is nice, huh?” I ask. Ted gingerly rubs my back but keeps his distance, as if I’m a bird who might fly away at sudden moves.

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful there, right by the sea.”

  “We could go as friends, no expectations. I’ll pay my own way,” I say.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Don’t you have law school classes to attend?” I ask.

  “We’re studying contracts now. It’s easy. I’m a genius in case you didn’t know. A few missed classes won’t hurt me.” He raises his eyebrow as if he’s the master of sensibility.

  With my bag in hand, I stand and slog over to the sliding glass window and glance toward the grass and the street. Ted follows me to the window. The fog has turned into a misty drizzle.

  “Looks like the policeman have gone,” he says.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll run up to my place for a minute. I’ll be right back. If we’re going to leave soon, I’ll need to grab my stuff now.”

  “Hurry, and keep the lights out,” he tells me. “I promise you’ll enjoy it, and I’ll be the perfect gentleman, the best looking and most benign vacation partner you ever had.” He puts his hands up as if he’s being arrested.

  “Fine,” I say, sliding open the glass and slipping out into the drizzle. Hunched over, I take the steps to my apartment two at a time. Once inside, I rush to my bathroom, where I flick on the nightlight so I can see what I’m looking for. I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and shove it inside my bag. Then I hustle out of the bathroom toward my bedroom, when some movement in my living room makes the tiny hairs on my arms tickle. Feeling as though someone is watching me, I let me eyes adjust to the darkness of my living room before panning across the space.

  I hear him breathing quietly before I see him. A dark figure sits on my couch. A man. In his hand is the shiny metallic of a handgun.

  “Hello, Caroline,” the Chairman says.

  Chapter 13

  “A buen entendedor, pocas palabras bastan.”

  To someone with good understanding, only a few words are necessary.

  Like a freight train barreling at high speed down a track over which I have no control, I stand in the tiny hallway between my bathroom and the living room, realizing that my decisions put me on this track. They have brought me here to this confrontation.

  The nightlight from my bathroom barely affords enough illumination to see the Chairman on my couch, but I can make out his face clearly now. It bears the expression of mayhem, suicide, murder, arson. Or any combination of those. He’s an outline leaning back into my couch, uncomfortably relaxed. Not wearing his typical suit, he seems like a stranger in his button-up shirt that’s partly unbuttoned at the top, a black windbreaker, and a pair of old-man khakis—the pleated kind that some men wear because they’re clueless about fashion. His thin comb-over has lost its shape and lilts down the wrong side of his head.

  Everything about his man on my couch is wrong, so wrong that I feel as if thousands of arteries are hammering upstream in my body, and, at any moment, they might reach my brain and explode. Rather than speaking, I simply stand there, waiting for him. The person holding the gun seems the rightful controller of the conversation. Like all affluent and powerful men, he seems woefully out of place on my purple-flowered couch.

  “In all my years,” he starts in a voice that reminds me of nails, “I’ve never known someone with so much gall. An assistant who thinks she can just waltz into my house as if she owns the place, rummage through my mail, take what she likes, and gallivant around my private domain. Whatever made you think you could do such a thing?”

  Like a scolded child, I remain standing there with my slightly head down, my eyes focused only on the shiny gun that rests on his thigh as though a lifeless extension of his hand. Gun. Run. I just realized that those words rhyme.

  “This is exactly why I never got married,” he continues. “I never wanted some bitch thinking she could rummage around in my private affairs and tell me what to do and judge me and take my things. You are the perfect example of the kind of woman I never wanted to have anything to do with.” He sets his teeth in a hostile grin and points the gun loosely at me as though it were a finger.

  The air in the room feels harsh and bitter, and no matter how I mentally wrangle with the situation, I can’t believe this is happening. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He seems to simply contemplate while the rafters in my apartment age and creak and the rain starts to softly beat the roof.

  “See,” he says, still point the gun, “I thought about our little the situation in detail before coming over here tonight. I’m diligent. I always have been, even from the very beginning of this whole endeavor. See, a few weeks ago I knew someone had taken my files on the Children’s Refuge Project, but I couldn’t figure out why someone would want them. Clearly I’d never allow damning information to be filed away in the firm documents about me. I’m not that stupid. There’s nothing in the files to connect me to this unsightly business of mine, so I couldn’t figure out why anyone would have an interest in them. It’s just a charity project after all. Who would want to take the files? And then I saw the tape of you in my house, and I knew it had to be you. Clear as day. I knew you’d figured out about my interests and decided to hunt for information you could use against me. You’re like that, aren’t you? You like to use information against people. I see that now. I just need to know … who told you something to get you all nosey and into my business? Hmm?”

  He looks at me as if silence will not be an acceptable answer this time, so I use the poverty of working brain cells to come up with an answer. Honesty seems the only solution.

  “I promise you, I wasn’t interested in your project. I just wanted to get the tape of Robert and me back. That’s all. I s
wear to you.”

  Briefly, he just gazes at me as though he makes a regular pastime of tossing bodies into a river and watching them float downstream. “And then you saw the images in my mailbox and started to snoop? That’s why you took my files? I hardly think you’re smart enough to put it together so easily. Someone must have told you something. You must have discovered something else.”

  I wonder who he thinks could have told me anything about his proclivity for children. His accusation suggests that more people know about this nasty business than I realize. Who though? Who else could be involved? The concept of some larger and more ominous group of people makes me feel drunk with fear, but I stand there attempting to remain unaffected.

  “I swear to you, Collin,” I say, making the mistake of calling him by his first name, which no one does. “I didn’t hear anything. Whatever you do in your own personal life is your business. I don’t care. I just wanted the tape back so you wouldn’t fire Robert. You’re right. I’m not that smart. I mean, the file clerks probably just lost your files, like they always lose files. You should check with them.”

  His expression looks wholly unmoved.

  “Then please, if you don’t mind, be a Good Samaritan and elaborate for me why your computer’s internet history shows you researching my Children’s Refuge Project?” he asks, his voice approaching murderous. “In particular, a unique email address.”

  Holy crap. I forgot about that. Cory, Henry, and I researched the project on my computer as soon as we found the files in Robert’s office. I hear myself quietly whimper. Glancing toward my front door, I recall that I didn’t lock it when I came in, but the rectangular exit seems miles away. Logic tells me that maybe four lunges could get me there, but can I get out before he points and shoots?

  This is the moment when it starts to settle on me that I’m going to die. The end result seems fair, though, doesn’t it? A life for a life. I ruined Robert’s life, and now, in old-western style, I’m going down. I should call myself lucky that I’m not being tarred and feathered or dragged down a rock-strewn road by a wild horse. It’s just that I’m pretty sure a gunshot is going to hurt. Just how much I don’t know. Will it be a burning sensation or more like a piercing? To be honest, death doesn’t scare me, but the pain of death does. If I’m lucky, maybe he’s an expert marksman and I won’t feel a thing.