Flesh

by Richard Laymon

  “I don’t know.”

  “A week, a month, sixty years?”

  “It’ll depend on how things go.”

  “What, exactly, do you hope to accomplish by this little maneuver?”

  “I thought I already explained that.”

  “You want to see what sort of relationship we have without sex?”

  “That’s about it.”

  Evan shook his head. “Can’t we vote on this?”

  Encouraged by his light tone, Alison said. “It doesn’t have to be so bad. We’ll still see each other. Won’t we? You said…”

  “We’ll still see each other.”

  “We’ll find other things to do when we’re together.”

  “No more idiot box—no pun intended.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One time in high school, my folks got the bright idea I was spending too much time in front of the idiot box—the television. They said there’s more to life than watching TV. So they cut me off. I was supposed to broaden my horizons and forget the tube.”

  “And did you?”

  “Sort of. I read a lot of books. I played cards—solitaire. I spent more time on my homework. My grades improved. I did all kinds of stuff.”

  Alison smiled. “We can read to each other, play cards, study…”

  “Strip poker?” He squeezed her hand. “There’s a side effect that I haven’t yet mentioned. I became obsessed with television. Whenever I could, I finagled my way over to friends’ houses to watch theirs. And sometimes I even snuck downstairs after my folks were asleep. I’d turn on the TV in the family room and sit in the dark about a foot in front of the screen with the volume so low I could hardly hear the voice over that humming noise you get. It was pretty neat, actually. I was like a starving man at a feast.”

  “Stolen sweets.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you think being deprived of sex will have a similar effect?”

  “It’s bound to.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “You don’t leave me much alternative. I guess I’ll just have to jack off with your yearbook pictures.”

  “Evan!” Laughing, she shoved her elbow into his ribs. He stumbled off the sidewalk.

  “You got a better idea?” he asked.

  “How about cold showers?”

  “I hate cold showers.” He took her hand again. “It is all right, I take it, to hold your hand?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “What about kissing?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Ah, the prices we pay for our tactical errors.”

  At the south end of campus, they waited while a car approached on Spring Street. After it turned onto Central, they crossed. They walked past the root beer stand where Alison had first met Evan.

  She remembered that rainy evening, standing at the counter while she waited for her order and hearing a voice behind her intone, “She walks in beauty like the night.”

  A glance back.

  Evan Forbes gave her a smile.

  “Talking to one’s self is a sign of madness,” she informed him.

  “Ah, but I was talking to you. Is that also a sign of madness?”

  “Could be.”

  She had seen Evan around campus, knew that he was one of the small cadre of graduate students in English, and had noticed the way he watched her the previous night when she’d served him at Gabby’s.

  She picked up her hamburger, fries, and root beer.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “No, fine.”

  Evan followed her to a table.

  “Aren’t you going to order something?” she asked.

  Shaking his head, he sat across from her and took one of her french fries. “I’ll eat yours.”

  “Oh.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve already eaten. I spied you leaving the library and tailed you here.”

  She felt a blush warm her face. “That’s a lot of trouble to mooch a french fry.”

  Remembering, Alison found herself smiling. “You ate all my fries,” she said.

  “Nerves. The fries kept me from biting my fingernails.”

  “Probably tasted better, too.”

  They crossed the railroad tracks, walked past the Laundromat where Alison took her dirty clothes once a week, and turned down Apple Lane. Professor Teal’s house was third from the corner. Its porch light glowed, but the ground floor windows were dark. The front windows upstairs were bright, however, so Alison assumed that at least one of her roommates was in. Helen, probably. Celia would still be at Wally’s, more than likely, raising hell and soaking up beer.

  A wooden stairway angled up the side of the house to the upstairs door. The light above the door was off.

  Evan stayed beside her on the walkway across the yard and remained at her side, though it meant walking on the dewy grass, as she followed the flagstones past the front of the house. They climbed the stairs together. At the top, he set down her flight bag.

  “Are you going to ask me in?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The quiet, mellow sound of a Lionel Richie song came from inside.

  “One of your roomies is here to protect your virtue.”

  Alison squeezed his hand. “I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”

  “Sans Evan.”

  “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “What now? Am I allowed to kiss you good night?”

  “I think that’s allowed.”

  In the moonlight, she saw him smile. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “Until tomorrow, then.” He released her hand and turned away.

  “Evan.”

  He glanced around. “Yes?”

  “Don’t be this way,” she murmured.

  “Fare thee well, chaste maiden.”

  Alison leaned against the door frame and watched him descend the stairs. The planking creaked under his weight. At the bottom, he didn’t turn to follow the flagstones, but headed straight across the lawn toward the sidewalk.

  Alison yelled, “You snot!”

  Then he was gone.

  She unlocked the door. As she entered, Helen peeked out of her bedroom. “It’s okay,” Alison told her. “The coast is clear.”

  “What happened?” Obviously, she had heard the parting shout.

  “A little disagreement.”

  “Little?” With a glass of cola in her hand and a bag of potato chips tucked between her arm and side, Helen went over to the recliner and sat down. She was wearing her bathrobe and sagging purple socks. “I heard you come up the stairs, so I made myself scarce. I thought you might bring him in.”

  “Nope.” Alison set her flight bag on the coffee table. She sat on the sofa, kicked her shoes off, and swung her legs onto the cushions. Sitting down felt great. She sighed.

  “Want a soda or something?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Chips?” Helen lifted the bag. “They’re sour cream and onion.”

  “I’m too upset to eat.”

  “That’s when food is best. Fills up that empty feeling.”

  “If I ate every time I got upset…”

  “You’d be a tub like me,” Helen said, and poked a potato chip into her mouth.

  Alison shook her head. “You’re not so fat.”

  “I ain’t skin and bones.”

  Helen might have been described as “pleasingly plump,” Alison thought, if she’d had a cute face, but she didn’t even have that going for her. She had a pasty complexion, a broad forehead, buggy eyes behind her huge round glasses, an upturned nose that presented a straight-on view into her nostrils, heavy lips, and a neck so thick that it enveloped whatever sunken chin she might have.

  “So, you want to tell me about it?” Helen asked as she chewed.

  “Evan’s ticked at me because I wouldn’t put out.”

  “Figures. He’s a man. A man’s an ambulating cock looking for a ti
ght hole.”

  “Real nice, Helen.”

  “Real true. Take it from me.”

  “You’ve had some bad experiences.”

  “So you think I’m wrong?”

  “I’d be hard-pressed to argue it,” Alison said, “the way I’m feeling right now.”

  “I’ve never in my life been out with a guy who cared about anything but getting into my pants. Never. And that’s saying something. I mean, take a look at me. You’d think they wouldn’t want to touch me with a ten-foot pole. A six-inch pole, that’s another story.” She gasped a short laugh, blowing out a few crumbs of potato chips.

  Alison had heard all this, and more, on numerous occasions during the time when she had been rooming with Helen. The young woman was bitter, and with good reason. She had been sexually used and abused by many men, including her stepfather.

  Before meeting Helen, Alison had assumed that men would tend to stay clear of someone with Helen’s looks. Not so.

  If Helen understood why she was frequently targeted by men, she never let on. But she rarely dated anymore, so maybe she had reached the same conclusion as Alison; that the men saw her as easy prey—that anybody with a face and body like Helen’s had to be hard up—that she would gladly spread her legs and be grateful for the attention.

  “I take it back,” Helen said after washing down a mouthful of potato chips with cola. “I did go out with a guy once who didn’t try to make me. He turned out to be a homo.”

  “I want a man who will be my friend,” Alison told her.

  “Gotta find yourself a homo, then.”

  “But I like sex, too.”

  “Then what’s your beef with Evan?”

  “It’s turned into too big a deal. I don’t want sex to be the only thing. Maybe not even the main thing.”

  “Yeah, you and me both. I used to think, if I could just find some guy who looked like he got beat over the head with an ugly stick. But that hasn’t worked out, either. The ugly ones are just as messed up as the handsome ones—maybe even worse.”

  “The pits,” Alison muttered.

  “So did you and Evan break up, or what?”

  “Not exactly. I just told him we need to abstain for a while and see how it goes.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Oh, boy?”

  “I bet he wasn’t too crazy about that idea.”

  “He didn’t take it very well.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “If he dumps me over something like this, I’m better off without him.”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t dump you.”

  “I don’t know. He was acting…pretty spiteful.”

  “Sure. He was looking forward to some whoopy. Major disappointment, sob, sob. By tomorrow, though, he’ll be telling himself you just had a bad night, and he’ll be expecting you to come to your senses by the next time he sees you. He’ll probably treat you extra nice, just to be on the safe side.”

  “He’ll be in for another disappointment.”

  “How long are you planning to hold out?”

  “Just long enough to see what happens.”

  “Know what I think?” Helen asked, brushing some crumbs off the front of her robe.

  “What?”

  “I think you’ve just had a bad night, and tomorrow you’ll come to your senses and put out for the guy.”

  “You on his side?”

  “I know you. You’re angry at him right now, but anger has a way of softening pretty fast and you’re an easy mark. First thing you know, you’ll be feeling sorry for him—and feeling guilty because you’re the reason he’s so miserable. Then you’ll do what’s necessary to cheer him up. This time tomorrow night, you’ll be in the sack with him.”

  “No way.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Alison heard the faint, scuffing sound of footsteps. Someone was climbing the outside stairway. Very slowly. Helen stopped chewing and raised her thick eyebrows.

  Alison’s heart pounded hard. “Maybe it’s Celia,” she whispered.

  Helen shook her head. “Try again. Wally’s doesn’t close till two.”

  “Oh, God. I don’t need this.”

  “Want me to tell him you’re in the shower, or something?”

  The footsteps came to a stop on the landing just outside the door. “No, I’d better…”

  A key snicked into the lock. Alison’s stiff body relaxed, sinking back into the sofa. Mixed with her relief was a hint of disappointment.

  Then Celia came in, and Alison jerked upright.

  Celia’s right arm was held across her chest by a sling. A bandage covered the right side of her forehead from her eyebrow to her hairline.

  “Whoa,” said Helen.

  “What happened?” Alison asked.

  “I got creamed, that’s what.” With her left hand, Celia swept the jacket off her shoulders. She dropped it, along with her purse, onto the floor beside the door. “Some bastard tried to turn me into a road pizza.”

  She limped toward the sofa, wobbling a bit, apparently not only injured but somewhat drunk. After easing herself down beside Alison, she carefully raised her legs onto the coffee table, stretched them out, and moaned.

  “You and that stupid bike,” Helen said. “I told you you’d get nailed.”

  “Take a leap.”

  “You were on your bike and a car hit you. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

  “How about getting me a drink?”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  “It helps the pain.”

  “I’ll get you something,” Alison offered. “What do you want?”

  “Anything but beer. I couldn’t look another beer in the face. Bring me some whiskey, okay?”

  Alison hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of Irish whiskey from the cupboard, got a glass, and returned to the living room. She filled the glass halfway and handed it to Celia. “You’re a bud,” Celia said.

  “How’d it happen?” Alison asked, sitting down again.

  “Some bastard tried to run me down. I was over on Latham Road, you know? On my way back from Four Corners. And this van came down on me. The guy had all kinds of room to go around, but he steered right at me. He intended to hit me. Some kind of a nut. Anyhow, I tried to get out of his way and the bike flipped. That’s how I got busted up.” She sat up slightly, wincing, and took a drink. Then she settled back. She rested the glass on the lap of her sweatpants.

  “He intended to hit you?” Helen sounded skeptical.

  “You bet your buns.”

  “Why would someone—?” Alison began.

  “Cause he was a fuckhead, that’s why. And no, I didn’t flip him off. I didn’t do anything.”

  “I’ll just bet,” Helen said.

  Celia glared at her. “What’s your problem, your vibrator go on the fritz?”

  “Matter of fact—”

  “Come on, Helen,” Alison said. “Lay off. She’s hurt, for godsake.”

  “I’m pulverized.” Celia took another drink.

  “Anything broken?” Alison asked.

  “No bones. I’ve got sprains, strains, contusions, abrasions, and general fucking mayhem from head to foot. I was in the emergency room about two hours. On the bright side, my doctor was a hunk. A guy that really enjoyed his job. He checked me out where I wasn’t even hurt.”

  “Every cloud has its silver lining,” Helen said.

  “Yeah. I’ll probably be hearing from him.” She lifted her glass, held it in front of her eyes, and stared at the amber liquid. “You wanta hear the good part?” she asked. From the tone of her voice, she didn’t sound overjoyed by “the good part.” Helen frowned. Celia kept her eyes on the whiskey. Her jaw moved slightly from side to side, rubbing her lower lip across the edges of her teeth. “The guy that did this to me…he bought the farm.”

  “What?” Alison asked. “You mean he—?”

  “Crumped, croaked, bit the big one. His van went onto the shoulder of the road a
fter he tried to hit me, and plowed into the guard wall of a bridge. Killed him dead. Then he got his ass cooked.”

  “Holy Jesus,” Helen muttered.

  “Served the bastard right,” Celia said, and drank her glass empty. “I didn’t even know the guy. So what’s he doing, trying to kill me? Huh? Can’t even go riding my bike without some nut trying to murder me. Served him right. What’d he wanta do that for? He didn’t even know me. But he sure paid. He paid. Wish I coulda seen the look on his face when he hit the wall. Boy, I bet he was surprised.” She smiled and her chin trembled and she began to weep. She lowered the glass to her lap. It fell over. A few drops of whiskey trickled onto her sweatpants. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her head back against the sofa cushion and sobbed.

  Alison put a hand on Celia’s thigh. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

  “Christ.” Celia sniffed. “The guy got cooked.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The buzz of the alarm clock startled Jake out of sleep. He killed the noise and pushed himself up on one elbow. Ten o’clock. He’d slept for seven hours. So how come he felt like death warmed over?

  Because of yesterday.

  Groaning, he swung his legs off the bed, sat up, and rubbed his face.

  Yesterday. One charbroiled man hanging out the windshield. One woman with pieces of her brain and skull clinging to the wall and spread around in clumps on the kitchen counter. One man munching on her flesh.

  Jake felt sick, remembering.

  Then his sickness changed to fear as his mind did a slowmotion replay of Smeltzer going for the shotgun. The patch of skin in Smeltzer’s teeth flapped lazily, sprinkling blood, as he turned and reached. Jake thought, He’s going for it! He thought, This is it! He fired, feeling the revolver jump, feeling the blasts slap his ears, smelling the pungent smoke, watching Smeltzer jerk each time a bullet kicked into him, saw again how one slug opened his throat and how he drifted backward, hosing Jake with blood, the skin still clamped in his teeth, his body twitching after he hit the floor, the blood raining down on him.

  Jake took a deep, shaky breath, and got to his feet.

  I had to do it, he told himself. I’d be dead if I hadn’t dropped him.

  It wasn’t an excuse; it was the truth. And he had reminded himself of that truth so many times since last night that he was tired of it.