Roland touched his knife case. The flap was loose. Beneath it, the brass butt of the knife handle felt gummy. He left the knife inside its case. He wouldn’t be needing it for a while.
He only needed the cuffs.
On the seat of his jeans, he wiped as much blood as possible off his hands.
He held one bracelet in his right hand, letting the other dangle by its chain, and started forward.
His bare feet snicked each time he lifted one off the floor. With each step, his heart pumped harder, his breath grew more raspy. Sweat stung his eyes and trickled down his sides. He walked with a slight stoop to ease the pressure of his erect penis against his jeans. He grinned. He felt so good now, and he wasn’t even getting any new surges from his friend. Those were yet to come.
He halted at the foot of the blanket. He still couldn’t see Celia.
What if she’s gone!
Then he heard her. She was taking long, slow breaths.
Roland crouched. He reached out carefully until his hand met the blanket. He felt something through its softness—probably a leg—and realized that Celia must have covered herself after lying down.
On his knees, Roland moved to her side. He searched with one hand for the edge of the blanket, found it and lifted it. As he uncovered her, she mumbled something but didn’t awaken.
He could see her now, in spite of the darkness. She was naked, and enough light found her skin to give it a vague, dusky hue. She lay on her back. Her legs were slightly apart, bare except for darker wrappings at her knees. Her right arm, inches from Roland’s knee, lay against her side. The wrapped elbow was bent slightly, and her hand rested with curled fingers just above the jut of her hipbone. Her other arm was high, elbow pointing off to the side, hand beneath her head for a cushion.
Roland stared at the small patch of darkness between her legs. She didn’t have a bush like Dana. She must trim her hair down there, he thought.
He gazed at her breasts. They were dim mounds, tipped with darkness. They rose and fell slightly as she breathed.
With his left hand, he reached forward and touched the nearer breast. It was so smooth. It felt like velvet. The nipple, too. But the nipple seemed to squirm under his touch, rumpling and rising stiff.
Celia’s breathing changed.
“Hi, there,” she whispered in a groggy voice. “Wha’ took you so long?”
Roland squeezed her breast, then took his hand away.
Oh God, he ached! He was getting surges now, waves that pounded through him, shaking him.
“Jason?” Celia asked.
“Jason’s not here, Jason…” and Roland suddenly shrieked, “had some dying to do!” He grabbed her wrist and snapped a cuff around it.
In an instant, before Celia could begin to struggle or scream, he whipped the other cuff around his own left wrist.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Alison woke up. There was sunlight on her bed. The warm breeze drifting through her open window smelled of flowers and grass. A raucous bird was squawking as if annoyed by the pleasant chirping of its neighbors. The bells of a church, somewhere in the distance, pealed a tune. Alison imagined a congregation singing along—“In the sweet, bye ’n bye, we will meet on that beautiful shore…”
Feeling good, she stretched beneath her sheet. Then she slipped the sheet aside and was surprised for a moment to see that she was wearing her new blue negligee.
She had planned to save it for a special occasion. Maybe last night had counted as one, somehow.
She remembered coming up to her attic room after playing Trivial Pursuit and watching The Howling on television with Helen, remembered sitting at her desk and staring at the snapshots of Evan pinned to her bulletin board, feeling empty and alone, wondering about him. He was probably making it with Tracy More-Organ Morgan. The bastard. Wishing for a way to hurt him, she had taken down all the photos and started to rip one into tiny pieces. The snapshot showed her holding Evan’s hand. Celia had taken it two weeks ago on the lawn behind Bennet Hall. Evan was wearing a T-shirt with the logo, “Poets do it with rhythm.” He had a silly look on his face because Celia, instead of telling them to say cheese, announced, “Say, ‘I’m a cunning linguist.’”
By the time Alison had ripped the photo apart and watched its tiny bits float down into the wastebasket, she was in tears. She couldn’t bear to destroy any more, so she had made a neat stack of the rest, put a rubber band around them, and dropped them into the top drawer of her desk.
Hurting, she had taken off her clothes and opened her dresser. She had planned to wear one of her regular nightgowns, but the new one, blue and glossy, caught her eye. There was no reason to save it, no one to save it for. She might as well enjoy it. So she put the negligee on, sighing as it slid over her skin. She wiped her eyes and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her breasts were plainly visible through the gauzy top. She shrugged so that one of the spaghetti straps slipped off her shoulder. Eat your heart out, Evan, she thought. You’d go ape if you ever saw me in this, but you never will. Tough luck, shithead.
The memories brought back some of last night’s pain, stealing pleasure from the good feel of lying on the sunlit bed with the breeze sliding over her.
Alison got up and went to the window. It looked beautiful out there. She needed to do something, find a way to enjoy herself. Sundays had been fine before Evan, and they could be fine again.
This would be a great day for a long walk. Go to Jack-in-the-Box for one of those crescent rolls with cheese, sausage, and egg inside. Forget about studying, pick up a brand new paperback at the newsstand—a good, juicy thriller. Later on, head over to the quad with the book and a radio and spend a couple of hours lying in the sun. Or go to the park for your sunbathing, go down by the stream. You’d have privacy there. The quad was bound to be lively on a day like this. Would you rather be alone or have company and maybe meet someone? There’d be a lot of guys at the quad. Just decide when the time comes.
She crossed the bedroom, enjoying the feel of the clinging negligee. She felt pretty fine again.
What was that Hemingway story? A kid, probably Nick Adams, went to bed at night feeling awful because he had broken up with his girlfriend. Saw her with another guy? The thing of it was, the last line. He went to bed feeling rotten, and the next morning he was awake half an hour before he remembered that he had a broken heart.
Great stuff.
Nick Winston didn’t know what he was talking about, dumping on Hemingway.
Maybe drop by Wally’s tonight. Maybe Nick’ll be there.
Do I really want to see him again?
She peeled the negligee over her head, folded it neatly, and placed it in the dresser drawer. She rolled deodorant onto her armpits. A bath would be nice. Save it for this afternoon when you’re finished lying out.
She put on panties, went to her closet and slipped a sleeveless yellow sundress over her head. Then she stepped into sandals. She took her shoulder bag from the dresser top and left her room.
At the bottom of the attic stairs, she entered the bathroom. She used the toilet, washed, brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, and hurried out.
She found Helen sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with the newspaper spread in front of her, a box of powdered doughnuts on the lap of her rather tattered pink nightgown, and a mug of coffee on the floor near one knee. “What-ho,” Helen greeted her, looking up.
“Morning.”
“You’re looking perky.”
“Perk, perk. And how are you this fine morning?”
“Fine, is it?”
“‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.’”
“Yog. What’s with you, a midnight visitor sneak into your room?”
“No such luck.”
Helen lifted the box off her lap and held it toward Alison. “Doughnut?”
“Thanks anyway. I’m going to hike over to Jack-in-the-Box and get a sausage crescent. Want to come along?”
Helen shook her head, cheeks wobb
ling. “I don’t think so. I’d have to get dressed.”
“You could just throw on your rain gear.”
“Har.” She bit into a doughnut, crumbs and white powder falling onto the exposed tops of her breasts and between them.
“Celia up yet?”
Helen shrugged. She chewed for a moment, then took a drink of coffee. “Celia may or may not be up, but wherever she is or isn’t up, it isn’t here.”
“She didn’t come back?”
“It would appear that she found a more suitable abode for the night.”
“That bodes well for her.”
Helen rolled her eyes upward. “Spare me.”
“She and Jason must’ve hit it off,” Alison said.
“Not necessarily. They could’ve been in a traffic accident.”
Alison ignored the remark. “I just hope it turns into something.”
“No doubt it turned into an orgy.”
“No, I mean it. She likes to pretend she enjoys going through one guy after another, but she only got that way after Mark dumped her.”
“Yeah, that’s when she started screwing around.”
“It’d be nice if she’d get really involved with someone.”
“But a freshman?”
“He must have something going for him,” Alison said, “or she wouldn’t have spent the night. She almost never stays over with a guy.”
Grinning, Helen said, “Think they stayed in his dorm room with el weirdo, Roland? Wouldn’t that be the height of funzies?”
“The height of vomitus.”
“Maybe Roland joined in. A big juke sandwich with them as bread and Celia as the meat.”
“You’re a very disturbed person, Helen.”
“Think about it.”
“I’m sure they didn’t go to Jason’s room. Not if that disgusting yuck was going to be there. They probably shacked up in a motel, or maybe they just parked someplace.” Or rolled out a sleeping bag in a field, she thought, like Robert Jordan and Maria. The warm night would’ve been fine for that.
“When she gets back,” Helen said, “I’m sure she’ll tell us all about it.” With that, she stuffed the remaining chunk of doughnut into her mouth and picked up the comic section.
“See you later,” Alison said.
Helen nodded.
Alison stepped to the front door and pulled it open. On the wooden landing stood a glass vase filled with yellow daffodils. An envelope was propped against the vase. She stared at the bright flowers, at the envelope. Frowning, she stroked her lips.
They’re probably not for me, she thought.
But her heart was beating fast.
Crouching, she lifted the envelope. Her name was written on it. Hands trembling, she tore open the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. They fluttered as she unfolded them.
Three typed pages. Signed at the end of the last page by Evan.
Dearest Alison,
I am loathsome scum, a worm, a maggot. You would be perfectly justified in spitting on this missive and flushing the flowers down the nearest toilet. If you are still reading, however, let me tell you that you certainly could not detest me more than I detest myself.
There is no excuse for my behavior of Friday night. It was childish and vile to show up at Gabby’s with Tracy. What can I say? I was blinded by the pain of your rejection, and I desired to punish you. It was a foolish, contemptible gesture. Let me assure you, however, that the maneuver backfired. As much torment as I may have caused you, I caused myself more.
Let me also make it clear that I have no interest in Tracy. The sole reason I invited her out was to rub her in your face and, hopefully, to make you jealous. I do not care for her at all. Though you may find this difficult to believe (due to her well-deserved reputation and your opinion that I have nothing on my mind except sex), we did not indulge in any intimacies whatsoever. I even avoided a good-night kiss when we parted.
I spent last night alone in my apartment, miserable, wanting to be with you but too ashamed to telephone or come over and see you. I thought about you constantly, remembering how you look and the sound of your voice and the way you laugh. I thought about the many good times we shared, and no, not just the sex (though I couldn’t help thinking about that, also—especially how it feels when we are so sweetly joined, as if we are one). I even spent some time gazing at your photographs in the school yearbooks, but it was unbearable to look at frozen images of your face and know that I had possibly lost you forever.
When I slept, I dreamed of you. I dreamed that you came into my room and sat down on the edge of my bed and took hold of my hand. In my dream, I began to weep and tell you that I was sorry. I said that I never meant to hurt you, that I loved you and would do anything for your forgiveness. You said nothing, but you bent down and kissed me. I woke up, then, and I was never so sorry to wake up from any dream. My pillow was wet with tears. (I realize that all this must sound maudlin, but I want you to know everything, no matter how embarrassing it may seem in the light of day.)
Right now, it is three in the morning. I got up, after that dream, and sat down at my typewriter to let you know how I feel. I am sure it is too much to hope for easy forgiveness. The dream was a fantasy, the wishful thinking of a tormented mind. I realize that my treatment of you was rash and abominable, and that you probably prefer never to see me again. I wouldn’t blame you at all.
If you wish to have nothing to do with me, I suppose I will learn to live with it. I suppose I will have no choice, short of shuffling off these mortal coils with a bare bodkin. (Forget I said that; I don’t believe I am that desperate, though morbid thoughts along those lines have crossed my mind.)
Perhaps I won’t deliver this to you. Perhaps I’ll burn it, I don’t know.
I miss you, Alison. I wish that I could make everything right again, that I could turn time backward to Thursday afternoon when I started all this stupid, disgusting behavior. But life doesn’t work that way. You can’t just make the bad things go away, no matter how much you may want to. (There, I’m so distraught that I’ve ended my sentence with a preposition—now I know I’ll burn this.)
I love you.
I hope that you don’t hate me.
I am miserable without you, but it’s all my own fault and I know that I deserve the misery.
If this is the end, it is the end.
Have a good life, Alison.
All my love, Evan
Alison’s mind felt numb. She folded the letter, slipped it inside the envelope, and picked up the vase of daffodils. She carried it into the house, nudging the door shut with her rump.
“What’s the deal?” Helen called.
Alison shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak; her voice would shake and she might cry.
“Well, all right, flowers. Told you he’d see the light.”
She climbed the stairs to her room, placed the vase on her dresser, and sat on her bed. She pulled the pages out of the envelope and read them again.
He wrote about a dream. This was like a dream. She almost couldn’t believe that he had written such a letter. The anguish in it, the desperation. Even a threat, in the Hamlet allusion, of suicide—which he was quick to retract but which remained, nonetheless.
Alison told herself that she ought to be delighted. Isn’t this what she had wanted; to have him repent and plead for her to take him back? But she wasn’t delighted. The letter was almost disturbing. Could she mean that much to him?
Did she want to mean that much to him.
He sounded almost obsessed.
Alison lay down on her bed, the letter pressed to her belly, and stared at the ceiling. She kicked off a sandal, heard it thump the floor, then kicked off the other. She felt exhausted, as if she had just come back from a long walk. She took a deep breath. Her lungs seemed to tremble as she exhaled.
You wanted him back, didn’t you? Well, he’s yours. If you want him.
You’ll have to do something.
Somethin
g.
Evan’s probably sitting in his apartment, staring at the telephone, waiting, wondering if you sneered when you read his message, or if you wept. And very possibly thinking he had been a fool to open himself up that way.
It’s cruel to make him wait.
I should go downstairs, right now, and call him. Or walk over to his apartment. Make it like his dream. Don’t say anything when he opens the door, just kiss him.
Don’t make it that easy on him.
Maybe I don’t want to go back to him at all.
What should I do? Maybe pretend I didn’t get the flowers and note, go along as if nothing happened.
Alison lay there, wondering. She felt stunned, confused, hopeful but a little bit frightened.
She pulled the pillow down over her face. The dark was nice. The soft pillow felt good.
Later, she thought. I’ll do something about it later.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Roland couldn’t understand. He had taken off the cuffs before pushing her down the cellar stairs, and he hadn’t put them back on because she was beyond struggling and he needed both hands free. So how come, now that he was done, he was suddenly cuffed to her again? It didn’t make sense.
He knew that he hadn’t attached the manacles again.
Had she done it? No. Huh-uh. She’s dead.
Then how?
He felt a tingle of fear.
As he dug into the pocket where he kept the key, he wondered vaguely why he was wearing clothes at all. Hadn’t he left them upstairs?
The key wasn’t there.
Don’t worry, you’ll find it. You’ve got to find it.
Fighting panic, he searched every pocket. The key was gone.
This can’t be happening to me, he thought.
Fortunately, he had turned on the overhead light before following Celia into the cellar. The bulb cast only a dim yellow glow, but it should be enough. Getting to his knees, he scanned the concrete floor. The area surrounding them was pooled with blood. Could the key be under the blood? He began to sweep his free hand through the wet layer.
Out of a corner of his eye, he thought he saw Celia grin.
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