It's Not About Sex

by David Kalergis

  I had a visitor waiting.

  Rather than risk the chance that it was Ray, I was about to retrace my steps to the Wagoneer and wait there until daylight, but I hesitated, studying the footprints. The person remaining at the Quaker Cottage was probably a woman—Nora. Someone with larger feet (Lennie? Ray?) had followed her more recently and then returned alone. If Nora was in there by herself, I could find out what had happened after I’d left Schoolcross earlier this evening. More important, I could get warm. The temperature was well below freezing and my hands were numb.

  As I followed the footprints along the path to the cottage, I scanned the shadowed trees, wondering if Ray might be out there watching. The Quaker Cottage sat in darkness except for sparks floating from the chimney. I quickened my pace to get inside. Someone—I hoped it was Nora—had a blaze in the fireplace of the sitting room that had been Ray’s studio.

  As I neared the cottage, the trail of larger footprints split away to the right. The man—whoever it was—had walked to the side of the house, looked in the window of the sitting room, then walked back the way he had come, toward the Big House. I followed his footprints to the window and peered in to the cottage.

  Nora sat on a footstool beside the fireplace, her flame-lit profile easily recognizable. A blanket was draped around her shoulders and a book, perhaps unreadable in the dim light, lay on her lap.

  I moved quietly up the slippery porch steps and through the unlocked front door. The little entrance hall was cold and dark, and the door to what had been Ray’s studio was open, the room lit only by the fire. When I clicked the hall switch, no light came on.

  “Nora?” I called.

  “Bradley,” she said, her voice small in the darkness. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  Shivering with cold, I moved quickly to the fireplace.

  “How long has the power been out?” I asked. “The house is freezing.”

  “It went out an hour after you left. The telephones are out too. Bradley, is everything all right at home? What was wrong?”

  I couldn’t begin to tell her about Linda’s date with Dr. Diamond and the turd in the pocketbook.

  “False alarm. Everything’s fine,” I said. “What happened after I left? And what are you doing here all by yourself?”

  I warmed my hands by the fire.

  “I need to talk with you,” she said. “I hope it’s okay.”

  “Of course it is. You can talk with me about anything.”

  “I told Lennie and Ray I had to get away from them both. Ray went back to the Keeper’s Cottage, and Lennie’s probably still brooding in the sitting room at the Big House. I can’t face my mother and father either. They’re in the guest apartment now.”

  “Someone was looking through the window at you earlier,” I said. “There are tracks in the snow.”

  “It could have been either Ray or Lennie, I suppose. There was an awful scene after you left.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My father took Ray out of the studio and into the sitting room to get him away from Lennie and for Ray to get his coat. But as Ray came back through the studio, he and Lennie said vicious things to each other.”

  “What kind of vicious things, Nora?”

  “Lennie called Ray a morally deformed monster. And Ray said that Lennie was the real monster, a manipulator who uses people as if they were objects. And he called Lennie a wife abuser, which is ridiculous.”

  “I finally screamed, ‘Shut up, both of you,’” and they did. I begged Ray to go before something terrible happened. As he went out the door, he and Lennie looked at each other, and they had the most frightening expressions on their faces. I’ve never seen such hatred.”

  “What do you want me to do, Nora?”

  “I need to talk. Everyone else has gone insane. Ray thinks Lennie is some kind of cunning manipulator—that he planned everything for some kinky reason of his own. He misunderstood some things I’ve told him about Lennie and our marriage. He thinks Lennie’s a monster.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  She was still staring into the fire.

  “Things too personal to have been spoken,” she said finally. “And Lennie is literally mad with jealousy. Until Ray and I became so involved, Ray was a hero to him. Now Lennie says that Ray murdered that mugger in New York. And he accused Ray of killing Lars and Tamara.”

  “So you don’t have any questions about that mugger, or Lars, or Tamara all dying in such a short time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know Lennie’s been running around acting like a maniac, but he has good reason. His wife’s having an affair with a dangerous killer.”

  She started to protest but I cut her off.

  “Which part of that statement is untrue?” I asked. “That you’re having an affair, or that he’s a dangerous killer?”

  “Damn it, Bradley. You’re the one who told me it was self-defense with the mugger.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell you to have an affair. And even if it was self-defense, Ray’s still a dangerous killer.”

  She was about to protest again, then thought better. “Okay, I see what you mean,” she said. “And, yes, I am afraid of what’s going to happen between them. But what’s this nonsense about Lars and Tamara? Surely you can’t think there’s anything to that!”

  She faced me and I looked into her eyes without speaking. Comprehension then dismay showed on her face.

  “You do think he killed them, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s possible, Nora, yes—at least Lars, maybe Tamara.”

  “You can’t mean it.”

  “I do mean it. I need to tell you some things about Ray. Keep an open mind and listen, okay?”

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  I told her everything: the fight between Lars and Ray the night Lars was killed, my phone conversations with Doctor Freeman, my visit to Ray’s family in Virginia, what his sister had told me about him, and my own chilling experience when I was sure Ray was going to kill me after I challenged his relationship with her. She listened to it all without speaking. When I was finished, the silence lingered.

  She said, “It can’t be, can it?” and it was meant as a real question.

  “You tell me,” I said. “You know him better than any of us. Can it be true?”

  She turned her head and stared into the fire before answering. “It’s possible,” she said. “I’ve never experienced such intensity in anyone. I feel totally safe when I’m with him, safer than I’ve felt in my life, but there is an element that can only be called . . .”

  “Madness?” I asked. “I used to live with the man, remember.”

  “Yes. A certain kind of madness. It’s always been evident in his work, but that could be accounted for by his incarceration. I’ve seen his new work—it’s still as disturbed as when he was in prison; maybe more so. And in the last twenty-four hours he’s become so jealous and possessive that I’m starting to feel trapped. But when we’re together we talk about the most amazing things and we experience the most amazing things, and it all feels so true, so real.”

  “Two souls searching for each other since the creation of the universe? This feels real?”

  “It’s not possible for you to understand, is it? I couldn’t have understood, either, until it happened to me. I breathed in his scent and every atom in my body was rearranged.”

  We both fell silent at this remark and several minutes passed as she considered everything I’d told her.

  “He’s going back to prison, isn’t he?” she said.

  “Probably. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  I had been about to say, “. . . maybe it’s for the best,” but I let it pass.

  She put her face into her hands and wept inconsolably. This was a side of Nora I’d never imagined—a woman wracked with guilt over the devastating consequences of a lapse into weakness. Finally she stopped crying and dried her eyes with her bare fingers. I put three more log
s onto the fire.

  We sat in silence for a long time until she said, “I’m going home now.”

  “I’ll walk back with you,” I said reflexively, although the last thing I wanted was to leave the fire for that coldness.

  “You don’t need to. I’ll be fine.”

  Actually, as I considered it, I wasn’t keen on staying alone in the Quaker Cottage, especially without electricity. I remembered the Webley and asked, “Did Lennie give a revolver back to your father?”

  “A revolver? I don’t think so.”

  “Lennie has an old revolver of Highat’s in his roll-top,” I said. “Let me walk you back to the Big House and we’ll check on it.”

  “Will you hide it, Bradley? I can’t stand the thought of anyone else getting hurt.”

  “I have an idea. I don’t want to stay here tonight; I’m too spooked to be alone in the dark. Let’s go back to the Big House. We’ll get the revolver so no one else can use it, and I’ll sleep on the sofa in the sitting room, in front of the fire. It’s almost getting to be a tradition,” I said, trying to make her smile.

  My new plan was to stay up all night with the gun clutched under a blanket. At first light I would call the police and leave Schoolcross. And if the phone was out and I couldn’t move the Wagoneer from the snow bank, I would walk to the police station.

  Nora put the book down on the table, and I saw in the firelight that it was the slim volume of poetry Ray had spent so much time reading. I picked it up and the book fell open to his favorite poem, Donne’s “The Good-Morrow.” Ray had shown it to me the night Lars’s body was found. My eyes fell on the closing lines, barely readable by the firelight.

  If our two loves be one,

  or, thou and I Love so alike

  that none do slacken,

  none can die.

  “What does this mean?” I asked. “Why is it so important to him?”

  She didn’t answer, but stood up and put on her coat. I checked that the fire screen was secure, then felt my way to the kitchen and found a flashlight in the drawer. When I stepped out into the freezing night, she was waiting for me.

  We walked through the snow until the western outline of the Big House loomed in front of us. White smoke, illuminated by moonlight, streamed from the chimneys that served the guest apartment and the sitting room.

  “I hope your parents are warm enough, Nora.”

  My recently thawed hands were already freezing again.

  “I’ve given them extra goose-down quilts and flannel pajamas, and they have plenty of firewood. They’ll be fine. I’m more worried about the pipes. We need electricity to run the systems—heat, water, everything. Lennie and I had talked about putting in an emergency generator, but . . .”

  We made our way up the slippery stone steps under the west portico and entered through the front door directly into Lennie’s studio. Nora moved quickly to the corridor to our right, its darkness only slightly broken by the flicker of firelight that was visible from the sitting room door. I located the roll-top desk in the studio with my flashlight and rushed to it, knocking over an easel in my haste. My twinges of paranoia had returned on the walk to the Big House, and I wanted the revolver in my hand.

  After a frantic search, I called, “The gun is gone! Where’s Lennie?”

  Nora didn’t answer, so I made my way into the sitting room. She stood by the fireplace, a stricken look in her eyes. I followed her gaze and saw Lennie lying on the sofa. His hands and feet were bound with pieces of rope from a lariat that had been among the things in the sitting room. A wrapping of duct tape covered his mouth, and a nasty-looking egg-shaped lump above his temple was already changing from scarlet to greenish purple.

  “I have it, Bradley,” said a voice from the corner. “Are you gunning for me too?”

  Lennie’s eyes were open wide, staring with unblinking hate. I followed his gaze to see Ray standing near the bar, pointing the Webley at my face.

  CHAPTER XVI

  ◊

  “Hi, Ray,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” he said, his voice metallic and sarcastic. “This son of a bitch tried to kill me, and I think you’re in on it with him. I heard you remind him about your ‘plan’ when you left this evening.”

  “Ray, please. Put that thing away.”

  He held the gun steady in my face. The bore was enormous, and by the light from the flames I could see the tips of the bullets in the cylinder. Lennie was right. They had turned green.

  “He snuck into my house with the gun,” said Ray, “so I knocked him on the head and marched him up here to find Nora. I would have called the police except the phones are out . . .”

  Lennie tried to protest but could only wiggle and make muffled noises through the tape. “You were going to call the police, Ray?”

  His breath was condensing like smoke as he spoke into the cold air of the sitting room. “I have to. The man’s gone berserk; he’s a predator. For all I know, you are too. I haven’t done anything wrong. You know it was self-defense with Raider.”

  “Ray, please,” said Nora. “This has gone too far. Put the gun away and untie Lennie.”

  “I’m sorry, Nora, I can’t do that,” he said. “And I can’t let Bradley rattle around the house either. If I turn my back on him, he’ll smash my head in with the poker.”

  Actually, I was eye-balling the fireplace poker, but I quickly looked away. I never would have been fast enough anyhow. Ray picked up the velvet-covered handcuffs from among the things on the backgammon table and tossed them to me.

  “I’m not going to hurt them unless I have to,” he said to Nora, “but I’m not going to let them kill me either. Bradley, handcuff yourself to that.”

  He pointed to the brass fireplace fender that was set firmly into the edge of the hearth. I started to protest, but Ray snapped “Do it. You can spend the night there.”

  Lennie was still lying on the sofa to the right of the fireplace, trussed up like a pig. He’d stopped struggling and was looking Nora straight in the eyes. She said to Ray, “You’re not going to hurt them, are you?”

  “I’m not an animal, whatever some people might think,” he said, glaring at Lennie, “but I have to protect myself when I’m attacked. I’ll let them both go as soon as we’ve called the police.”

  Something strange had passed between Nora and Lennie. I don’t think Ray saw it, or at least he didn’t say anything about it.

  “But Nora . . .” Ray said.

  “Yes?”

  “. . . I want you to wait there with me.”

  “Oh, Ray, no . . .”

  “Don’t you see? You’re too tenderhearted. You’ll let them go.” His voice was low but steely hard. “If you want me to leave the room, you’ve got to come with me.”

  Again I thought I saw some silent communication pass between Lennie and Nora.

  “Bradley,” she said, “you should put those handcuffs on.”

  “Nora! You can’t be serious.”

  Ray straightened his arm and pointed the gun closer to my face.

  “Shut up and do it,” he said.

  “Do what he says,” said Nora, her voice pleading.

  I looked at Lennie. To my astonishment, he nodded in agreement. Ray gestured at me with the gun. I shrugged, got down on the floor awkwardly, and handcuffed myself to the rail. Ray had the key, and I was now helpless in front of him.

  He stuck the revolver into his belt, picked up the roll of duct tape, then tore off a two-foot strip and wrapped it around my head, covering my mouth. Fear of asphyxiation threatened to overload my senses, and I worked to calm myself enough to breathe through my nose.

  Ray rose to his full height, towering with such hatred that I was sure he was going to kick me.

  Nora said, “Ray, I know you’re angry. No one can blame you for that . . .”

  “Nora!” I silently screamed.

  “. . . but you promised me you wouldn’t h
urt them.”

  He moved away from me.

  “Okay, but I’ve got to get out of this house.”

  “We can wait in the Keeper’s Cottage, like you said.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t leave them like this,” Ray said. “It’s still an hour until morning, and who knows when the heat will come back on.”

  The handcuffs hurt my wrists, and my knees and back already were aching. Ray moved toward me, but not to let me go.

  “Stretch out on your belly, Bradley,” he said.

  I did, and a cold draft from the baseboards immediately chilled my bones. Ray took a pillow from the couch and put it under my head. Nora first covered Lennie and then me with plaid wool blankets from the sofa, looking into my eyes with some indecipherable message. Then she and Ray headed toward the sitting room door, but Ray stopped and turned back. “I’d better check the fire,” he said.

  He came to the fireplace, removed the screen, and adjusted the blazing logs with the poker. My head, which was resting on the pillow, was turned so I could watch him. He rearranged the burning logs by lifting them up and settling them onto sizeable wedges of fatwood kindling, which instantly burst into flames. I saw that when they burned through, the flaming logs would roll out of the fireplace and hit the wicker basket of kindling he had left on the hearth. Fatwood burns as if it’s been soaked in gasoline. The heart pine mantel piece, the wall paneling, everything might go up, and the elaborate sprinkler system would be worthless without electricity to run the pumps.

  I tried to yell for Nora to look at what he was doing, but the duct-tape gag muffled my voice. Ray finished his work with the fire, then planted the heels of his heavy boots firmly onto my hands and bore down with all his weight. He twisted his feet, and my fingers, already abused by the freezing and thawing, were electrified with pain. I felt my bones breaking as he ground his heels. Maybe I passed out for a moment, because the next sound I heard was the closing of the front door as they left the house for the Keeper’s Cottage.