Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  Poking at my food, I realized what was troubling me. And this discovery, far from lifting my spirits, only made me more vexed. My uneasiness, I was ashamed to admit, stemmed from base jealousy. The night before, Todd had made a sexual overture to Neil and me, a proposal in which I still found a fitful appeal. Now, before Neil and I had had the opportunity to discuss what had happened and to reach a mutual, honest, reasoned response to this come-on, Todd had shifted gears and made his pitch to Doug Pierce, my best friend.

  Compounding my distress was the latent attraction I had always felt for Doug, since the moment when we had met, on Christmas Day nearly four years earlier. I had never allowed expression of this attraction, cloaking it in the bounded intimacy of friendship, but the torch still fluttered, and I still carried it.

  So the two guys making goo-goo eyes at each other over the table were the very two guys who had played a role in my fantasies, one of them for years, the other for a day or two. And now they were shutting me out.

  The fourth guy at the table I had lived with and loved for nearly six years. Neil was my bedrock, my ultimate fantasy, and my friend. My life, my sense of self, had been redefined in terms of “us.” Day-to-day existence was unimaginable without him, so I knew that these other notions—experimenting with the bounds of our relationship—were inherently dangerous. What’s more, I felt ashamed for even entertaining the thought that someone else could spice up our sex life. Eight years younger than I, Neil was no slouch in that department, and most men (that is, most sane, gay men) would be blissfully content to be known as his exclusive property in bed.

  But he too was troubled. Having been so close to him for so long, I could easily decode his distracted manner, his minimal conversation, his indifference to Nancy’s wonderful meal. All of these symptoms mirrored my own, so I knew that he too was struggling with the interplay between Todd and Doug. I was reasonably certain that he had never thought of Doug in any context other than that of friendship. Doug wasn’t Neil’s type; I was. But so was Todd, and now Neil clearly regretted having dismissed Todd’s proposition so quickly and reflexively the night before. The result of all this emotional dithering was that Neil and I were both stuck in a thick stew of doubt. We needed to talk.

  At meal’s end, when Berta presented the check, Todd made a show of grabbing it and thrusting a credit card into Berta’s palm.

  “Hey,” said Doug, “that’s mine.”

  Todd said firmly, “I want to do this.”

  “But that’s too generous,” Doug persisted. “I hardly know you.”

  “Sure you do. Any friend of Mark and Neil’s is a friend of mine.”

  Doug relented, “Then I owe you one.”

  “Yeah. I guess you do.” Todd’s double entendre was none too subtle.

  We were last to leave the Grill that night. It was well past nine, and Dumont’s main drag was dead. Doug and Todd draggled on the sidewalk for a minute or two, protracting their shared evening with small talk, at last saying good night with a hug; then Doug walked away to his car. Todd had ridden with Neil, and I had brought my own car from the Register, so we drove home separately, Neil leading.

  Following, I noticed Todd in Neil’s passenger seat, his head turned in profile, gabbing away. I reasoned he was asking Neil about Doug, wanting to know everything. Neil’s head remained aimed straight ahead, eyes on the road. It seemed he had very little to say.

  By the time we arrived home, set up the coffeemaker for the next morning, glanced at the day’s mail, and locked up the house, it was just past ten. Still on a buzz from meeting Doug, Todd decided to stay up reading awhile.

  Pleading fatigue—true enough—Neil and I went upstairs to our room.

  We undressed without saying much, then stood together in the bathroom, brushing and flossing. Neil was naked; I always wore a loose pair of old cotton gym shorts during the transitions from daytime dress to bedtime nudity and back again (my sense of propriety, I guess).

  After spitting mouthwash into the sink, Neil looked up at me in the mirror, saying, “In case you didn’t get the message at the Grill, Todd’s got the hots for Doug. I got an earful in the car. Think Doug’s really interested?”

  “He can be pretty hard to read.”

  “Yeah.” Neil breathed a feeble laugh. “Especially in regard to that stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  With a dramatic swoon and a fluttering of his eyelids, he amplified, “Affairs of the heart.”

  Happy to see a touch of his old humor, I took him in my arms. “It’s awkward for Doug. It seems so difficult for him. I hope he finds some happiness—in regard to that stuff.”

  “What stuff?” With a sly grin, Neil slid his hand down my back, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of my shorts.

  Nuzzling the side of his head, I whispered, “Affairs of the heart.” I kissed his ear, then slid my tongue into it.

  With a groan, Neil went limp in my arms (my tried-and-true mode of foreplay, which seemed at once both simple and daring, never failed). “It’s been a busy week,” he said, lolling his head on my shoulder.

  “Meaning?” I took his head in my hands and brought his lips to mine, indulging in a deep kiss, intensely tasty—cinnamon and mint, our mingled mouthwash flavors.

  “Meaning”—he pushed the waistband of my shorts beneath my buttocks—“we’ve been neglecting each other.”

  “We’ve had a lot on our minds.” I didn’t need to explain that I was referring to Todd Draper.

  “I’ll say.” Neil’s thumbs circled to the front of my shorts, then nudged them past my penis, which bobbed free, making hot contact with his.

  Letting my shorts drop to the floor, I stepped out of them and pulled Neil into a full-body embrace. “This is exactly where we belong.”

  “Not exactly,” he said coyly.

  “Hmm?” What, I wondered, did he have in mind? Was he thinking of Todd, downstairs, curled up with a book?

  He clarified, “We belong in bed.” With an exaggerated wink, he reached to switch off the bathroom lights, then led me into the bedroom.

  From either side of the bed, we pulled back the comforter and top sheet, dropping them to the floor, giving us a clean canvas, as it were, on which to perform. Neil switched off his bedside lamp; I checked the alarm on the clock radio before switching off mine. Then we both lay down, rolling to the center of the bed.

  As our bodies met and we enjoyed another long, probing kiss, I realized that neither of us was erect; somewhere between our first and second kiss, between the bathroom and the bed, we had both lost the prong of arousal. Perhaps the fussing with the bedding and the clock had blindsided our mission. Perhaps the cold sheets had taken a momentary toll. They would soon be heated up, I reasoned, and I was confident that both Neil and I would quickly be sporting an embarrassment of turgid riches, raring to go.

  But after some prolonged snuggling, frenching, and general carrying-on, neither one of us had mustered much to work with. I then entertained Neil with another bout of ear-probing, but even that failed to produce the intended effect.

  So we both hunkered down for some reciprocal oral stimulation. When we finally abandoned that effort, we were not only limp, but also wet, cold, and hopelessly shriveled. Hell, we even tried basic, old-fashioned hand jobs, both on ourselves and on each other—but still, no go.

  What, I wondered, was going on? Deep inside, I already knew the answer. Without budging an inch from his book, Todd Draper had invaded our bed. The time, I sensed, was finally right for the heart-to-heart Neil and I had been postponing.

  I let go of his penis and framed his face with my hands. With a smile I hoped he could read in the darkness, I said, “It seems we’re both a bit distracted tonight.”

  “Sorry. I hate to let you down.”

  “Don’t be nuts. It’s a mutual thing.” After a moment’s hesitation, I added, “I know what’s on your mind, Neil. Let’s talk about this.”

  There was silence, then an airy sigh. Touching my lips,
he said, “I’m so lucky to have you—and so grateful we don’t need to keep secrets from each other.”

  “That’s what we’re about. It’s ‘us,’ remember? We need to clear the air.”

  “You’re right, Mark”—I sensed him smiling back at me—“and so perceptive. Of course I killed Gillian. How did you piece it together?” Rolling away from me, he reached to switch on his lamp.

  My eyes crackled at the assault of light.

  My brain was spinning.

  My heart, I swore, had stopped.

  Neil hadn’t said much all day, but the floodgates were now open. “You can’t imagine what a relief it is to know we can finally talk,” he was saying as he reached from the foot of the bed and lugged the comforter up from the floor. By then I was sitting up, glassy-eyed and numb. Neil scrunched next to me, sitting with his legs crossed Indian-style, and wrapped us both in the downy duvet. Like kids huddled in a tent, camping in the backyard, I already felt terrified by the ghoulish story I would be told, sure of its outcome without knowing the particulars. Neil said, “I suppose you’re wondering exactly how it happened.”

  “Uh, yeah … ,” I managed to say, nodding uncertainly.

  “Okay, I’ll start at the beginning—well, the beginning of the part you don’t know, after we both left the Reece house yesterday morning. We’d seen all those blowups with Gillian; then, around nine, you went to the paper. I went looking for Todd to see if I could get him back on the job.”

  “Todd said you spotted his car at some coffee shop on the edge of town.”

  “Right. A big Mercedes with Illinois plates—that was a no-brainer. But I didn’t think the rest would be so easy. I mean, Gillian had slapped him, and frankly, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he decided to pull his crew, dump the boxes on Gillian’s lawn, send her a bill, and tell her to fuck herself. She deserved no better. But I was in a bind, and Todd—God love him—understood my predicament and took pity. He said he’d finish the job, but only if Gillian stayed out of the way till all the curtains were up and the photos were taken. I promised him she would cooperate, then returned to the house to lay down the law. That was sometime after ten.”

  “Was Glee still there?” My features editor had arrived as we were leaving, and I recalled her telling me later that Gillian had kept her waiting for an hour while rushing the workers to finish their jobs.

  Neil shook his head. “Glee’s car was gone, and so were all the trucks. But Gillian’s Bentley was still parked outside, along with one other car, which I didn’t recognize. So I went inside to see what was going on. As far as I was concerned, the job wasn’t finished, so I walked through the front door unannounced, hoping to underscore that I still held a measure of authority on the premises. I wasn’t two steps inside the foyer, though, when I realized Gillian was at it again.”

  Warily, I asked, “At what?”

  “At someone’s throat, bitching up a storm in the living room. She was shrieking at some guy, who was yelling right back. I didn’t know his voice, but they were arguing about the merger, and then, when Gillian derided him has ‘Twinky Tyler,’ I realized he was the guy who’s been looking over the agreements.”

  I nodded. “Tyler Pennell. He was also at the Reece house on Tuesday afternoon, when you first took Glee and me on the tour. It was Tyler who was arguing with Gillian in the living room that day; I broke it up so Gillian could keep her appointment with Glee.”

  “Ah,” said Neil. “Glee and I never saw him; I was showing her around the house. In any event, Tyler returned Wednesday morning, and I heard plenty. Standing in the hall, I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping. They were so loud, it was impossible not to hear them, and their argument was so bitter, it seemed wrong to intrude. So I just stood there and listened. Once I got the gist of their fight, I was so shocked I could barely breathe, let alone move.”

  “What was it about?” I asked, though I sensed the answer.

  “It turns out, Tyler’s earlier uneasiness about the merger had motivated him to keep digging, and yesterday morning, he determined that Gillian had been sending some of her people to China on repeated trips, but the travel expenses were apparently disguised somehow. Digging deeper, he found evidence of capital expenditures to a Chinese company that’s building a printing plant there. Everything fell together for him, so he returned to confront Gillian with his discovery of her plot. He described it in detail, accusing her of not only bad faith in her dealings with Quatro, but also, probably, criminal intent. The technicalities of their discussion were beyond me, but I heard enough to realize that your fortune was in jeopardy, as was the whole way of life we’ve established here.” Neil paused, wrapping an arm around me under the comforter.

  “I’ll bet Gillian went ballistic.”

  “Actually, at that point, she seemed to calm down. She must have understood that Tyler knew enough to crush the deal, so—get this—she offered to buy his silence. He laughed at her, but when she named a nice, round six-digit figure, he froze. She told him, ‘I see I’ve caught your attention, Twink. Scruples be damned, huh?’ Tyler grumbled that he’d have to think about it, then left. I heard him coming, so I stepped behind one of the double doors as he shot through the foyer. He was so agitated, I’m sure he didn’t see me.”

  “And he said he’d ‘have to think about’ Gillian’s offer of hush money?”

  “Those were his very words.” Neil continued, “Well, I waited a minute or so for the tension to ease, debating whether I should confront Gillian myself or leave and fill you in. I had just decided to go and find you when I heard Gillian fussing around inside—she was ripping the curtains. That got me moving, and I ran into the living room. She was up on the balcony, trying to tear the fringe off the top of the one panel that’d been installed. I shouted up to her that we had to talk, but she said she was busy and told me to leave. Like hell. I climbed the ladder, joining her on the balcony. Grabbing her hand, I told her to leave the curtains alone.

  “She said, ‘I paid for them, dammit—and I’ll trash them if I want.’

  “I asked, ‘The same way you plan to trash Quatro Press?’ She froze, and I repeated the same line she’d used on Tyler: ‘I see I’ve caught your attention.’ Then I went on to explain that I’d overheard everything Tyler had discovered, concluding, ‘If Tyler doesn’t blow the whistle, let me assure you, Gillian—I will.’”

  I asked Neil, “Then she went ballistic?”

  “Nope. Same deal. Cool as can be, she tried to buy my silence. I laughed at her offer, telling her there was no amount of money that could entice me to betray the man I’d built my life with. Realizing she couldn’t bribe me, she decided to try another tack and threatened to put into effect a backup plan she’d devised. She informed me that she’d planted language in the merger agreement that could be construed in such a way that Perry Schield and Quatro’s board members—namely you, Mark—would be seen as parties to a scheme of price-fixing and insider trading, with serious punitive consequences. This sounded like gibberish to me, and I accused Gillian of bluffing. Then she went ballistic. Enraged, she hauled off and gave me a bitch slap, a doozy, then backed off, stepping from the balcony to the top rung of the ladder. But I wasn’t going to let her leave without a taste of her own medicine. I’d indulged her far too long already. So … I slapped her.”

  “With your right hand? On her left cheek?”

  “I guess so. Point is, I must have hit her harder than I intended. She lost her footing and her grip, toppling backward. I grabbed for her, but missed. I expected her to scream on her way down, but instead, she used her last breath to call me an asshole. A split second later, she hit the stone floor.”

  “Good God,” I said with a soft gasp.

  Neil paused, collecting his thoughts. “I tore down the ladder, calling her name, then gave her body a shake. It was awful, how her head sagged from her neck. Clearly, she was dead. And I was equally convinced that I needed to get out of there—fast. I’m still not sure what the consequences might b
e if I owned up to what happened, but it would be sticky at best, and I don’t want to be hassled with it.”

  “Hassled?” I asked. “A woman died.”

  “I understand.” He nodded resolutely, signaling that he’d thought this through, over and over. “But it’s just too hard to untangle. I mean, I didn’t go there intending to kill Gillian, so it certainly wasn’t murder. When I got there, I learned things that understandably angered me, and we had a confrontation. Her bitchiness and her threats escalated, and finally, she hit me. I hate to sound childish, but it’s true—she started it. Then I hit her back. Was it self-defense? I’m not sure. Did I mean to kill her? Of course not. Might I have reasonably predicted she would fall from the ladder as the result of my slap? I just don’t know because I didn’t have time to think about it before I reacted. Did my slap play some role in her death? Sure. So where does that leave me—in the eyes of the law?”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” I told him. “I can’t sort that out.”

  “Well, neither could I. So I fled. Do I feel bad about what happened? Absolutely. On the other hand, I feel no guilt—at least no deep-down, I-was-at-fault sort of guilt. If I can live with it, and no one’s the wiser, that’s that.”

  I wanted to tell him, But there are procedures. I wanted to lecture, We’re a society of laws.

  “I had that appointment in Green Bay,” he continued, “and I was already running late, so I took off. The ninety-minute drive gave me plenty of time to think. What worried me most was not that Gillian had died—there was no fixing that now—but that her scheme was still in place, unexposed. Based on what I’d heard, I had no idea whether Tyler Pennell could be depended on to blow the whistle, and the signing, which needed only one signature for validation, was scheduled for the next day. I myself couldn’t expose Gillian’s plot without raising suspicions, so I hit upon the idea of sending an anonymous letter to the Register. I could spell out exactly what I knew, and I was reasonably sure it would end up in your hands in time to halt the merger.