Teddy (The Pit)

by John Gault

  “Shh,” he whispered. He put his hand out to her, and she took it, draping it over her shoulder as she slid across the seat and buried her face in his chest. She cried softly, and he stroked her hair until she was finished. “Allan,” she said finally, “what’s the matter with me?”

  “I can’t answer that, Sandy,” he said, turning her face to his and studying it carefully. “Probably nothing terminal, though. You found yourself involved with this kid, probably because he seemed to be a loser. I won’t say that’s been a pattern with you, sweetheart, but what you have to accept in yourself is that you’re vulnerable to that kind of thing. Ask yourself why you got into psych in the first place, why you want to do clinical work.” He paused for a moment, ran his tongue over his moustache and then completed his thought. “What you really have to ask yourself—and right now seems as good a time as any—is whether or not you can handle the work emotionally. Maybe this experience with Jamie is a good thing, in a way. Maybe it’s showing you that your strength is not in dealing directly with people. You’ve got yourself too involved, and while that may be very admirable under some circumstances, I’m convinced that no clinical psychologist can survive that way.”

  She started to answer, but he cut her off. “Don’t. Just think about it for a while. I may be dead wrong, but you asked me so I told you. Arguing won’t help.”

  “But Allan,” she protested weakly, “the boy . . .”

  “He’ll make it or he won’t. A week from today he’ll just be a fresh memory to you, and a month from today he’ll seem a long, long way off. As he will be.”

  Her face was still demanding an answer, and he knew it.

  “Okay,” he said, turning the ignition key and reaching down for the shift lever, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Tomorrow, if he wants, I’ll spend some time with him. I’ll see if I think your assessment is correct, and if I agree, then I’ll come back next week and talk to the parents with you. Is that a deal?”

  “Dr. Dressen, I think you’re terrific!”

  “Don’t call me doctor, it’s bad luck. And stop doing that, for Christ’s sake, you’re making me crazy!” She laughed happily and did as she was told. After a while.

  C H A P T E R

  16

  If Margaret Livingstone had not been the disciplined woman that she was and prided herself to be, the choice between the bathtub and the black Danskin exercise suit hanging on the hook beside it would have been easy. Only a few hours sleep the night before, thanks to David Bentley, followed by a particularly long day in the library, disposed her much more toward a good soak and a good sleep than a sweaty half-hour of ballet exercises. What’s more, Abergail was still out at the school dance, which meant that nobody would ever know if she skipped her workout just this once.

  Margaret examined her naked body in the full-length bathroom mirror. Everything was fine until she got to her thighs. She pinched at them and made a face. Then, with a sigh, she reached for the Danskin and pulled it on. Back in her bedroom she switched on the lights, shoved a London Symphony 8-track of Swan Lake into the stereo, and flicked on the power. She took a deep, professional breath and went up on point. Then another breath, as she lifted her right leg straight up and out, describing a perfect arc with the downward-turned toes. She brought it slowly back, maintaining near-flawless balance.

  “Oh shit,” she muttered. Who the hell was ringing her doorbell at ten thirty at night? Abergail? No, she knew the door was left open for her. David? If it was, she’d kill him. Margaret grabbed a white terry cloth robe from a hook in the bathroom and had almost struggled into it by the time she reached the front door. With all of the impatience she felt, she flung the door open and came face to face with nobody. What the hell was this? Did some stupid kid think it was Halloween? Then she saw at her feet the envelope with her name so neatly pasted on it, and she thought: Jamie Benjamin! If this is another of his sickie games, by God, it’ll be his last!

  She lifted the envelope tentatively. It held something heavier than a note, she realized, heavier than another of the brat’s filthy disgusting pictures. She returned to the bedroom and held it up to the bright light.

  There was a cassette tape inside, along with a note. Her first impulse was to call David, but she stifled it. The cutout, pasted-down “miss living stone” on the envelope pricked her curiosity as much as it disturbed her.

  Hands trembling, she cut away one end of the envelope neatly with her manicure scissors and let the contents slide onto the bed. She picked up the note first and read it. “Oh my God! Oh no, oh no, not Abergail! Oh my God, no!” She began to shiver violently, and red mist swirled before her eyes; she couldn’t breathe; something bitter and cold was trying to force itself up into her throat; she felt herself slipping away, and she grabbed for the dresser and held on.

  Outside in the protective darkness of the night and the thick hedge, two pairs of eyes, one icy blue and the other black, glowed with excitement. “This is going to be even better than we thought,” blue eyes whispered. “Hmmm,” black eyes replied.

  Meanwhile Margaret had recovered herself enough to pick up the tape from the bed; she took it to her desk, dropped it into her Sony, and pushed the start button. Then, with a look of pure hatred on her face, she walked to the picture window, as the note had commanded and stood there, hands on hips. Whoever was out there would not see her cry and cringe and beg for mercy. If they had Abergail—and she was no longer certain they did, although she couldn’t take that chance—she would do anything they asked. But not until they asked it. She would not give them that pleasure.

  Suddenly, after what seemed a long, long time, she heard the voice, and despite her resolve, her body jerked and her eyes widened and the trembling began again. “Good evening, Miss Livingstone. As you can see from our note, we are very desperate men . . .”

  Oh my God! She had hardly heard the words. It was the voice, a terrible deep voice, a voice that could only belong to someone unspeakably evil. Somewhere in her horrified, confused, and disbelieving mind, she apologized to Jamie Benjamin. This was not the voice of a boy, any boy, this was the voice of a madman!

  “. . . and we are holding your niece, Abergail Buhl, in a nice, clean, safe place. We have not harmed one hair of her head, Miss Livingstone. At least, not yet. But we have another place for her, Miss Livingstone, and that one is not so nice and safe and dean. Oh, the rats like it, but then, it’s their home. Are you paying attention, Miss Livingstone?”

  “Yes,” she said, unaware that she was talking to a tape recorder, unaware of everything except the unutterable evil of the voice and the almost unbearable terror that was coursing through her.

  “Fine, Miss Livingstone, as long as you know. Now listen carefully and do as we ask, and your niece will be released immediately. Nod if you understand. And remember, we are watching.”

  She did as she was told. She was beginning to feel a numbness now, a sensation of no longer being there, of not being anywhere. The room, the window, the backyard, and whoever was out there all began to fade away, and she felt a strange, not unpleasant warmth, first in her finger and toes, and then her arms and legs, and finally the rest of her. The voice on the tape was the only reality, and even it seemed faraway, like an echo of itself.

  “Take off your clothes, Miss Livingstone. Now!”

  She slid the straps of the Danskin over her shoulders and extracted her arms. Then, without ceremony, she just pulled the suit down and stepped out of it. She was only vaguely concerned that she was standing naked in a window for the pleasure of some people out there in the darkness, some people who had . . . uh . . . oh, yes, they had Abergail.

  “Now, Miss Livingstone, we want you to grab your tits and squeeze them. You have such lovely tits, Miss Livingstone. Much nicer than Abergail’s . . .”

  Wherever she’d been, suddenly she was back. “I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard!” she shrieked into the darkness. “So help me God, if you’ve harmed her, if you’ve even looked at her, I’ll f
ind you and I’ll kill you myself! I’ll . . .”

  “Aunt Margaret! What are you doing?”

  Abergail?

  “Aunt Margaret?”

  She turned slowly, not even thinking about covering herself, not able to feel shame or anger or any other emotion other than sweet, so very sweet, relief. “You’re all right?” she asked in a broken whisper. “You weren’t harmed?”

  The girl just shook her head, and that, plus the look of disbelief on her face, answered all of Margaret’s immediate questions. Satisfied, with a little smile on her face she crumpled to the floor.

  Slipping through the familiar backyards of his neighborhood with Teddy riding happily in the linen laundry bag, Jamie returned home from his adventure full of triumph. The juices of impending manhood pulsed through his body, thrilled his brain, and engorged his penis. Though it was impossible to run, or even walk quickly, that was a small price to pay.

  Sandy still wasn’t home. He sensed her absence as he stood in the shadows of the elms across the street, assuring himself that there were no cars, no strollers, no neighbors sitting out on their lawns or porches, nobody to take note of his sudden and suspicious appearance. Satisfied, he crossed to the safety of his own house and let himself in the back door. While he stood there in the darkness and confirmed that he and Teddy were alone in the house, he became increasingly aware of his own heavy, unnatural breathing, and the growing, not-unpleasant pain in his groin. With unneeded silence, he crept up the stairs to his room and closed the door. Then he opened the linen bag and brought out Teddy, holding him at arm’s length for a few moments of shared, unspoken happiness before sitting him down gently on the bed.

  “We did it, Teddy. We did it!” he said, his voice a raspy whisper. “Did you see her face? And the way she played with her tits? It was really great, wasn’t it, Teddy? Just like we planned, just like we figured.”

  The bear’s eyes seemed to smile dreamily. “Yes, Jamie, it was just wonderful, just perfect.” Even Teddy’s voice seemed to be catching in his throat as well, and he choked out his words hoarsely. “If we made any mistakes, they were small ones. Maybe we shouldn’t have mentioned Abergail’s tits, eh Jamie? That made her yell so loud she didn’t hear what I wanted her to do with her cunt. Boy, I’d like to have seen that!”

  “Yeh, me too,” Jamie said, but without too much enthusiasm. He was still not sure he shared his friend’s attraction for cunts. Tits were great, but cunts still scared him. And besides, he thought, Miss Livingstone’s didn’t look all that much different from Barbara’s, or the ones in the magazines, which, to him, all looked pretty much the same too. But he guessed that some day, when he was older, he would understand why cunts so fascinated other boys and men—and Teddy. “But otherwise things still went great, didn’t they? Did you see Abergail’s face when she came in, that frigging Abergail?”

  “Yes,” Teddy said. “Too bad we couldn’t have figured out a way to get them both naked, eh, Jamie? Miss Livingstone’s big tits and her hairy thing, and stupid, titless little Abergail—I bet she doesn’t have any hair down there at all yet.”

  “But I don’t either, Teddy,” Jamie said, suddenly ashamed of his immaturity.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Jamie, you’ll have hair down there soon just like Tom does, and then we’ll be able to do more than just look, won’t we?”

  Happiness returned to Jamie’s face, and he imagined what he’d do when he got bigger. “Yeh,” he said, “then we’ll have some real adventures!” Although he wasn’t at all clear just what they would be.

  Suddenly he realized there were people downstairs, and for a panicky moment he thought Tom and Barbara had returned. The voices wafting up through the floorboards of his bedroom were definitely those of a man and a woman. Then he remembered. Sandy and that friend of hers, Allan, had gone out together earlier. Jamie hadn’t expected her to bring him home, though, not to this home, to his home, to their home—his and Sandy’s. And he knew it was late. It had been around eleven o’clock when he and Teddy had slipped out of the hedges surrounding Miss Livingstone’s backyard, so it must be at least midnight now. Ever so quietly he changed into his pajamas and crawled into bed, with Teddy beside him.

  When Sandy came in to check on him, all she’d find is a small blond boy fast asleep with an angel’s smile on his face. He heard her climb the stairs, and he counted her steps as she came down the hall. The door opened soundlessly, and the muted light of the hall threw a narrow beam across the bed, illuminating his face. “Jamie?” The voice was just above a whisper. “Are you asleep?”

  “Unnh,” Jamie replied, doing what he felt was a pretty good impression of a sleeping person changing position slightly in bed. Her closeness to him caused his penis to grow erect again, and he expected her to come closer, to stand over him, maybe even to adjust the sheet, but she disappointed him. The door was closed as quietly as it had been opened, and the footsteps disappeared down the hall. Jamie’s eyes snapped open. His mind was racing so fast it was beginning to stumble. “I’m going to go to her and do it tonight, Teddy, tonight!” he whispered.

  “Yes, Jamie,” the bear said softly, “this is the night for you to do it all right.”

  “Sleeping like a log,” she told Allan. “Looking as pure and innocent as a baby.”

  “So,” he said, “we should be okay then.”

  Sandy hesitated. In the car it had seemed like a good idea. Her tremendous relief that Allan was going to talk to Jamie, to take the terrible pressure off of her, had translated itself into sexual longing, and her playfulness while Allan had tried to drive had excited them both. Now, however, she wasn’t so sure; her sense of responsibility was beginning to raise its ugly head.

  Sensing this, Allan had begun to marshal his arguments, and while he tried to handle her reluctance lightly, the edge on his voice left little doubt that he had every intention of seeing the matter through to its joyful conclusion. “Look,” he said, “you just made me walk six blocks because you were so goddamned worried about the neighbors, you didn’t want my car anywhere near the house. And you made me promise, on my Scout’s honor that I wouldn’t fall asleep right after—which I don’t—and . . .”

  “Oh you do so, Allan!”

  “Well, maybe once or twice. Anyway, if the kid’s dead to the world, who’s to know—providing of course you can keep those orgasmic wailings of yours to a minimum.”

  She laughed and punched him on the arm. “Maybe I won’t even come at all, Robert Redford. You’re not all that great in the sack, you know.”

  “By their deeds shall you know them,” he laughed back. “If you’re still saying that half an hour from now, I’ll enter the seminary first thing in the morning. But if you happen to change your mind, I have some other filthy and disgusting ideas that need implementing.”

  They slipped off their sneakers and climbed the stairs hand in hand. Sandy motioned Allan to her room, then pointed to herself and then to Jamie’s closed door. He nodded and, for the moment, they parted.

  “Still fast asleep,” she said, closing the door.

  “Good,” Allan replied. He was already stripped down to his jockey shorts and fingering the waistband. She could see from the bulge that he was half-erect and climbing, and she felt the electricity running through her. In seconds she was naked herself, the curves of her good young body glistening in the streetlight that filtered through the open window.

  “Allan,” she whispered throatily, and she crawled under the sheet beside him. “Take a long time, please. Make it last a long time.” Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue flicking and caressing, and she shuddered happily. The last of the guilty, distressing thoughts of Jamie melted, then evaporated, and the only world she knew was the one inside her body.

  C H A P T E R

  17

  Jamie gave himself about fifteen minutes after Sandy’s second visit to his doorway, then slipped out of bed, pulled off his pajamas and drifted soundlessly across the braided rug to the door. He gave Tedd
y a little wave before stepping out, naked, into the hallway. Hugging the wall and trying to bring his breathing under control, he arrived at Sandy’s closed door. But when he started to reach for the knob, the noise stopped him. The moaning sound. Was she sick? Was she hurt? He almost asked, but then some knowledge from somewhere told him to be quiet. So he waited a few moments longer. The moaning continued, and it seemed to be getting faster, but not louder. Then he heard another sound, a deep groaning “Sandy, Oh Sandy!” sound that froze him to the spot. He was in there! Allan! The one that was supposed to be “just a friend!” They were doing it! Sandy and . . . and . . . that man! Jamie’s mind began to reel, and hot tears began to run down his face. He thought he was going to be sick. Not really sure how he was doing it, he staggered back to his room.

  And there was Teddy, black button eyes full of knowing and sympathy, sitting on the pillow.

  Despite what was happening to him, Jamie shut the door. Then he lurched to the bed and fell on it, his body wracked with silent sobbing, his fists pounding at the bedclothes, his legs kicking at empty air. After uncounted minutes, the spasms stopped. And uncounted minutes after that, he was able to look up into Teddy’s eyes.

  “They’re . . . they’re . . . oh, Teddy, they’re . . .”

  “I know,” Teddy said, not unkindly.

  “I thought she loved me. She said she did. She said he was just a friend. I . . .” Something inside him was pushing away the tears, the pain, the confusion. He felt himself becoming calm, and somehow terribly aware of everything around him. Teddy, the bed, the desk. Even his own hands, as he held them before his face, took on a new appearance, all suffused with silver light. In a few more seconds his breathing was regular and his eyes were dry, and that strange glow had faded a bit—although it was still there, like a halo. He sat up on the bed and crossed his legs. His hands were in his lap. Slowly he turned and looked at himself in the dresser mirror and yes, even his reflection had that light around it. He stopped and looked more closely. Funny, he thought, I never knew I looked like that. He got up and went to the mirror, peering closely. Is that really my face?