by John Lutz
All of a sudden, he was the other Luther, from the cruel streets of Kansas City. The Luther without hopes or dreams or illusions. He knew women in ways far beyond his years. He knew what Cara wanted, how to treat her.
She’s playing in my backyard.
One of his hands snaked inside her blouse, the other began working her denim slacks down over her hips and buttocks. She moaned and fumbled to unfasten his belt buckle.
Luther kissed her again, then drew his head back, slowing this down. Her breath was hissing in the quiet kitchen and she was staring up at him, her breasts trembling as they rose and fell.
A beat. A pause. They could change their minds here. Change the future. They both knew it. Embarrassed grins, hurried buttoning and zipping, and it could be as if this never happened.
They helped each other undress. Neither wanted to take the time to go into one of the bedrooms. There was a heavy woven throw rug on the floor in front of the sink. Luther folded it in quarters and slid it beneath Cara’s raised hips before using his mouth on her, then mounting and entering her.
If she was surprised by Luther’s experience and lack of inhibition, she didn’t show it. Yet there was a glint of wonder and confirmation in her eyes. He knew now that her sex with Milford had been lacking, and that she was in new territory, and he, Luther, was her expert guide. But she was the expert on what sex could mean, and where it could carry them. They had so much to teach each other.
He showed her what he knew and how well he knew it.
And he was eager to learn from her.
For Luther, this wasn’t simply sex. It was love.
Luther began going home every day for lunch. Hiram wasn’t that big a town, so wherever the painting jobs were, usually it wasn’t that far to walk. If Tom Wilde suspected anything, he never let on.
Cara would take Luther into the bedroom now, and Luther knew he was enjoying her where Milford lay with her. Being in the master bedroom seemed to make it better for Cara. She’d clamp her legs tight around Luther and bite his bare shoulder, or grab a handful of his sweat-damp hair and urge him on.
Cara never talked about her life with Milford, never complained. It seemed enough to her that she had Luther.
One afternoon after sex, when Luther lay with his head on Milford’s pillow and looked across white linen at Cara, he said, “I hear some gossip now and again about Tom Wilde.”
She laughed. “Is all of that still floating around? Been a lotta years ago.” She turned onto her side, dug an elbow into the pillow, and propped her head sideways on one hand. “What is it you heard, Luther?”
“That Tom used to teach at the high school and got himself in trouble with some of the boys there.”
“Yep,” Cara said. “Same old rumor. And that’s all it is, Luther. You think Milford and I would let you go to work for a child molester?”
“Not you,” Luther said.
“ Luther! Milford’s not that kinda man!”
“How do you know the rumors about Tom aren’t true?”
“No witnesses ever came forth, Luther. It was just stories floated around by people that wanted Tom Wilde to lose his job. The father of some boy was said to have complained to the board of education, but if that’s so, whatever he said stayed a secret. And none of the boys came forward to point an accusing finger.”
“So what happened?”
“What happened is Tom Wilde lost his job. This is a small town, Luther, and it don’t take chances with child molesters teaching school, even if they’re just suspected child molesters.” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Luther, you don’t worry any about Tom Wilde in that regard. I know some other stories about him, concerning some of the so-called ladies of the town, and I tend more to believe those rumors.”
So did Luther, whatever the rumors. He’d been with child molesters, with Norbert Black and with others for pay. Wilde wasn’t like any of them. Of course, Luther also knew people could have many different sides.
He decided not to worry about Tom Wilde, but if anything made him suspicious or uneasy, he’d tell Cara.
He had a friend now, as well as a lover.
Tom Wilde knew Luther must have heard the rumors about him, but Luther never mentioned them. But then he wouldn’t. It was obvious, once you got to know Luther, that he was more worldly than he first appeared. Wilde had looked into his background and even suspected he’d worked as a male prostitute in Kansas City.
Maybe it was because of those days and nights on the street that Luther didn’t particularly care what was in Wilde’s past. Wilde figured Luther was a good-size boy and strong, and with his teenager’s assumption of immortality, he wouldn’t be afraid of him whatever he’d heard.
Anyway, their arrangement wasn’t forever. At the end of summer Luther would go to school and paint only part-time, if at all.
The summer was going very well. Wilde was getting plenty of jobs. Luther was a hard worker and a deft and steady painter on his way to becoming a craftsman. And he was a remarkably apt pupil. He’d learned quickly whatever Wilde taught him, even to the point where Wilde trusted him with jobs that required genuine artistry. Luther had talent. Wilde could spot it, because he used to teach art, and now and then one of his students displayed a gift Wilde tried to reach, tried to develop. Usually it did no good. The gifted student ignored or abused the gift and lurched ahead into a life of mundane matters and average, at best, accomplishments. It used to make Wilde sick to watch it happen. The waste. The terrible waste! A town like Hiram could suffocate an artist, and for Wilde, it was agonizing to watch art die.
Maybe that closeness and caring for some of his more talented students was what started the rumors so long ago.
Or maybe it was something else.
Wilde had become aware of the rumors early. At first they angered him. Then amused him. Because he knew they were untrue. He was sure that, being unfounded, they’d soon wither on the vine of gossip and drop off.
He’d been wrong about that. The rumors had grown and grown. The rumors had changed his life, and taken on a life of their own that persisted to this day.
The rumors were also wrong.
It wasn’t boys that interested Wilde, it was girls. One girl. Which made it more difficult to fight the rumors and constant innuendo.
Wilde remembered how it had been, the sideways glances, the lump in his stomach, the sleepless nights. The ponderous weight of it all had ground him down as if he were being milled to pulp and powder.
Finally the small-town gossip and viciousness had cost Wilde his teaching job.
He was sorry about the job, but not the girl.
When it came to the girl, he’d do it all over again.
25
New York, 2004.
Dr. Rita Maxwell sat in her leather-upholstered swivel chair and studied the open file on her desk. Her office was almost soundproof; the raucous noises of traffic ten stories below on Park Avenue barely penetrated the thick walls and were almost completely absorbed by the heavy drapes and plush carpeting.
The office was furnished in earth tones that were almost a monotone brown, but with green accents, like the throw pillows on the sofa, a leaded glass lampshade, a Chinese vase, the green desk pad, a vine cascading from its planter on a top corner of a bookcase. It all had an ordered, restful effect that seemed very professional, which was important to Dr. Maxwell. Psychoanalysis was most effective in surroundings that lent confidence.
Rita had been in her Park Avenue office for six years now, after practicing for ten years in Brooklyn. She’d gained a solid reputation and, she was sure, helped a good many of her patients. Her fee had risen to $300 per hour-an “hour” being forty-five minutes actual office time. Her patients were happy to pay it, because almost anyone in Manhattan who wanted to undergo analysis, if they were careful about whom they chose as their analyst and asked for references, would hear of Dr. Rita Maxwell. Her business depended on word-of-mouth advertising, and she received plenty of it and
knew why. She got results.
Was she arrogant? She didn’t think so. Not in the usual meaning of the word, anyway. She was tall, handsome rather than cute, with close-cropped blond hair and knowing green eyes. At forty-five, she was a jogger and sometimes marathon runner. She was fit and strong and appeared healthy in every way. Her broad-shouldered, almost masculine figure was made for well-cut clothes. Successful, rich enough, and as beautiful as she wanted to be, she thought she had a right to be satisfied with her personal life, but only that-satisfied.
Professional arrogance-that was something else. That kind of arrogance she possessed and even nurtured. And it worked to her advantage. Whatever the conflicts of her patients, they soon sensed in her a confidence that she could identify their problems and solve them. Something about her suggested that a violent sea might break over her calmness and reason, and as rocks they would remain.
Rita seldom disappointed.
And she wouldn’t disappoint this patient, she thought, as she scanned the David Blank file on her desk.
Not that David Blank was his real name.
The questions were, who was he, really? And why was he using a false identity?
The questionnaire Blank had filled out when he arrived was either vague or unverifiable. His address was patently false, and he always paid her receptionist, Hannah, with a cashier’s check. Rita never called his bluff on these falsifications. Blank’s lack of confidentiality, of trust, intrigued her. What was its genesis?
Certainly, there were good reasons for many of her patients to use false names, or ascribe embarrassing problems to “friends.” But that didn’t seem to be the case with Blank. In fact, Rita was sure she hadn’t yet touched on the reason he’d become one of her patients.
She’d made some assessments. He was fastidious, perhaps compulsive, and obviously quite secretive. He’d refused even to give his age, and had one of those faces that made it difficult to determine how old he was. Anywhere between thirty and fifty, with a shock of what was supposed to be prematurely gray hair but was unmistakably a wig. He was obviously well educated-or at least well read-and had the bearing of a professional.
And he was smart; she was sure of that.
But if he thought he was smarter than Rita Maxwell, especially playing at her game, he was doomed to disappointment. Already she was sure she could get to his core conflict, to the real reason why he came to see her, that he couldn’t yet bear to talk about. She simply needed something more to grab hold of, to use as gentle leverage to get at the truth. There were layers and layers to David Blank, she was sure. And it would be her challenge to discover what lay beneath them.
Hannah was at lunch, so it was Rita who buzzed Blank up ten minutes later, precisely on time, as usual, for his appointment.
He was wearing a light tan sport jacket today, dark brown slacks, and a pale blue shirt open at the collar. There was a diamond ring that might be expensive on the middle finger of his left hand. His watch was gold, but looked antique and was of a make unfamiliar to Rita. There was no way for her to hazard an intelligent guess at David Blank’s wealth, but he must be comfortably fixed or he couldn’t afford her.
He gave her his warm smile and nodded. “How are you, Dr. Maxwell?”
“Fine, David. Shall we begin?”
His smile became a wide grin. “The clock is running, Doctor.”
He settled into the leather recliner while she came out from around her desk and took her usual place in a nearby wing chair. Though there was a comfortable sofa in the office, Blank declined to use it, saying he didn’t feel like being a stereotypical patient lying down alongside his shrink. So he used the reclining lounge chair, setting it back halfway so he was half sitting, half lying.
“Where were we,” he asked, “when we were so rudely interrupted by the rush of time?”
“Montana,” Rita said. She switched on her tape recorder. She taped all her sessions, with her patients’ knowledge and approval. It was easier and more beneficial than taking notes.
She recited all the pertinent information, along with time and date, to catalog the tape, then began the session.
“Ah, Montana…,” Blank said.
Rita waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “At the end of our last session,” she reminded him, “you were twelve and had been sexually molested by the wife of the rancher who hired you to learn to herd cattle.”
“The state agency got me away from there,” Blank said, “only to place me a month later in a foster home where my guardians had the idea that any infraction of their rules meant severe punishment.”
“What kind of punishment?” Rita asked dutifully. She had a notepad and pen and pretended to take notes to supplement the tapes. The note taking seemed to comfort her patients. Actually, it gave her something to do and allowed for a certain detachment that kept her patients talking.
“They denied us solid food.”
“Us?”
“There were three other foster children besides myself.”
“Where was this, David? You didn’t mention.”
“A farm in Illinois.”
“What did they grow there?”
“Corn, soybeans, alfalfa.”
Rita made some meaningless squiggles on her notepad.
“One time, just for skipping school, I was denied solid food for three days.” Blank sounded justifiably outraged.
“Didn’t you have a chance to complain to your caseworker?”
“Hah! My so-called caseworker was more interested in getting into my pants than anything else.”
Ho, boy! Rita thought. And began taking her mock notes faster, feigning interest.
“Can you tell me why some women are like that?” Blank asked. “I mean, I was only thirteen at the time.”
“Were you big for your age, David?”
“Jesus, Doctor!”
Rita blushed. He’d managed to embarrass her, which didn’t happen often. “You know that wasn’t what I meant, David.”
“Do you know the answer to my question,” he persisted, “about why some women are interested in young boys?”
“There are different reasons. Why don’t you tell me about this caseworker, and maybe I can shine some light on her particular motivation. She might be a very important person in your life. You didn’t mention her name.”
“No, I didn’t. And I wouldn’t describe her as having motivation. It was more like a compulsion.”
“True. You’re right. It was probably a compulsion.” If it ever happened. She locked gazes with him. “Are you interested in compulsive behavior, David?”
“Sure. You might say that’s one reason I’m here.”
“So tell me the other reasons.”
“Let me tell you what it’s like to be twelve years old and go three days living on nothing but water.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about the amorous caseworker.”
“This was a year before that. You can swell your stomach with water, but it isn’t like food.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Sure what?”
“The amorous caseworker.”
For a few seconds he was in control of the session, and he handed control back to me.
Which means he’s really in charge.
He did tell her about his relationship with the caseworker. About trysts in the barn, in the woman’s car, in the farmhouse when there was no one else home. The caseworker had been interested in sadomasochism and bestiality, and forced all sorts of aberrant behavior on the young David Blank. “If it was abnormal sex, she was into it,” he said bitterly.
“I don’t know if there is such a thing as abnormal sex,” Rita said. “There’s a wide spectrum of human behavior.”
He sat up slightly and gave her a sharp look. “I guess you’re right, but this kind of stuff was really over the edge.”
He continued telling her in minute detail about what he and the caseworker had done all those years ago in
the quiet farmhouse or in the hot, buzzing barn that smelled of hay and manure. He had a great imagination.
Rita let him talk, barely listening. The recorder would pick it all up and preserve it for later contemplation. It was lies, anyway, she was sure. Camouflage for…something. And eventually she’d discover what.
He stayed on the subject for the rest of his appointment, playing his game with her, rambling on at $300 per hour.
Making me earn my money.
She smiled slightly. He couldn’t verbally dance and dart and dodge forever. She was patient and wily. She would beat him at this nimble game of deception.
But one thing bothered her a great deal: she was sure he knew she knew he was lying, and he didn’t seem to care. That made it more difficult for her to figure out his reasons for coming into analysis. If he were simply going through a charade that even he knew was too obvious, why would he waste his time and hers?
Rita did know that David Blank, whoever he was, wasn’t the sort to waste time or anything else.
Between appointments, or in the early-morning hours when she couldn’t sleep, she found herself wondering about her mysterious patient, worrying the puzzle and getting nowhere. Sometimes it seemed he was the analyst and she the patient, though the reasons for this were just beyond her comprehension.
But Rita’s confidence was unwavering.
Sooner or later she’d meet the real David Blank.
And know his reason for coming to her.
Mary Navarre and Donald Baines had just seen Hail to the Chef on Broadway and then had a late-night snack at a diner on West Forty-fourth Street. They were still in a good mood from the hit musical comedy when Donald keyed the apartment door, reached in, and flipped the light switch. Then he stood aside to let Mary enter first.
It was still one of her great pleasures to enter the recently decorated apartment, to see the expensive neutral leather furniture, the art on the walls, the retro slat-blinds window treatments. She would pause inside the door and let her glance take it all in before continuing her entrance.