The Need

by Andrew Neiderman

  “But to push her off a balcony … that’s not very imaginative of him,” the detective said. “Why take Dimitri’s form just to do that? He could have snuck in and killed her anytime, I imagine. Perhaps it was just some thief she discovered or one of those lowlifes she brought home.”

  I turned to him. Was he playing with me? Could it be that he really didn’t know all of it? His face had suddenly become an inscrutable mask. I was losing my confidence when it came to him and I didn’t like it.

  “That wasn’t how she died. I thought you said you read the original report.”

  “Well … I did, but…”

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  He smiled.

  “Maybe I just heard a little tidbit here and there.”

  I turned away from him.

  “Come on. You’ve nearly told me all of it. Why not finish?”

  “I thought you understood when I made reference to The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone,” I said. “He took her the way the Androgyne take women—he made love to her and drained her of her life energy.

  “Then he threw her into the balcony so she would crash to the floor below.

  “But by the time she landed, she was already decomposing. When we found her, she was merely bones and dried skin flaking off into dust. Her beautiful eyes had already disintegrated.

  “Don’t you see?” I cried. “That’s how we knew she had been the victim of the Evil Eye!”

  ELEVEN

  WE SAT IN silence for a while, my sad memories falling like a dark curtain between me and the immediate present.

  “How did Richard react to all this?” the detective asked softly. His voice was a gentle intrusion, soft fingers parting the heavy drapery tentatively, permitting only a slim ray of soft light to invade my melancholy reverie.

  “He went from sorrow to anger and rage. You’ll find pages and pages in the diary describing his rampages through the city, pursuing every shadow, following every distorted-looking, evil-appearing thing in hopes of trapping the Evil Eye. He went everywhere, driven by his mad energy—from the slums of East L. A. to the streets of Santa Monica. For some reason he thought the devil would take refuge in the body of a homeless person. Richard went charging down Ocean Avenue, pausing before every lost soul to search his or her eyes, probably leaving the poor soul thinking he or she had just looked into the face of hell, rather than vice versa.

  “Finally, he calmed down long enough to return so I could metamorphose and properly mourn our mother’s death with friends.”

  “How did you determine which of you would attend the funeral?”

  “It wasn’t hard; he was in no condition to be seen in public. Afterward, he went to her grave privately. He still goes there often. He suffers from guilt, believing he should have done more to protect her. He forgets how difficult it was for him even to spend time with her during those dark final days,” I added, smirking as if he were sitting across from me and I were reminding him of how he had left me with the problems.

  “It was a big funeral. I suppose just about every androgynous being in the city attended, huh?”

  “Most did.” I turned to him. “You sound like you were there. Were you?”

  “I have to confess I was somewhat infatuated by celebrities in those days and attended in hopes of seeing movie stars.”

  “Many put in an appearance, as well as important politicians, businessmen.”

  “I remember seeing you,” he added smiling. “And Alison. She was at your side and looked as upset as you were. I recall thinking you were sisters.”

  “Yes. My mother’s death was the catalyst for our reunion. Actually, Alison was a great help to me, as was Nicholas. He and Richard patched things up as well.

  “But,” I said, “Richard was never the same after our mother’s death. He became far more bitter and that bitterness found its expression in a nihilistic hedonism. He became gluttonous, lecherous, gorging himself on sex, no longer hunting simply to satisfy our biological needs. He would take any kill, make love on a whim, pursue any woman no matter how old or how young.” I sighed, the horror of those days washing over me, weighing me down with bad memories. “And then came his many homosexual experiences.

  “It’s all in the diary,” I added sadly, “including his heavy use of cocaine, the orgies he attended, his disgusting ménages à trois.”

  “Didn’t all this have a detrimental effect on you?”

  “Eventually. I began to resist metamorphosing to keep him in check, but we couldn’t go on like that indefinitely. Finally, after consulting with Mary, I left Los Angeles and went to an ashram. The meditation and simplicity brought us both the inner peace we needed.

  “Is this a retreat solely attended by Androgyne?”

  “Yes.”

  “In California?”

  “No,” I said. “In New York.” I wasn’t any more specific because it was still strongly in me to protect my kind, and I couldn’t see why it mattered to my detective anyway.

  “Well,” he said, “it must have helped. You returned to Hollywood and became an even bigger star.”

  “Yes, for a while I thought of nothing but my acting. It was another refuge, although I never stopped missing Janice and Dimitri. I miss them terribly even now. I suppose one dramatic result of their death was my growing dependence on Richard and his growing dependence on me. As funny as it might sound to you, we became even closer, even more tuned in to each other’s needs.”

  “More so for him, however.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His reaction to your developing a relationship with an inferior man. He resented anything or anyone who would come between you, especially if, as you say, you fell in love with this man.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “Of course, you’re right.”

  “How did that happen? I mean, how could you…”

  “Fall in love with an inferior?” I smiled to myself. “Maybe Richard was right—maybe it was just another way of trying to deny my essence.

  “Soon after I received my Academy Award nomination, my agent suggested I employ Michael as my publicist. He had an excellent reputation and was considered more of a quality performer’s publicist, getting me seen in places and mentioned in columns that catered to a higher clientele.

  “We spent a great deal of time together, first so Michael could get to know me and know how to publicize me, and then because we grew fond of each other’s company. I found him a very sweet and gentle man. Despite the fact that he lived and worked in this mad, hyper world of glitzy glamour, he had an almost angelic peace about him, a quiet, religiously peaceful aura. He had a way of shutting out unpleasant static. Right from the beginning, I felt comfortable and relaxed with him.

  “Even our lovemaking was different—we explored each other with soft eyes, always conscious of each other’s needs, never selfish, never demanding.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe that an animal lover like you would find that satisfying,” my detective said suspiciously.

  “I know. I suppose in a true sense, Michael became another refuge for me. I could go to him after making wild passionate love and fall asleep in his arms with nothing more than the exchange of a loving kiss, if that’s all I wanted.”

  “Did he know you had come from making love with another man?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was not jealous or disgusted? He still cared for you?”

  “He loved me, truly loved me. He was understanding, compassionate.”

  “I don’t know if that’s love,” my detective mused aloud. “It sounds more like a form of therapy.”

  “Perhaps that’s all love is.”

  He looked at me sharply.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Love is merely a bandage, an oasis in hell, a raft in a tempestuous sea. It keeps us from facing the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That no matter who we are or what we are, we are all alone. Ultimately, we are all al
one.”

  “Is that how you feel now?”

  “Yes. Especially with my mother gone and Michael gone, and Richard…”

  “Richard?”

  “Richard almost gone.”

  The detective sat there staring at me, his face expressionless, no pity in his eyes, no warmth, a bland mask. I noted the time.

  “I’ve got to get to my script meeting,” I said rising.

  “If the ultimate result of all this is your demise as well as Richard’s, why are you…”

  “Carrying on? I don’t know,” I said after a moment. “Maybe it’s just like you said before—old habits die hard.”

  “Or maybe you don’t know yourself and your intentions as well as you think you do.”

  “We’ll just have to wait a little longer to find out,” I said.

  “Ooo. A cliff hanger.” He pretended to be terrified and pressed his fists together at his chin.

  “Good-bye, Detective Mayer. You can show yourself out.”

  “I’ll be by later,” he called as I turned away. “Dinner, perhaps? There is still more for you to tell me, I assume, and there is the matter of Richard’s diary,” he added when I paused and looked back.

  “All right, dinner. I’ll let you take me to one of your haunts this time. I feel like mixing with the plebeians, groveling in the masses, inhaling the sweat and the Aqua Velva.”

  I sauntered away from him quickly, his laughter in my wake. I couldn’t keep the smile from my lips. Odd, I thought, how my seeing him, my confession, my telling of my story was turning out to be more than a catharsis. It was something of a resurrection as well.

  Perhaps I could do it; perhaps I could die as an Androgyne and be reborn an inferior. Had my detective instilled this wild hope in me, a hope that was as much of a sin as a dream?

  I wanted to beg for forgiveness. Forgive me, Mother; forgive me, Father.

  But I couldn’t utter the words with any sincerity. I didn’t really want forgiveness; I didn’t want to stop sinning. I was like a whore who had stepped into the confessional to cleanse her soul and the moment she opened her mouth to speak, broke into a fit of hysterics, the likes of which her confessor had not heard. In fact, it frightened him to the extent he believed the devil had stepped into the booth alongside her.

  He flung holy water at her desperately.

  I returned to my room to fetch my purse and check my hair and makeup one last time. Sylvia had just turned down the bed. She looked at me strangely, almost as if something had frightened her deeply.

  “Is something wrong, Sylvia?” I asked.

  She held up the old bed sheets.

  “They’re still very hot,” she said. I had to laugh.

  “Passion can sometimes linger and burn like hot coals dying slowly against the dark.” I knew she would understand the words, but since the experience was so alien to her, she would not appreciate their meaning.

  She shook her head and repeated her statement as mechanically as she said anything.

  “They’re still very hot.”

  “Well, cool them down then,” I said and sat at the vanity table. I heard the detective leave. Almost immediately, the phone rang.

  It was Nicholas.

  “Can I see you today?” he asked immediately.

  “I have a full schedule,” I said.

  “I must see you. Alison won’t metamorphose until I do.”

  “Ridiculous. She’s trying to intimidate me with this … this identity strike. Who does she think she is performing this sort of protest, Ghandi?”

  “She’s determined,” he replied firmly.

  “Why doesn’t she leave me alone?” I snapped.

  “You know the answer to that,” he said calmly. “You’re in grave danger. She’s concerned.”

  “She’s concerned about Richard being in grave danger, not me.”

  “Since when is that different?” he asked quickly. I felt tears burning under my eyelids. I gazed at Sylvia, but she was already hypnotized by her menial labor. Her hands moved mechanically, her head following her own movements with a robotlike swing. She wasn’t listening to my end of the conversation. I imagined her mind was like some empty tunnel shut up on both ends, perhaps the echo of the last thought bouncing from one side to the other.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk with you. That’s all, Clea. You’ve got to talk to your own kind. We’ve got to care for each other.”

  I paused. His soft, sincere-sounding voice confused me. My breath grew short, labored.

  “Funny way of showing you care—trying to shoot me.”

  “I told you: I don’t know what you’re talking about. None of us tried to shoot you.”

  “Or the detective?”

  “None of us did,” he insisted.

  “I guess I imagined it all and there are no bullet holes in the doorway and walls.”

  “Clea,” he said softly. “Give me five minutes. Don’t we mean enough to each other for that at least?” His voice was full of pleading.

  “All right,” I said reluctantly. Perhaps we should have one final meeting, I thought. “I’ll come to your house after my script meeting. Are you there now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll come alone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is the detective still there?”

  “He’s gone, Nicholas. I was just on my way out when you called,” I said petulantly. “I’m already going to be fashionably late; I don’t want to be ridiculously late.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you,” he said. “Until then,” he muttered and cradled the phone.

  I did a last bit of primping, found my copy of the script, left some last minute orders for Sylvia and walked out of the house.

  The sun was so bright that even my Polaroids seemed inadequate. There was a particularly sharp glint of light bouncing off the hood of my car. I had to turn away and gazed at Richard’s Thunderbird. It looked abandoned. It drove a sword of ice through my heart to think that he would never drive it again; I knew how much he loved driving it, but I swallowed my sadness quickly and got into my car. The top was still down and I welcomed the rush of warm sunlight over my hair and face. I took a deep breath, started the car and drove out.

  As I descended the hill, my fingers tightened on the steering wheel and my legs grew so heavy that moving my foot from the accelerator to the brake seemed to require a great effort. After I made the first turn, I felt the car speed up and I instinctively pressed down on the brake. I could hear Alison’s laughter and ridicule. “I burn out a set of brakes just visiting you,” she had said almost every time she came to visit.

  The car did not slow down. I pressed down harder on the pedal, but the brakes did not respond. Instead, the car built up momentum and I nearly lost control going around the second turn. I pumped the pedal again and again, but still, I had no brakes. The car went faster and faster. I squealed around the next turn and felt the right wheels lift off the ground. My fingers were gripping the wheel so tightly, my wrists hurt. I needed Richard’s strength desperately, but he remained dormant, buried too deeply in his own anger to offer any assistance.

  “Richard!” I screamed.

  In my mind’s eye, I could see him sitting stiffly in the seat beside me, his arms crossed on his chest, his head unmoving, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the next turn.

  “You think you can do everything yourself,” he muttered in my illusion like a sulky child, “so handle it.”

  I screamed again and barely negotiated the turn, this time leaving the road and driving over a part of the hill. It had the effect of slowing me down some, so I turned the car off the road and permitted it to bounce and heave over rocks and through bushes. Fortunately, no one was coming up the hill when I returned to the road and I was able to use all of it.

  Just around the next turn was a flat field. I steered onto it and was able to direct the car toward a slight incline, which slowed it down considerably. I turned off the engine and it
rolled to a precarious stop near the edge of a precipice.

  I didn’t hesitate. The moment I could, I got out of the car. Suddenly it rolled back and spun around until it began to tip over the edge of the hill. The car tottered for one precarious moment and then went bouncing down the ravine, crashing into the rocks below. Finally, it came to rest in a cloud of moribund dust, reduced to an accordion of metal, leather and shattered glass. As I gazed down at what I knew someone had intended to be my coffin, my relief quickly changed to anger and rage.

  Was this why Nicholas had asked me all those questions? Was I leaving now? Was the detective with me? Could it be that he and Alison had planned this with some of the others? Richard invaded my thoughts with the thought: One betrayal deserved another.

  I turned and marched back up the hill, fueled by my wrath. When I finally arrived home, I phoned the studio to say I would not be coming in and told them about the accident. The assistant director was sympathetic and concerned.

  Sylvia heard me talking on the phone and came out to see why I had returned.

  “Did you happen to see Alison or Nicholas here earlier?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Anyone?”

  “Just that detective,” she said.

  “I mean other than him.” Her stupidity could be infuriating sometimes. She shook her head.

  “Are you sure because I was nearly killed just now.” I described what had happened, not sparing a single grisly detail. Even so, she nodded as if it was nothing unusual.

  “I didn’t see anyone else,” she said and then went off to clean the kitchen.

  My fury unabated, I went out and this time took Richard’s Thunderbird, his precious toy. When they saw me driving up in this, I thought, they will know they have much more to contend with than they had ever dreamed.

  Alison and Nicholas lived in Brentwood Park in a house that would be better characterized as an estate. It was a two-story brick Tudor with wooden cladding on the gables and the upper decorative chimney pots. All of the windows were tall and narrow with multipane glazing. On the roof were three shed dormers, their windows shaded and dark. The house had an arched doorway with a board-and-batten door. On it Alison had put a brass knocker in the form of a shapely woman. It was her one contribution to the decor.