She shook her head playfully with a mock grimace. “Oh, you’re silly.”
We sat back with half-grins and expectations, both of us obviously finding being together was pleasant and promising.
Her eyes held me, but her smile straightened into a serious line, intimating she wanted to probe deeper. Tentatively, she asked, “You said you don’t analyze your work. Are you an artist?”
“Yeah, I do illustrations. And... I don’t know, I just draw something, and maybe I lose myself in it, but I’m not thinking too much about what’s next. I mean, I have an idea, y’know, like I’m inspired by, wow, I’m going to draw a dog sitting near a river, but I don’t really think it all out. Like, I just connect the dots because they’re just appearing to me right before I get to them. Know what I mean?”
“I try to plan mine. Maybe I overplan. Can you draw exactly what you see in your mind?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I’ll do a number of sketches, but I tend to embellish and not worry if I go off track. Mostly, though, it’s just pure energy or emotion seeking an outlet. So you’re an artist too?”
“I did the doggie.”
“Ooh, sounds like fun.”
The smile returned. Her eyes flashed teasingly.
Now what? What do I do?
I picked up the dog drawing. “Wow, this is out of sight, Teresa. To capture that texture and shine in black fur. Incredible. It’s the highlighting that makes it so lifelike. Wow. I can almost hear it barking.” Looking over at her, the space between us shimmered. Hypnotized by her spell, I couldn’t help myself and said, “Beautiful. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful and talented. What a wonderful day.”
She loved the purple jacket on me, oohing and aahing about the length that came halfway down my thighs, the wide 1880’s lapel style, and the vibrant color. She buttoned the double-breasted coat and ran her hands over it, leaning into me, chatting excitedly about the different clothes in the store and where she found them. She paused for breath.
Our lips touched sweetly.
I know you from forever.
High-spirited from our first kiss, my hands on her waist, I playfully said I wanted fluorescent shoes. She found some brushes. I painted the left shoe while she, the right. We laughed and talked, and she didn’t charge me for the jar of Day-Glo. We kissed a few more times and began to ache for each other. She put a closed sign on the door, took my hand, and led me to the back room. There she piled up a bunch of oversized pillows decorated with intricate jungle prints of elephants, monkeys, snakes, and tigers, then lay back, eyes dancing, sinking herself into the wild scenery surrounding her.
Our passion was unrestrained, inexhaustible, lost in an enchantment of skin and sweat and perfect breathlessness. Our eyes locked, bewildered, as our souls fell helplessly into one another. Kisses were lifelines, entwining, binding. Secrets revealed themselves, trusted only to her, meant only for me.
Teresa.
Angelic voices blended and fought with savage drums, as we released our treasures and terrors, rolling and thrusting in a sweet, primitive rhythm. Near delirium, consciousness lost to a beautiful fire racing up my spine, joyous tingling flared through my body, bursting through to my mind. Teresa arched her neck back and pulled me deeper into her, holding me spellbound as her moans turned to quick gasping breaths.
We lay in each other’s arms for hours, talking quietly, asking questions about each other’s lives. Then a touch would become a caress, our breathing becoming one as we kissed, our bodies seeking, giving, soft and hard, sliding and wet, sucked and squeezed. Each thrust relinquished some hidden pain, lost for the moment to pleasure. Each helpless sigh signaled a plea to never stop.
Around ten that night, we admitted we needed to eat.
“We’d better, or we’ll never be able to keep this up.”
“I think we’re just getting warmed up.” She stretched her naked body out, smiling. With one hand, she absently pressed and rubbed one of her nipples.
“I’ll go get a pizza across the street.”
“With anchovies.”
“And pepperoni.”
“Hmm, my favorite.” Then, with a serious quirk that seemed to stretch into other times and places, she said, “Be careful, and come back to me.”
We slept for a few hours before our bodies needed each other again. We smoked a joint and sat cross-legged, facing each other, touching and stroking. She had brought the black light from the store into our nest. We were purple people, awed by my green shoes glowing in the dark.
She lowered herself onto me while I laid back. I fondled her tits or held tight to her waist as she rode me, pounding up and down on my cock.
After I came, she rotated her pelvis, grinding herself against me until I slipped out of her. “Whew, wow,” I exhaled a long breath, my chest rising and releasing a gust of satisfaction.
“Deets, don’t stop, not now, I’m so close.”
“What?”
“I’m so close.” She rolled off me, her eyes half-closed, drifting in another world, the mound of her cunt rising and lowering rhythmically.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes opened fully, and her mouth parted in surprise and understanding.
“I’m so close to orgasm.”
“Orgasm?”
“Oh, you didn’t know, did you? Women can have them too.” She took my hand and separating her clitoral lips with her fingers, showed me how to bring her to climax.
I was fascinated with this revelation, loved that I could give her such pleasure.
Afterwards, we drew a blanket up to our shoulders and gazed into each other’s eyes. My ego kept interrupting our moment until I finally had to break the silence.
“Nobody told me about the clitoris or orgasms when they gave me the birds and the bees talk.”
Teresa picked up on my insecurity. “Deets, it’s been perfect. I’ve never ever had a day and night like this before.”
“But, earlier, you mean you weren’t fully satisfied? Why didn’t you say something?”
“Oh my god.” She gave me a long kiss. “Don’t be silly. I just didn’t need extra help from you. I had orgasms when you were inside me. Sometimes though, you’ll have to do it.”
“Now?” I teased.
She snuggled my hand between her breasts and her head against my shoulder. “Let’s try to get some sleep.”
In the stillness, around three in the morning, I heard Rolly softly strumming his guitar upstairs, his voice swaying low in an uncomplicated blues.
Contented, I lay with my eyes closed, thinking of Teresa—the smell from the warmth of her body, the taste of her lips, sounds she had made, being inside her, feelings she had sprung loose within me, the wildness and compatibility of our natures together.
My last memory of the night drifted down through the ceiling...
“Dogs barking all night
Hounds howling in daylight”
I dreamed of misplacing Teresa’s drawing. Suddenly I was running desperately, a pack of dogs snapping at my heels, growling and circling, herding me along as I barely escaped their snarling teeth. Oddly, as I slipped from the dream world, the dogs sat back on their haunches until one of them, with fur the color of midnight, trotted forward. I felt the animal following my awakening mind, using it as a route into my conscious world.
I had been helpless in the nightmare, but as I stretched and yawned, I felt unencumbered, almost like the dogs had somehow done me a favor. While I tried to make sense of the canine night drama, Teresa stirred, rubbing her eyes and pulling herself closer to me.
“Oh good, you’re real. I’m so glad I wasn’t just imagining you.” A soft musical tinkling drifted in from the display room in perfect cadence with her voice.
“Me too. I dreamed of a bunch of dogs last night.”
“Hmm, I did too, but I don’t re
member it. Must have something to do with us meeting and looking at my doggie drawing.”
“Yeah, I guess so, but that blows my mind—both of us dreaming about dogs.”
Teresa had planned on going to her art classes, and I had to get back to my drawing, but we played around together in our nest ravaging each other until midday. She said she doubted I would be able to walk the three blocks to my apartment and offered to drop me off on her way home to change and freshen up before returning to open the store. We climbed into her VW van which was piled with chairs, a dresser, and boxes.
“I don’t know how I forgot to tell you. I’m moving into Rolly’s apartment tomorrow. Most of my stuff is already there.”
“Tomorrow? I wasn’t sure when he was leaving.”
“This is his last night in New York. He’s going to tour for a few weeks, visit a few friends in California, then fly out in about a month.”
“Guess we should drop by later and say goodbye.”
“We will. Can you help me move this stuff upstairs? I think the two of us can handle the dresser.”
I faked an indignant voice. “Is that why you ravished me? To carry heavy furniture?”
She didn’t laugh. She frowned and looked hurt. “Don’t say that. Don’t make a joke of what has happened between us.”
I put my hand on hers, wondering why I had just mocked the most beautiful time I had ever had in my life. There had been no thought about what I was going to say. The words had just popped out. Up to our night together, having fun or sex was the only consideration in my relationships with women.
When she stopped in front of my building, I apologized, “Teresa, I’m sorry for my wisecrack. The way I feel with you, well, I, uh, I’ve never experienced that before, so maybe I joked to deal with it. Maybe the only thing I understand right now is, and I hope this doesn’t scare you, but, I already know I’d be lost without you.” I fiddled with her fingers as I spoke, but managed to say it to her without looking away from her eyes.
She considered my words thoughtfully, then smiled tenderly and kissed me. “It doesn’t scare me as long as you’re honest with me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t laugh at the, well, the non-joke. You’re making me take a good look at myself.”
“And what do you see?”
“A fairly confused soul who reaches out with art and laughter. Any other way would be new territory.”
“I know, I know. For me too.”
We leaned our foreheads lightly against each other, silently absorbing the impact of being conjoined emotionally. She squeezed my hand softly, but with all the power of a promise. A joyful moisture caught in the rim of my eyes which I couldn’t hide from her when she tilted her head to kiss me.
“I love it when you make me laugh. Don’t ever stop making me laugh.”
I answered, “I can’t think of anything funny to say.”
She laughed.
Chapter 29
In my mail, there was a check from the HooDoo Gallery. An arts magazine publisher had bought all five of my anti-war series. Daisy had jotted a note that she would let me know if my drawings appeared in print. Another envelope contained a short letter from Betsy. She had been busy with writing an essay, apologized for not getting back to me, told me I should get a phone, and wondered what I would be doing during her spring break in March.
She didn’t mention Richard.
It didn’t matter, I was anxious to see Teresa.
I sat down to work, thinking of the two women who suddenly wanted to be with me. Knowing full well I would turn down Betsy’s invitation, I allowed myself to daydream about our short flirtation, our silly night of missed opportunity.
Ah, Betsy, too late for us, but thanks for letting me know how you feel.
My thoughts turned to Betsy’s contact with the physicist and his interpretation of the alley’s strange equation. Sketching some of the odd symbols, I boxed them in, making them look like Polaroid pictures, then continued to elaborate with a larger rectangle and some splotchy-looking shapes. It turned out to be a messy doodle of the envelope I had sent Betsy, stamped and addressed, with photos spilling out of it.
I daubed some red ink into the outline of the blobs, felt a bit unnerved by its resemblance to blood and, seeing no merit in the drawing, crumpled it up and tossed it into my wastepaper basket. At that moment a sharp rapping struck at my door.
“Okay, coming.”
On the landing, Officer Al stood behind two plainclothes detectives. I would’ve known they were cops even if they hadn’t shown me their badges. They were tough-looking, broad-shouldered men whose eyes swept thoroughly over me and beyond into the apartment.
A hint of disappointment flickered behind Al’s otherwise professional mask.
“Mister Parker, I’m Detective John Castillo of the New York City police.” He gestured to the taller man next to him. “This is Detective Leonard Renkins, from the Cambridge, Massachusetts Police Department, right across the river from Boston. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I had a dime bag of marijuana hidden inside my lamp, but I guessed they weren’t here to search for that. “Okay, uh, what?”
“Mind if we come in? Anyone else with you?” They stepped past me before I answered.
“Uh, just me.”
Al came in with them and checked my bedroom. He opened a closet door and glanced into the bathroom. He nodded at the detectives before taking up a post back out on the landing.
“Mister Parker, Patrolman Bonanno,” he gestured to the door that Al had just shut behind him, “tells us you’re an artist.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve had some encounters with him on the streets?”
“Yeah, he’s given me a ride home a couple of times.”
Renkins was staring at me, grim and threatening. His stance and size emanated a dangerous power. Castillo seemed at ease, his barrel chest and thick neck giving him an impregnable look. When he offered me a cigarette, I marveled warily at his massive hands.
“No thanks, I’ve got my own.”
“Kools? Never knew anybody but queers and niggers smoked those.”
I lit up and sat in my stuffed chair—tired, willing to be helpful, but nervous about these two tree trunks who stood in my room.
“Detective Renkins has come all the way from the Boston area to ask you a few questions.” Castillo glanced at Renkins, adding sarcastically, “Despite him being a Red Sox fan, I hope you show him the courtesy of answering him.”
Renkins started to wander the room, pausing at my work table to look at the pile of papers and photos. Betsy’s letter lay open for him to view. “Do you know a Miss Betsy Polczewski?”
“Yes, you’re standing right in front of a letter I just got from her.”
“I see, mind if I read it?” He waved the paper slightly in my direction, his eyes flicking to take in the content no matter what my answer.
“Uh, go ahead. What’s going on? Why are you here?”
Renkins stared into me, hard and unforgiving, like my questions had been an affront to his authority.
“What’s your relationship with Miss Polczewski?”
“I met her at my parents’ house last Thanksgiving. She was dating my cousin. I knew she was a physics major so I sent her a bunch of photos that had some kind of formula on them, hoping she could tell me what it meant.”
“These the pictures here on your desk?”
“Sort of. Same indecipherable symbols. She never sent back the ones I mailed her.”
Renkins pulled out a pen and pushed the photos around, separating the pile so he could see them all.
“Mister Parker, did you know that Betsy Polczewski was found badly beaten in her dorm a few days ago?”
Shocked, forgetting how to breath, I gasped an unintelligible sound. “Auh ahh.”
“She’s alive, but in critical condition. Doctors have stabilized her, but she may never be the same.”
“What do you mean?” My stomach ached, my chest felt paralyzed. The room was out of focus.
“She was assaulted with a heavy blunt weapon. The side of her head was crushed.”
“Oh god.” Tears flowed from a hole that opened in my heart.
“I can’t say much more about the investigation, but an envelope with your name as the sender and addressed to Miss Polczewski was found next to her.” He nodded at the pile of Polaroids. “Several photos similar to these were scattered around the room. I need to understand if there is a connection between the crime and the pictures. Right now, that leads me to you.”
“What? How could those pictures...?”
And I hesitated, picturing Betsy looking through the photos of the assorted symbols, thinking about them, trying to decipher them. Had I drawn her unsuspectingly into the mystery of the alley, only to be snared, like the burned bird?
The monster beckons.
Renkins pounced, “What is it, Parker? You have something to tell me?”
“Uh, nothing that makes sense.”
“So what’s the deal with these photos, Parker?”
“It’s an art project. I didn’t do the graffiti. I’m just working on scenes of an alleyway, and these wall markings caught my eye. They seemed to be scientific or some kind of hieroglyphic math, so I was curious if they meant anything.” That answer was close enough to the truth and would serve me better than telling Renkins bizarre stories of lights and rumblings and people or pigeons who didn’t always come back out from between those brick walls.
Renkins tapped his pencil on the cover of one of my sketch pads at least a dozen times, staring at the Polaroids, before announcing, “I’d like to make a copy of these photos and this letter from the victim.” He turned to Detective Castillo, adding gruffly, “Let’s finish this interview back at the precinct.”
Officer Al was visibly startled to see me come out my door escorted by the detectives.
Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1) Page 14