Part 16 (1/2)
His father is grunting. He can hear him grunting which means it's loud. He's nearing home base. It occurs to him that he's watching his own dad down there. Is there something incestuous about that? Something gay gay? He doesn't think so. But he doesn't much care one way or another. He's watching this woman get f.u.c.ked, that's all. He's watching her t.i.ts fall up and down, watching her thighs quiver with each of his father's thrusts. He can almost smell her sweat.
And then suddenly he's coming. He's shooting j.i.z.z all over the gra.s.s at the base of the cellar door. It's f.u.c.king pumping pumping out of him in jets, in spurts. Like he's hemorrhaging out here and his c.o.c.k is so sensitive he has to take his hand away or he's going to groan out loud or faint dead away but it's shooting out of him anyhow - his c.o.c.k isn't done with him yet - and he's trembling all over and shooting and then finally he's still. out of him in jets, in spurts. Like he's hemorrhaging out here and his c.o.c.k is so sensitive he has to take his hand away or he's going to groan out loud or faint dead away but it's shooting out of him anyhow - his c.o.c.k isn't done with him yet - and he's trembling all over and shooting and then finally he's still.
The man clutches at her breast as though he wants to rip it off her body and then moans and shudders and releases into her.
If she has a child by the man she will kill it.
She has done so before.
Cleek thinks that once this really got going it was probably the best d.a.m.n f.u.c.k of his life.
Despite the odor of her mouth.
So what's wrong here? Why is it that he can't wait to tuck his d.i.c.k back into his shorts? Is he afraid of disease? He isn't, not really. He can't see her having the AIDS virus living alone out there in the woods. And anything else is treatable as the common cold nowadays.
What, then?
He can't figure it.
He looks at her. At her face, her eyes. And there it is.
He sees something cold and blank and without any emotion whatsoever or any regard for him at all. He sees himself looking back at himself.
He feels something vaguely like shame.
He b.u.t.tons her up. She looks fine. Like he's never been there at all. He turns off the cellar light and leaves her in the dark.
The Woman s.h.i.+fts a bit against the wooden plank behind her. When the man was f.u.c.king her pus.h.i.+ng her back against it she had felt it give slightly, heard it give slightly. The man had not. The man was busy f.u.c.king her. She s.h.i.+fts her body up and then down with the plank wedged between one vertebra and the next and feels it give some more. It hurts.
But she will work on this.
TWENTY-THREE.
At quarter past three in the morning Genevieve Raton rolled over out of her sleep and out of a dream in which she was burning autumn leaves in the fireplace on her dad's old farm long since sold in favor of a condo in Sarasota, realizing much too late that the flue wasn't working right, wasn't drawing correctly, and that leaves alight with flame were burning on the hardwood floor.
Awoke with her left forearm shoved right into Laura Hindle's face.
Laura grunted and opened her pretty green eyes.
”Sorry,” she said.
Laura yawned and smiled. ”What's with you tonight, kiddo? You're not ordinarily a thrasher.”
”No, I'm not.”
”This is the third time, you know.”
”It is?”
”Yep. The first time you kneed me in the belly. The second time we went hip to hip. C'mere.”
She opened her arms and Genevieve nestled in.
She felt comforted immediately. The flesh comforted. It always did. The flesh was warm and safe. By now they knew each other's bodies almost as well as they knew their own.
”Is it that preggy kid? The one who reminds you of Dorothy?”
”I don't know. I was back at my dad's house. So maybe. She used to visit me there all the time. My parents thought we were only friends.”
”You were friends.”
”You know what I mean.”
Laura was a social worker by day and a part-time bartender at Vance & Eddie's by night. She knew how to draw you out. Sometimes all it took was a silence at just the right time. Like now.
”Old dead leaves,” she said.
”Huh?”
”I was burning old dead leaves.”
Laura pulled back a bit and regarded her. Then gently kissed her forehead.
”Maybe you still are.”
”As in...?”
”Yes. Fallen leaves. You really did love her, didn't you?”
”Not enough. Not enough to make her stay.”
”Come on. You know better than that. People can't make other people stay. They only stay if they want to. Or need to.”
Of course. She knew the truth in that. It had been a bitter truth at the time. But she was so very young then. And when you're young pain can take a long time to go away. And leave its residue forever.