Part 11 (1/2)

All those memories were resurfacing now. Why? Memories, Memories, she thought. Then she thought further: CHILDHOOD MEMORIES. she thought. Then she thought further: CHILDHOOD MEMORIES.

She wondered if anything could be worse, anything in the world. A prost.i.tute for a mother, and a pedophile for a father, who apparently shared her with his sick friends. In the ma.n.u.script, she said she'd been molested since the age of four or five...

Maxwell turned off the set with the remote. ”We can talk now if you want,” he said.

”That's all right. You can watch your game.”

”There is no game, not when the Yankees are playing. Anyway, I really think you should talk about what's bothering you.”

She felt like a slug on the couch. ”I don't want to now.”

”Okay.”

”But I want to ask you something...”

But what could she really ask? This was now an intricate problem as well as a legal one. Spence would be furious that she even touched the envelope much less read it. Did the killer expect her not to notify the police? She knows where I live, and she knows I know that. She knows where I live, and she knows I know that. Was this a proposition of some bizarre kind of trust? Was this a proposition of some bizarre kind of trust?

Maxwell sat on the edge of the couch, his eyebrows propped up as if to say ”Well?”

”Never mind,” she said. What she really wanted to say, though, was Maxwell, should I conceal evidence from the police? Maxwell, should I conceal evidence from the police? Spence could put her in jail, she supposed, and with good reason. By not showing him what the killer had sent, she was hindering the investigation. Spence could put her in jail, she supposed, and with good reason. By not showing him what the killer had sent, she was hindering the investigation.

”Can they find fingerprints on paper?” she idly asked.

Maxwell frowned. ”I think so...but that's not what you were going to ask, is it?”

”No,” she feebled. ”How's the poetry coming?”

”Fine. What were you going to ask me?”

She couldn't ask. She couldn't even think about it, not any of it. It wasn't the ale that weighed her down as much as the imagery. He must think I'm a pouting, flighty airhead, He must think I'm a pouting, flighty airhead, she realized. Suddenly she felt so desperate for distraction she was nearly shaking. She jumped up off the couch and walked away. she realized. Suddenly she felt so desperate for distraction she was nearly shaking. She jumped up off the couch and walked away.

”Where are you going?”

”Wait.”

The windows framed the city's dark. She walked around the apartment turning off all the lights one by one.

”Kathleen?”

”Just wait, you'll see. You might like this,” she said. Then again you might not. You might just think I'm some h.o.r.n.y weirdo. Then again you might not. You might just think I'm some h.o.r.n.y weirdo. She'd left the radio on in the bedroom, the volume way down. It was the radio shrink's show. A female caller was saying, ”...but I keep going back. I don't know why, but I keep going back every single time. Sometimes I go back even before the bruises go away.” ”BatteredWife Syndrome,” the radio shrink replied, ”is all too evident in most developed societies. Psychiatrists believe its symptoms-the repeated willful return to physical abuse-are deeply rooted in the wife's uncentered concept of ident.i.ty. Sadly, on a subconscious level, being beaten is a reinforcement of ident.i.ty, which is why such a great percentage of battered wives never press criminal charges and always return to the abuser. I've counseled many women who claim that they'd rather be beaten than be alone.” She'd left the radio on in the bedroom, the volume way down. It was the radio shrink's show. A female caller was saying, ”...but I keep going back. I don't know why, but I keep going back every single time. Sometimes I go back even before the bruises go away.” ”BatteredWife Syndrome,” the radio shrink replied, ”is all too evident in most developed societies. Psychiatrists believe its symptoms-the repeated willful return to physical abuse-are deeply rooted in the wife's uncentered concept of ident.i.ty. Sadly, on a subconscious level, being beaten is a reinforcement of ident.i.ty, which is why such a great percentage of battered wives never press criminal charges and always return to the abuser. I've counseled many women who claim that they'd rather be beaten than be alone.”

Kathleen frequently received letters herself about the issue, and she always strongly advised the reader to escape the brutal spouse at all costs. Was loneliness that powerful? If I were married and my husband beat me, If I were married and my husband beat me, she thought, she thought, I'd hit him in the head with a brick. I'd hit him in the head with a brick.

But she turned the radio off. It reminded her too vividly of the killer's dizzying first chapter. She remembered the exact words: Daddy beat her up a lot because he knew men who liked to have s.e.x with women who were beaten up or unconscious. Daddy beat her up a lot because he knew men who liked to have s.e.x with women who were beaten up or unconscious.

”Kathleen?” Maxwell called out. ”It's dark in here. What are you doing?”

”Just one more minute!”

Yes, she needed distraction badly. Was that all Maxwell was to her? A physical object? A distraction? She lit the candle on the dresser. She turned out the bedroom light and quickly skimmed off her clothes.

She walked back out to the living room, holding the candle. She needed it to be dark. She didn't want him to see her.

”What the-” he said. ”You're naked.”

”Umhmm.” She took his hand, led him away. The candlelight roved eerily on the walls. When they were in the little bathroom she set the candle down and turned on the shower. ”I'll be waiting,” she said and got in.

The candlelight turned the bathroom to a s.h.i.+fting grotto. Moments later a naked Maxwell stepped in with her. When he embraced her, and kissed her, she felt he was already erect. ”Why can't we have the lights on?” he said. He was fumbling for the soap. ”I want to see you.”

”I don't want you to see me. I'm fat.”

”Kathleen...” He turned her back to him, was sliding the bar of soap over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. ”You're not fat...”

The slick suds and cool water felt delicious.

”...you're beautiful,” he finished.

Was he just saying that? Don't be insecure, Don't be insecure, she ordered herself. She just closed her eyes and let him wash her. Soon he had slickened her into a lush suit of lather, his hands sliding slowly everywhere. she ordered herself. She just closed her eyes and let him wash her. Soon he had slickened her into a lush suit of lather, his hands sliding slowly everywhere.

This was the distraction she needed. It plucked everything from her mind and left only the moment. In the flickering orange light, and in the hiss of water, she forgot it all: the killer, Spence, the excerpt of tribal rites, and the heinous first chapter of ”the story.”

He turned her around again, and knelt. He picked up each foot and soaped it. Next his hands were sliding up and down each of her legs. And next- He lathered her pubis. She looked down and saw a nest of suds. His face hovered down there, and then the bar was sliding back and forth between her legs as attendant fingers played with her s.e.x. She parted her feet to the edges of the shower floor. One hand came around, received the bar, and guided it up the cleft of her b.u.t.tocks. When she was sure he wasn't looking, Kathleen caressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, rolled her nipples between her fingers, which pushed a gust of sensation like something electric to her loins. Meanwhile, one of Maxwell's fingers rubbed up and down over her a.n.u.s. This felt strange, even mildly shocking-she'd never been touched there before. The hot gust quadrupled then, a luscious tenseness, when the tip of Maxwell's tongue began to very tenderly probe her c.l.i.toris. ”Mmmmmmmmm,” she went.

Each time an ugly image tried to surface, she obliterated it with a s.e.xual thought. When words of the killer's narrative began to appear, she concentrated on the feel of Maxwell's mouth, and then the words were gone. When Spence's face threatened to form, she thought of sucking Maxwell's p.e.n.i.s, of letting him come in her mouth, and the face dissolved. She thought crudely and p.o.r.nographically: Eat my p.u.s.s.y like you did last night. Stick your tongue all the way up my p.u.s.s.y. Stand up now so I can suck your c.o.c.k, etc. Eat my p.u.s.s.y like you did last night. Stick your tongue all the way up my p.u.s.s.y. Stand up now so I can suck your c.o.c.k, etc. When the first digit of Maxwell's pinkie entered her a.n.u.s, and when his lips took her c.l.i.toris into his mouth, she stopped him. She didn't want to come yet. ”Stand up now,” she said, ”so I can...” When the first digit of Maxwell's pinkie entered her a.n.u.s, and when his lips took her c.l.i.toris into his mouth, she stopped him. She didn't want to come yet. ”Stand up now,” she said, ”so I can...”

Now she knelt before him, soaping his groin. His fingertips tensed on her shoulders. She rinsed his erection off quickly; she could taste soap when she began to f.e.l.l.a.t.e him. One hand rubbed the soapy t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, the other stroked up and down the back of his thigh.

More words tried to rise, the killer's narrative- Daddy made you watch sometimes. He made you touch him while he watched the men in Daddy's Room through a trick mirror in the closet.

-so she shut her eyes, sucking harder.

And lots of times his work friends would come to the house and Daddy would let them do things to you...

”Kathleen,” Maxwell moaned.

...and your mother, sometimes at the same time...tie her up and stick things in her...

Kathleen's eyes squeezed shut harder, as she tried to let Maxwell's erection go all the way into her throat, but she gagged, thinking Go away Go away! She relaxed, and tried again, then found her lips pressed against his wet pubic hair. ”Oh, Kathhhh...”

It glows like huge beautiful white fire.

”Come on,” she whispered.

She didn't bother turning the shower off. They stumbled out, clumsily embracing and kissing, to the bed.