Evil Dreams (5 page)

She paused at the second floor landing to catch her breath. The steep steps exhausted anyone who tried going to the top floor without resting. The smells of kerosene, garbage and stale cigarette smoke mixed with beer interlaced with an almost tangible atmosphere of defeat. Tory missed the apartment she had lived in before meeting Howie. It had been a newer building and people close to her own age made up the majority of tenants. She had never minded the forty minute ride into the city, but Howie thought they would be able to make her money stretch farther if they lived closer to the Loop. Then, she could walk to work. He insisted they live in a more economical apartment as an additional attempt at thrift. The money they saved had gone for marijuana and “candy” for Howie. She had dabbled in drugs before but never to the extent that her lover did. In the recent past, she found herself using more than she had ever planned. What did she want? Escape for her frustrations since she could not leave her meager surroundings?

A smile crossed her full lips. She wondered what Sam Dayton would think of her home. He’d probably hate it. That would suit her fine. When she had first gone to work for the psychiatrist, she had fallen in love with him. She couldn’t wait to get to the office, thinking up excuses to stay after her normal quitting time, just to be near him, to see him, to talk with him. Somehow she knew instinctively that he felt as attracted to her as she was to him.

Most of her income went for new additions to her wardrobe, things she could wear to work, hoping he would be impressed. Hundreds of ideas were designed to lure the doctor to her apartment; all cultivated, then cast aside. It seemed as though every time a plan appeared workable and destined for success, some unknown factor or obstacle would interfere. At first, she found the thwarted schemes and her reactions to their failure humorous. Undaunted, she always renewed her efforts.

Then a bitter irony slowly replaced her flippant mood. By the end of her first year-and-a-half of employment, Tory discovered her feelings for Sam Dayton were no longer loving. Her unfulfilled ardor quietly turned to disappointment, then to an aggravating annoyance. Peculiarly, in either extreme, she had never once demonstrated how she thought or felt about him.

He merely looked on her as an employee, someone to do his typing and care for the drudgery of running an office. Did he even know she existed as a living, breathing person? Feeling as functional as his tape recorder or the diplomas hanging on his office wall, she slavishly ensconced herself in the outer office. When her attitude had completed its full circle, she wallowed in a state of calm bewilderment.

Then she met Howie Liemen. She had been struck by the fact he had listened to her that first night in a singles bar. When she realized he was interested in her as a person, she opened up, and by midnight he knew practically every detail of her life. And it had been Howie who had helped her sort out her emotions concerning Samuel Dayton.

Tory stopped to rest at the third landing. Howie should be home by now if he had gone out to look for work. Her hopeful thoughts that he had found something, or would soon if he hadn’t today, were interrupted by a baby shrieking at the top of its voice from an apartment whose door stood wide open. She detested this building but would have lived in the gutter if Howie asked her.

Step by step she mounted each riser until the last one fell behind her. Walking along the dark hall, she made her way to the last door on the right, at the rear of the building. The delicate fragrance of her own perfume and cosmetics filtering from the one room apartment into the squalid corridor, evaporated within a foot of the entrance. She slipped her key into the shiny, out of place Yale lock, quietly turning it.

Closing the door behind her without a sound, she looked around the dingy room. Howie, soundly sleeping in the nude, lay on the Murphy bed. Stirring when she kicked off her shoes, he rolled over. The noise of the springs when he moved made her glide about the room like a phantom. From past experience, she had learned two things about Howie. She knew it was not wise to wake him abruptly or disagree with him about anything upon which he had decided. Slipping out of her blouse, she used it to wipe the perspiration from her large breasts. It had been warm walking the thirty-two blocks from Doctor Dayton’s office. Her discomfort brought a thought to her tired mind. How hot would this apartment be once Chicago’s infamous summer began? Her skirt, hose and panties followed the blouse into a laundry bag. A gentle breeze reluctantly entered the one room apartment through the single, dirty window she had left open that morning.

“When did you get home?” he asked sleepily from the bed, stretching.

“Just a few minutes ago. Did you have any luck today?”

“Fuck, no! I didn’t go anyplace. I smoked up around eleven and got all screwed up timewise. Christ, the day went fast,” he mumbled, vigorously rubbing his thinning brown hair in an attempt to wake up.

“We’ve got to do something soon, honey,” Tory said. She held the mail
Up
for him to see. “Look! Dunning notices again. They’re going to haul me off to jail soon if I don’t pay up. Please try to find something tomorrow?” She threw the envelopes, unopened, on the sideboard which served as their dining, dressing and lamp tables combined.

“Okay, okay, okay! Just don’t nag me, goddamnit! You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be turned away time after time. I wish to hell I was back home. At least I got some friends— lifelong friends—there. I think I’ll try to score big and retire,” he said, motioning for her to join him on the bed. “You’d like Santa Fe. Besides, it’s close to the border and easier ‘n shit to get Mexican grass.”

Crossing the room she sat next to the beefy man. “Would I be able to find work there in a psychiatrist’s office? I suppose Doctor Dayton would give me a good reference.”

“Probably as good as he would for his telephone or filing cabinet, ” he snorted. Running both hands over his fleshy face, he rubbed his eyes before stretching again.

“I—I don’t understand, honey,” she said softly. “Don’t you like Doctor Dayton?” When he turned, glaring at her, she slid off the bed, retreating to the far side of the room.

“You’d never catch me talking to one of those goddamn mental sawbones again,” he snapped. “I had enough of ‘em in ‘Nam when they tried to get me to stop smokin‘
shit.
They’re all the same. And that one in stir was really off the wall.”

Tory visibly recoiled. She knew how he had been grounded when it was discovered he not only was smoking marijuana, but dealing in it and pills as well. She had concluded that it had been unfair of the military to make such a big thing of it. But he had not minded spending the last eight months of his tour of duty in a stateside stockade since it was far removed from the day to day encounters with death. Being a helicopter pilot had had its advantages, but the big drawback was the stray bullet from some gook’s rifle. She was glad he had gotten in trouble. Glad he had been sent to a stockade. Glad he had survived so they could be together now.

“Did I ever tell you,” he asked, “about the woman shrink in stir?”

Tory shook her head even though she knew the story well. How many times had he told her? Still, experience had taught her to let him have his own way. It was easier than being beaten, or worse—rejected.

“She tried to get me to admit I was trying to self destruct. She even said I’d never straighten out unless I admitted it to myself. Christamighty! Just because I had a chance to fly five tons of
shit
into this country from Mexico, I want to destroy myself? Goddamn establishment screwed up my life with a war nobody wanted, ruined any chance of me becoming a football coach, and then pays some bitch to convince me I want to destroy myself. Fucking idiots! Money! Bread! That’s the name of the game—the only game!” Grinning, he ran a hand through his hair again, smoothing the mussed strands into place.

“I know, honey,” she said, moving closer to him. She didn’t like it when he raved about his time in prison. He would get worked up, then start smoking pot or popping pills or drinking and be weird for several days. Her job—her only job, she was convinced—was to straighten him out so he would be able to find work. Then, they could get married and he could take care of her.

“Five goddamn years in stir. For what? For flying a goddamn, fucking airplane. No justice in the world.” Standing quickly, he grabbed Tory by the arms.

She screamed as his fingers dug into her flesh.

The sound of her cry brought him out of his crazed state. “I—I’m sorry, Tory. Really, I am. It’s just that I get so crazy pissed off when I think of the last ten years, that I gotta yell a little about it. Come here,” he said tenderly, gentle in his embrace.

Encircling his neck with her arms, her naked breasts flattening against his lower chest, she buried her face in his shoulder.

She pushed him back toward the bed until he fell onto the mattress. Collapsing in a tangle of arms and legs, Tory kissed his face, mouth, eyes before running her tongue down his chin toward his throat. Howie lay on his back, allowing her to kiss and lick his nakedness, his aroused manhood. Kneeling, she threw one leg across him, receiving his rigid member into her body. When he reached his climax in seconds, she attempted to satisfy her own need but found it a useless effort. He quickly shriveled inside her. Satisfied, he pushed her off. She began masturbating desperately while he watched, a contemptuous smirk clouding his naturally swarthy face.

Finishing, she rolled next to him, exhausted. He could be a satisfying lover if he took his time but that happened only on rare occasions. More and more she found herself having to resort to other tactics.

“Get me a joint,” he ordered.

She rose slowly, obediently going to the bureau. Opening the bottom drawer, she folded back her panties and hose to reveal a small pile of cigarettes. After selecting one from the pile, she rehid the others with her underwear. Lighting the
stick,
she returned to the bed, handing it to him. Slowly exhaling the sweet, heavy smoke, she delighted in the quick wave of giddy relaxation washing over her body.

Howie dragged, held the smoke in his lungs, gulping air to push the pleasantness deeper before slowly exhaling. A euphoric expression crossed his face.

“Want to hear about the tape 1 transcribed today, honey?” she asked, a lilt to her voice.

“No,” he snapped, sucking again on the cigarette.

“This woman has a hangup because she’s fucking her husband’s younger business associate,” she said, oblivious of his answer. “Christ, she’s all bent out of shape because of it. She feels guilty as hell but wants to continue screwing the shit out of him.”

“How many ropes we got left?” he asked, disregarding the indiscreet revelations. He rolled the cigarette back and forth in his fingers, studying it.

“Huh? Oh, two or three. Anyway, I’m not a psychiatrist or anything, but if she wants to stop feeling so goddamn guilty, why doesn’t she just stop fucking the guy?” She propped herself up on one elbow, giggling uncontrollably when she realized she had uncovered the solution to the woman’s problem. Reaching out, she took the cigarette from Howie, dragging hungrily.

“I gotta come up with some caper that’ll make a lot of bread.”

Chortling, she continued snickering and handed the joint back.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She laughed again but he tried to ignore it.

Her infectious good humor finally reached him. His shoulders shook and his flabby belly started quaking as her mirth infected him. He suddenly guffawed.

“But that—that woman’s a—real flake.” Tory fell sideways on the bed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“What woman?”

“The one—the one—I just told you about.”

“I don’t remember anything about—about a woman.” Howie heehawed a laugh, snorting as he spoke.

Tory repeated the story, confusing different aspects until it made no sense. When she finished, he sobered and sat up on the edge of the bed. Hunching over, he held his head in both hands. She watched him for several minutes before moving to his side.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, slipping an arm around his shoulder. Taking the spent cigarette, she butted it in a full ashtray on the floor next to the bed.

Howie straightened up to stare out the open window at the gray, smoke encrusted wall across the alley. It would be dark soon. “How much money you got?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. Twenty, thirty bucks until payday Monday.”

“Give it to me. I’ve got to do some thinking tonight.”

“About what?”

“I’ve gotta come up with something.”

“What?”

“Us getting some bread. Making a big score.”

Tory looked at him completely puzzled. “What do you want for supper?”

“Fuck supper! Get me the money. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

She reached for her purse on the table. Withdrawing two tens and a five, she shoved the remaining five dollar bill to the bottom of her bag before handing the money to her lover.

He roughly grabbed it, clenching the crumpled paper in his teeth while he pulled his pants on and slipped a tee shirt over his head.

Stepping into a pair of sneakers, he said, “If you want to make something for supper, go ahead. But have it ready when I get back. I gotta have lotsa thought time tonight. I’ll get some
ganja
with this two bits and we’ll talk about it.”

She stared, not comprehending anything he said.

After Howie had left the darkening room, Tory shivered, uncomfortable in her solitude. She pulled the chain hanging from the bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling, blinking at the sudden brightness before realizing she was not dressed. Donning a cotton robe and humming a tuneless melody, she took a can of soup from the almost empty cupboard.

Trina and Jon sat propped up in bed, reading and listening to an early Beethoven String Trio as it softly complemented the bedroom’s tranquil atmosphere. She found it impossible to concentrate on the novel leaning against her knee. Their love making had not been as satisfying as she had hoped it would be. She wondered if Jon’s first meeting with Doctor Dayton earlier in the day could be at fault. Or had she overreacted to his momentary personality change while pouring the wine? She knew he didn’t drink heavily at all. In fact, she considered him more of a marginal abstainer, at best. Still, she couldn’t help feeling as though she had encountered a stranger when her husband began vehemently raving about the Beaujolais.
“I don’t drink wine! I never have!”
She shuddered at the recollection.