Topping From Below (6 page)
“Weren’t you hungry?” Franny asked.
Mrs. Deever made a face at the food. “My stomach was upset earlier. I’ll try to eat it now.” She picked up a fork and took a bite of the turkey, poked at her peas. Franny pulled a chair to the bed and opened her bag. She had a Whopper, a large order of fries, and a chocolate shake.
Putting her fork down, Mrs. Deever pushed her tray away. “I better not eat anymore,” she said, her voice shaky. “I feel like I might throw up.” She put the white bib up to her lips. Her chest and shoulders heaved, but she didn’t vomit.
Franny got a beige plastic container out of the drawer by her bed and placed it next to Mrs. Deever in case she needed it. She patted her on the arm.
“You’re a good girl,” Mrs. Deever said, looking up at her. “Your mother and father would be so proud. You know that, don’t you?”
Franny smiled.
“They were nice people. Family oriented. Always taking you and Nora and Billy somewhere—camping, museums, picnics. I wish my Frank had been more like your father, taking more of an interest in the family.” She paused a moment, then said, “It was a real blow to them when your brother died. They never got over it. But what parent would, losing a child like that? It changed them.” She squeezed Franny’s hand. “It changed you too, didn’t it? It must’ve been hard, finding your brother right after he died. You were too little to see something like that.”
Franny listened quietly, not saying a word.
Abruptly, Mrs. Deever lurched for the plastic container. She held it below her mouth and spewed out a phlegm-colored lumpy liquid. When she finished, Franny took the tray into the bathroom and washed it, then replaced it on the bed by Mrs. Deever’s side.
“You’re not having a good day, are you?” Franny said, standing next to the bed.
Mrs. Deever shook her head, then sighed heavily. “Whatever happened to me, Franny? How did I get like this?” She stared down at the covers, at the place where her legs had once been, where now only two thick thighs ended abruptly in stumps. Sighing again, she placed her hand on Franny’s.
Franny looked down. She had a small stump of her own, where she’d accidentally cut off her little finger with a paper cutter. That was a long time ago, shortly after Billy died, when she’d moved to Montana with her parents.
Mrs. Deever caught her gazing at the space of the missing finger. “It’s better than losing a leg,” she said. “No one minds a nine-fingered woman. You shouldn’t worry about it—it’s hardly noticeable.” After a minute, she added, “I used to be pretty, do you remember? Young and pretty, full of hope and good intentions.” There was a wistful tone to her voice.
Franny nodded and sat back down. Mrs. Deever stared out the dark window again, remembering her better days. Franny picked up her Whopper. Those were better days for her, too, before her parents died. It had been ten years, but still she remembered, vividly, the day she was told her parents had been in a car accident. Her sense of security had been ripped out from under her. And then she was whisked off to Nora’s. Just like that, everything changed: never again to feel that someone would love her, unconditionally, no matter what; never again to feel truly secure. Her sister tried, of course. She did the best she could. But Nora was young herself at the time, just Franny’s age now, recently out of college and trying to get her career started. She was too involved with her own life to see that Franny needed more than room and board to get through those difficult years. And now, after hoping to find in Michael the security and love she’d sought for so long, their relationship was not turning out as she had expected.
Franny reached for a handful of fries.
“Ha!” Mrs. Deever said suddenly, getting worked up. She snorted. “Hope and good intentions, my foot! Frank took all those away. I should’ve known better than to marry him.”
Franny didn’t comment. This was an old refrain.
“He’s just like the Kennedy men. If you want to know who you’re marrying, check out the father. Like father, like son.” She tugged on the white bib around her neck. “Frank’s father was no good, cheated on his wife just like Frank cheated on me. He’s a Kennedy man, through and through. I should’ve known he’d be trouble.” Bitterly, she threw the bib on her food tray. “The sons watch; they learn how to act from their fathers, even if they act no good. Jack and Bobby and Ted—they’re spitting images of Joe Senior. And just you wait—it’ll be the same for John-John and the newer Kennedy men. It runs in families, goes down the generations.”
Franny didn’t know what to say. She finished her hamburger and fries.
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” Mrs. Deever said. “It’s depressing enough just being here. Let’s talk about something more cheerful.”
Franny picked up her milk shake, and as she drank it she spun a wishful tale of Michael, who was not, and never had been, a Kennedy man. He took her to the symphony at the Sacramento Community Center for an all-Beethoven presentation. Then she mentioned a new restaurant in Davis they had tried last night—too trendy, they both agreed—and a movie they rented for his VCR. They ate popcorn and made a fire in the fireplace. In her stories, he was the perfect boyfriend.
Franny, naked and wiggling her toes in the carpet, stood in the middle of Michael’s bathroom. Everything was color-coordinated and neat and tidy, with all the towels folded precisely, as if a maid had recently cleaned. The room, suffused with a warm, bluish tinge, was larger than her kitchen and much more elegant: sapphire-blue and silver wallpaper, a sunken tub, double onyx vanities, a full-length wall-sized mirror. She half expected a gorgeous, tan showgirl, with a blue feathered headdress and tassels and pasties, to emerge from the tub. Instead, she had only herself.
She slipped a red satin-and-lace halter bustier over her head and pulled it down below her shoulders, twisting and stretching the garment to accommodate her body. She hated red. It made her pale skin appear even more washed-out than it actually was. Turning around, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror: a ridiculous sight. The bustier hugged her body much too tightly, and white folds of skin extruded from the edges of the bodice. It was a crotchless piece of lingerie Michael had bought for her, too skimpy, too revealing, and designed for a body much slimmer than hers, a showgirl’s body. Her breasts, squeezed and lifted from the underwire cups, jutted out and spilled over. She tried smashing them in, then pulling the bustier up, but the higher she tugged it, the more she revealed of her crotch. There was not enough material to cover all of her. She gave up, yanked on the bottom edges and pulled it back down. It was a four-piece set: bustier, G-string, thigh-high nylons, and a short satin robe, all in bright fire-engine red. Michael, who was waiting for her in the living room, had given her strict orders not to wear the G-string or the robe.
Leaning against the sink counter, Franny slipped on the red nylons and attached them to the garters. She forced her feet into five-inch spiked high heels, also red, then wobbled over to the mirror. Turning so she could see herself from behind, she groaned. She didn’t like what she saw. Her buttocks were dimpled and meaty, her thighs unsightly massive slabs. She turned again. The bustier ended just below her stomach, revealing her pubic area, shaven clean per Michael’s instructions, a delta of raw skin. Instinctively, she reached for her crotch and palmed it with her hand. Without hair, it looked vulgar, obscene, and it made her feel totally exposed. She wanted to grow it back so she could hide behind it, but Michael wouldn’t let her.
When she removed her hand, she looked in the mirror again, still embarrassed by what she saw. She picked up the satin robe and slipped it on. Even without tying the belt, it made her look slimmer; it covered her thighs and buttocks. She decided to wear the robe, even though Michael expressly forbade it. When he saw that she looked better this way, certainly more sensual, perhaps he would let her keep it on. She drew back the curtains and looked out the window. The sky was dark and bleak, and rain came down at a harsh slant; the backyard grass took on a grayish color, and water pooled wherever there was hollow ground.
She started to leave the bathroom, but stopped suddenly when she remembered the lipstick. He wanted her to wear lipstick; red, garish lipstick. She applied it carefully, blotted her lips with a tissue, then giggled. She sucked in her cheeks and rolled her eyes upward. She looked so silly. Shrugging her shoulders, she wondered what it was about red lipstick that turned men on. It looked so unnatural, so fake. And very, very silly.
Slowly, uncertainly, she walked through the house, tottering on her spiked heels, trying not to feel like a prostitute in the red crotchless bustier. She found Michael in the living room, sitting on the couch, reading a magazine. She stood back, watching him. He was wearing gray slacks and a black shirt, something soft and silky, something sexy, opened at the collar. She felt the heavy heat of desire, the ache of a passion too many years denied. Whenever she saw him—dark, handsome, trim—a surge of pride coursed through her. Even now, after all this time, she couldn’t believe he had chosen her, and she felt blessed in his presence, as if he were an undeserved gift.
He turned the page of the magazine. His fingers were long and tapered, the hands of a pianist, narrowing exquisitely to the fingertips. When she entered the room, he looked up, a trace of annoyance crossing his face. She thought she’d done something wrong, but then he smiled and set aside his magazine. Relieved, Franny smiled also.
“Walk around the room,” he told her. “I want to watch you.”
She smiled again, shyly, and walked across the room, trying not to hobble. When she got to the front window, she peeked through the draperies. Low black clouds roiled overhead; a zigzag of lightning flashed across the sky, and then she heard the loud crack of thunder. She turned around and went back to Michael, stopping in front of him.
“Do it again,” he said. “But slower this time.”
Franny did as he asked. She was becoming accustomed to the heels. They were still tight and uncomfortable, but she didn’t feel as though she would topple over at any minute. She tried to walk gracefully, imagining she was a model on a runway. She imagined all the fat away, and saw a young, beautiful woman. Feeling more confident, she circled the room again. She tried to put a little flourish in her walk, tried to act a little sexy, swinging her hips, continuing her promenade around the room. Michael didn’t care that she was overweight. He wanted her to dress in lingerie; he liked the way she looked. She imagined herself an earth goddess: round, plump, the flesh symbolizing fertility and good health.
“That’s enough,” he said abruptly. His voice pulled Franny out of her reverie. “Come here.”
She went over to the couch and started to sit.
“No,” he said. “Stand in front of me so I can see you.”
Clasping her hands in front of her shaved crotch, trying casually to cover her genitals, she stood before him, wondering what would come next. Music played softly from the den. Earlier, she’d been too nervous to notice it. The volume was turned down very low. Something by Brahms, she thought, but she wasn’t sure.
“Your hands are obstructing my view,” Michael said. “Put them at your sides.”
She removed her hands and bowed her head, trying to act natural in the crotchless bustier, as if she always wore sexy lingerie. The music ended, and the room became quiet. Too quiet. She could hear herself breathing softly.
“You look like a slut,” she heard him say, his harsh words cutting into the silence.
Franny grimaced. Nervously, she chewed on her lip. She hated it when he called her that, but knew better than to protest.
He stood up and walked behind her. Pushing her hair to one side, he leaned down and kissed her gently on the neck. Franny started to turn around so she could return his kiss, but he held her in place.
“Don’t move,” he said, and he kissed her again, sliding his tongue along the nape of her neck. She leaned back against him, felt his body against hers, then saw him reach into his pants pocket. He pulled out a black scarf and slid it up her arm, along the front of her neck, across her face. It was silky and soft against her skin. He reached around with his other arm and took the opposite end of the scarf, stretching it tight, and placed it over her eyes. He tied the ends behind her head.
“Michael—” she began.
But he put his finger to her lips and very quietly said, “Shhh.”
It was dark behind the scarf. And scary. He took her arm and slowly pulled her forward. She had no choice but to follow, stumbling awkwardly along the way. She clung to him as they walked through the house, seeing nothing, the blackness disorienting her. She thought they were in the hallway, but then she heard her high heels clicking on the tile. A sense of vertigo overcame her, and she wanted desperately to remove the scarf. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Suddenly, Michael was pushing her down. She struggled, a reflexive reaction, but he forced her down, and with an ungainly thud she fell into a chair. When she realized it was only a chair, Franny gave out a short, nervous laugh of embarrassment. She’d thought he was attempting to trip her, and now she felt foolish. She ran her fingers along the edges of the chair. Wood, smooth, cool to the touch. It was a dining room chair. Feeling grounded and more secure now that she was seated, Franny began to relax. She felt Michael’s hands, rubbing her shoulders and neck, then he took her arms and gently drew them back behind the chair.
“Cross your wrists,” he said, “and hold them still.”
A second later she felt him lashing her wrists together. Her apprehension returned.
“Michael,” she said again, but once more he put his fingers to her lips.
“I don’t want you to speak,” he said, then removed his fingers. She heard him walk away, and felt panicked at his desertion. She wanted to call out, but knew that would displease him. She pulled her wrists. The lashing was secure. She could not untie the rope. What if he left her here for a long time? What if he left the house and there was a fire and she couldn’t escape? She told herself to calm down—her imagination was working overtime. He was probably still in the room, watching her. She sat up straighter, feeling spied upon. Then another thought occurred to her: what if someone else was watching her? She fidgeted in the chair, worrying, wanting to call out. How long had she been here? The low rumble of thunder reached her ears, and she was comforted by the sound. Earlier, the clap of thunder had seemed threatening, ominous even, but now its familiar noise steadied her.
