Untitled.FR11 (5 page)

They had plans to lunch together tomorrow, give him a chance to settle in today, teach his first class, hang out with the family, knock the road dust from his ears.

He was still semitumescent as he opened the door and wrapped a towel about his waist. Katt, hanger-ing laundry, caught a glimpse. “My, my, what have we here?”

“All for you, dear, but not right now.” “Tonight?”

“Early to bed, hon. Early to rise.”

“Never seen a healthier man in my life.”

He kissed her warm lips, felt her hand on him through the towel, smiled away to pick out clothing. He liked the house anew: plush off-white carpets, opulent but tasteful fixtures, pleasing wood cabinets and closets, a feeling of brightness and space everywhere. His mate was maybe a bit too spread out, a little in need of reining in. But she’d adjust soon enough. The lunch she prepared, omelettes and hash browns in the breakfast nook, brought a perfect unity to the family, the three of them laughing again as if four months of separation hadn’t happened.

Then it was time to gather his notes, his handouts on Shakespeare, his well-worn Riverside, and walk through the warm afternoon sun to campus. Three quiet blocks north to Prospect, crossing there and sauntering one more street to Lake and he had arrived at the edge of campus, a mere five minutes away from the Eddy Building, south of the library, where his class was scheduled to meet. He put the family, his staid domestic scene, behind him. CSU was all Sherry. He felt her spirit here, the paths across grass at science buildings, the possibility that he might turn a corner and there she’d be, that cruel branding her insane husband had given her hidden under killer clothes, just as she hid her lovely dark passion from those not privy to its incredible strength and beauty.

Katt had had some of that fire when they met. But in the intervening years she’d somehow gone bland. Initially they’d lived together, tried an open relationship—no love but between them, sex with congenial friends only. Seemed to be working, his trysts anyway. But her first time gone had driven him mad. Toss and turn, had to negotiate anew, could taste the fucker on her for weeks. Yes, she’d said, they’d try for something more traditional. And what could be more traditional than so-called cheating, he thought—a roll in the hay for the roving-eyed hubby, guys were built that way, women nested, men hunted. Worked out fine. And as long as he was careful with his condoms (which he was), he’d bring home nothing harmful to Katt.

The first class meeting was surreal. Disorientation, road spinning under him, made the classroom too confining. He traced through his notes, marveling at how it all swung together from his mouth, how he smiled so glibly, and made easy eye contact, and picked out the winners and losers in the space of five minutes, his smarts-detector unerring as usual. And yet he was on autopilot, head still full of a monotonous road-pound. By the hour’s end, he’d cohesed an odd assemblage of students into generalized novices on the Elizabethan milieu and on the realities of the Globe, bent on tackling the doubled twins of A Comedy of Errors at the next meeting. His eyes were drawn to a young woman in the front row, Belinda Lymon according to the seating chart he had them fill in. Wide eyes, full breasts, a perfect turn of thigh. She was surely too young to be a probable. But he’d be sizing her up, alert for signs, hints dropped. As long as she lay grade-wise in his power, he’d try nothing; there was fair and there was foolish. Besides, the allure of sexual uncertainty, the coy flirtation with a forbidden student-teacher affair slowly gathering in each mind, were part of a very potent package by the time the semester was at its end. Explosive orgasm, whether repeated or not— to cap and fulfill the expectation that had built for weeks—invariably ensued.

After class, he found his office, tested the key, did a quick survey of shelf space and filing cabinets. Movers ought to deliver his boxes by Thursday afternoon. A minor diminution in what he’d been used to at Iowa, but the view from his window was pleasing and it felt nice and intimate for whatever, intellectual or sexual, arose. New blotter, cool tight pseudo-leather desktop, dustless surfaces, fresh in cleanliness; there was even a vased bouquet of six pink sweetheart roses, a gesture he guessed from the department secretary, far too risky for Sherry to have dared.

Katt smiled from the kitchen when he came in. “First impressions?” she said after their hug.

“Are the best,” he completed. They laughed together, a good feeling, then he said, “Basically I took the stage, set The Bard on automatic, and wowed the audience. I kept all the road weariness inside, in a secret place, and they were none the wiser, fresh-faced dewy-eyed innocents all.”

She hugged him. “Sounds like you’ve got it made.”

“Yep, I feel on top of things, all right.” If Conner hadn’t come in at that point, back from a walk, Katt would have given him a nice close horizontal inspection of their bedsheets. But as it was, they had to wait for their son to fill his mom in on every mile’s doings between here and Iowa, a special dinner centerpieced by candles and flowers (he withheld mention of the office roses), and a blessedly brief after-dinner sit-about.

When Conner, dead tired, dragged himself to his room, Ratt coyly cleared her throat, bent to embrace Marcus, and murmured, “Don’t you think it’s time we got reacquainted?”

I sure do, he’d said, and they went upstairs and shut the door and eased away clothing and sampled secret flesh, as if the whole ritual were new again— which it was oh yes it was—her hands her mouth so incomparably good there, an intoxicating taste to her as she parted and lowered, knees denting mattress to either side of his head. And then she turned about, woozy after orgasm, and sank her heat around him, the incredible satin clutch claiming him, coaxing him heavenward, drawing him up little by little and out, throb of head and loins, the buck and weave. After a time, warm embrace and goodness of enclosure, she slid up and off and started to massage him, hands, arms, shoulders, neck, deep and drifty.

“I’ll fall asleep,” he warned in a soft slur.

“That’s okay,” she said. “You’ve had a long day.”

She was right. She understood. He felt the soothing hands lull him, moving from neck to jaw to facial muscles, on up to brow and scalp, so good there, so easing. Sherry swam up as he drifted off, sweet harp-hipped Sherry, naked and bending for him and gazing back, begging for it, there beneath the soothe of Katt’s loving touch.

Sometimes Katt had massage customers who fell asleep. Rare but not surprising. Grace Kantor, the woman with the mole from yesterday, had been one. There were others, the stressed-out businessmen who carried the twist of commerce in their necks,

people who’d been stroked to sleep as kids and who fell naturally into their old pattern under Katt’s maternal touch.

Now here was Marcus asleep on their bed, and here she was with her fingers resting upon his head. And the night was coming on behind windows and Katt had time and to spare to do what she would. Here lay a naked human being, entrusted to her care, the man she’d once loved and loved still. He looked so serene, so close and so distant to her, and without even trying, he was circumscribing her life, stifling her. They shared nothing, save for Conner. Marcus had his secrets, and she hers, but the freedom that she’d tasted for four months was suddenly shriveled, gone, familied and killed in the sudden mundanity of her brood’s arrival and settling in— eternal visitors who’d never ever leave, a pillow pressed over her nose and mouth.

Divorce him. What was so difficult about it? People split up all the time. Write a note, no, take him to some nearby park, cry wordlessly until he himself got the hint, brought it up, then move on from there. But all her ideas lay straitened and immured behind brick, immovable, inert, unactable on, as her mother’s soft rant rose in her mind’s ear, Hunts never do the D-thing. No they don % Katt, and don’t you forget it.

Outside where unseen a duck pond lay, a slash of bird sound tore down across the evening sky. As the geese came in, a far-beached splash flared up and subsided. Katt was kneeling beside Marcus’s body on the bed, low to him as he lay there. Her fingers were entangled in his hair and the tips touched scalp, thumbs upon his brow, octopod of eight digits settled in to harm him. She shrank at the thought. Tension drained from her fingers, but she kept them there. Foolish notion, she told herself; she could never hurt her husband. But she could find the spot inside him that kept his disease wound tight, cure him, put his worries forever to rest. Then she’d tell him what she’d done, do likewise for Conner; and at last draw upon her newfound strength to find the courage to ... ah but she could never do the D-thing, Hunts never do the D-thing. That’s right, Katt, as right as rain and as certain as raindrops. The D-thing is something we Hunt women never do.

Find it, at least. No harm in that. Maybe even some good. That quelled her misgivings, though she knew it was a trick. Still, she shut out the clocktick, the moonglow, the distant ache of a train passing through the night, and focused on bone beneath her fingers. Her awareness passed beneath it, his skullbone a dumb thudding numbness quickly noted as healthy and sunk through, meninges next, followed by a brunt of brain, deepened through layer on layer until she arrived (remembering now a drawing in the medical book on HD) at the caudate nucleus, and slowed to probe. There was something not right here—not a softness in the actual tissue, but that’s how it presented itself, a readiness to crumble, to dry up, to desiccate.

She realized she was shaking, almost as if she needed to urinate, though her bladder was empty. Warring visions held sway: Marcus the man, whom she had no right to harm; and this place in a coolly detached brain, this place that held the key to her

freedom, that wanted only the smallest twist of intent to activate. They’d shared so much, these many years. How could someone be your best friend and yet no longer be any friend at all? How could so convincing a closeness exist and yet be all lies, the distance so great and unspeakable and unspoken of? She didn’t know, but her hands tensed upon him and his sleeping fatality lay inches below them, so easy to tip into imbalance. Katt’d rightly be called a murderer, unprovable but she would always know it had been so, and there would be Conner to remind her in case she forgot. But there surged now her secret strength and she knew what so often she’d told herself, that in the planning of them, some actions that resonated deep in your soul took on an inevitability. This wrenching was her one escape route—now was the time and here was the place, and she inflected her will to urge it forward.

A thought-ripple.

Had it happened? She knew and didn’t know. Like the trick of the eye upon a trickle of tapwater, did the twist shift or not as you watched? Her fingers eased. A flurry of wings below taunted her ears. She trembled, indeed had been shuddering for some time, she now realized. When Katt looked at her hands, they would not hold still. A passage from a library book came to mind. A silly feel-good book. But one notion had made her cry: Picture your worst fear, it said, as a wailing baby. Lift it up. Hold it. Soothe it. Talk to it. Katt’s throat tensed and her eyes teared up. Then she was crying, tamping it down, but her breaths inward were audible and there was Marcus, sixteen years of mostly good times and real connection, lying there, and she had done something horrendous to him. But if she had, and he showed signs, she could go back in and reverse it or at least halt it, surely. Her sobbing would not stop, became less easy to conceal there in that confining room.

“Katt?” A soft sleepy voice.

It starded her. She eased back upright, drew an arm across her eyes. With her fingers she squeezed the bridge of her nose.

“Are you all right?” He was scarcely awake.

Calm. “Yes.” Came out a whisper. “Yes,” louder and the panic rose again. “It’s just that. . . we’ve been so far apart and . . . and I’ve missed you.”

Marcus drew her down. She let herself stretch out at his side, feeling his embracing arms encircle her. Bursts of sob escaped, but not as violent now. “There there,” he said sleepily. He gave a yawn. “We’re here now.” Rustle of sheet as he raised it up over their shoulders. “Cry it out, rest now, we’re back together again.” He drifted off almost as he spoke, and she lay there, wide awake, for the longest time, feeling alien and elated and displaced, time ticking softly on the nightstand and pond sounds rising as geese touched down to ease her gradually into sleep.

April had been easy. Kinda sloshed. Or maybe just a litde lax in the head. He’d picked her up leaving a frat house alone, walked her across Laurel and between the tall trees and toward Lory Student Cen

ter and the dorms beyond. Trusting bitch. A little charm, a little sweet talk, easy flirting—like he’d practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror.

She’d been swayable.

He’d clomped her once at the beginning, soon as she’d climbed into his truck. Going dancing? Sure we are. She turned to lock her door at his request and Clomp! Then he didn’t want to, but he clomped her again when she resisted at the tree. He carried her from his truck. She tried to knee him on the way, then again when he pounded the stakes into the tree, unbound her hands, and attempted to tie the ropes to the stakes. She’d been fury and hellfire to deal with. Quiet sex-eyed April Downing had a fearsome will to live. So he’d clomped her a good one, propping her up and securing her hands. Her thin pale arms he stretched tight as a crossbar against the killing tree, which was thick as a century’s growth and took its time curving about.

Wasn’t much moon but there was plenty of solitude, so if April decided to take to screaming, there’d be no cause for worrying about it but simply for celebrating the power of the human voice to thrill. Just like when the kids had held him down, kicking and screaming, and poured red Kool-Aid down his throat and into his nose and over his eyes, a choking then but they didn’t care—that sweet shit griming his face and the flies buzzing after him and that fake red odor in the air, pretend strawberry. April was wearing an orange frilly halter top and jeans and flats. Grazing his knuckles with tree bark, he reached around her to undo the three large buttons at her back. Then he needed the hedge clippers to scissor up her front and snip the two dangling halves from her shoulders. They fell apart. She was fuck awesome. April had the softest yum-miest whitest creamiest eye-achers he’d ever seen on an angel baby’s torso.