Punish Me with Kisses (12 page)

She had expected him to be angry. He didn't even think it was so terrible that Lillian had put her initials on her letters in lower case. He said everyone did things like that; it was the sort of thing ambitious, pushy people did.

"But you wouldn't do anything like that."

"Maybe. If I really wanted to land a part. People screw people. That's how the world works. Publishing's no different. When they try to screw you, you can always screw them back."

"Like how?" she asked. "How can I screw her back?"

"I don't know." He laughed. "Put itching powder in her jogging shorts. Put glue on her typewriter keys."

"You're making fun of me."

"I'm sorry you're upset—that's about all I feel. And if anybody's going to do a book I think it should be me. But there's nothing I can write—that's the trouble. The only person who knows what happened is the guy who did her in. I'm not exactly holding my breath waiting for him to come forward, though I've thought about that a few times —what might happen if he did."

"We'd be free of it. The case would be closed and we'd be free."

"We
are
free. Don't you see? This whole thing about living under a cloud—all that's in your head."

Maybe he's right
, she thought, though Lillian's comment about the "implications" upset her still. She'd always had a fantasy that someday there'd be a similar crime, another girl would be murdered and this time the "intruder" would be caught. He'd confess to having murdered Suzie, and then, finally, the whole miserable case would be closed.

Lillian was perfectly correct the next few days though there were more of those cupped-hands-over-the-telephone-mouthpiece routines, and coverings-up-of-pages-
inthe
-typewriter when Penny walked by her desk. She was obviously cooking up a great number of schemes and guarding all her secrets as an ambitious young editor should. They didn't talk much, though Lillian mentioned she'd gotten up early and run a couple of times around her block, and that she hoped the effort would soon begin to burn off flab. Penny nodded, then turned back to her work. The permutations of Lillian Ryan's flesh didn't interest her very much.

She'd nearly forgotten the whole ugly business when, a few days later, she returned home to find Jared lying on the window seat depressed. He barely greeted her. When she asked what was wrong, he handed her a copy of
Backstage
, the actor's weekly, opened to a middle page where a small item was circled in ink.

"Jared Evans," she read, "exonerated defendant in the famous
Berring
murder case, is back at work in New York playing a small role in the
Soho
Workshop production of
Deserta
. The former film actor is, according to one member of the cast, 'quiet and hardworking.' One female member of the company said 'at first it was kind of creepy, but the guy's really serious and we all think he's OK.' The experimental production will open in another week."

"Well, that's not so bad," Penny said.

"That's not what the playwright thinks."

"Why? He knew who you were."

"Sure. But he says this'll distract from his play. He says now people will come to see me. His 'masterpiece' will turn into a freak show. Something like that."

"That's ridiculous."

"That's what I told him."

"What did he say?"

"He turned his back and walked away."

She touched his shoulder. "Worried?"

"I could get canned."

"I don't think that's going to happen."

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe not."

Jared didn't say much the next few days except that everyone at the Workshop was acting edgy, and that there was a lot of whispering going on. The next morning she'd barely settled down at her desk at B&A when he phoned her to tell her he'd been fired. "When I came in for early rehearsal," he said, "they were all sitting around looking at the
News
. There's a big item in David Denver's column. Seems it's syndicated, sixty-eight papers coast-to-coast."

He was calling from a phone booth. He gave her the number so she could call him back. When she did, he read her the excerpt from Denver's column. It was so vicious she wanted to scream, but he read it in a flat monotone as if it were ordinary news:

 
"Guess who's making the same shadow these days at an Upper East Side apartment, and around the running paths of Central Park? Jared Evans, accused killer, has been seen jogging hand in hand with Penny 'Chapman'
Berring
, sister of the slain Suzie. You remember the case—the love-triangle abruptly ended one night by a pair of gardener's shears dripping with sexy Suzie's blood. It looks like the former snuff-porn star is back to his old tricks,
worming
his way into this fine aristocratic family again. Be careful, Penny! Or do you know what you're doing after all?"

"God, that's horrible," she said. "But they can't fire you for that."

"They did. Fifty bucks and a handshake. They already had somebody lined up to take my place. I'm sick about it. Think I'll take in a movie and then go home."

After he hung up she went down to the lobby of the B&A building to buy the paper and read the item for herself. It seemed even worse to her in print than it had sounded on the phone, the sort of venomous gossip that had been out of fashion for several years but had recently started coming back. Just before noon she phoned Jared. "How, do you feel?"

"Not too bad now," he said. "I was kind of expecting to get the axe, and the play's no loss. It'll probably fold in a week."

Again she was struck by his passivity, the fatalistic way he accepted so raw a deal. They talked a while, then she asked him about Denver, how the columnist had managed to connect them up.

"Probably got a tip," he said. "They sometimes pay for that sort of stuff."

"Who knew about us?"

"Could have been anyone. We must have been seen jogging together a hundred times. Somebody probably recognized us and phoned the tidbit in."

But Penny couldn't get the notion out of her head that Lillian Ryan had been Denver's source. It was too pat—first the item in
Backstage
, and then Denver's connecting piece about them jogging hand in hand. It was the sort of thing Lillian might do to revive interest in the case and maybe try to pressure Penny into helping with the book. After lunch, still angry at the thought, she confronted Lillian by slapping the column down on her desk.

"Bound to come out sooner or later," Lillian said. "You can't keep a cat in the bag in New York."

"Of course you didn't have anything to do with letting the cat out."

"Just what's that
supposed
to mean?"

"How much does the Denver office pay for this kind of crap?"

"Now look!"
For a moment Penny thought she was going to spring up and attack her, but then Lillian settled back in her chair and laughed. "Wow—you're really subtle. I don't suppose you'd believe me if I swore I didn't have anything to do with this."

"Is that what you're saying?"

Lillian smiled. "You wouldn't believe me no matter what I said. But one thing comes to mind, and it might be worth your thinking about. If you worked on that book with me, got your side of the story out, you'd probably be able to clear the air and be free of this sort of stuff once and for all."

Penny shook her head. "You never give up, do you?"

"No," Lillian said, laughing, "I guess I don't."

"Well, I think you're going to have to now."

"Really, Penny? Why's that?"

Lillian was sneering. Penny thought of Robinson, the way he'd sneered and the way she'd finally found the nerve to put him down. She paused a moment, then looked Lillian directly in the eyes. "Those letters you're sending out with my initials—I think Mac would probably fire you if he knew. So just lay off, Lillian. No more little games, all right?"

Lillian was scared. She nodded and turned away. Penny felt wonderful. She'd stood up for herself, played "hardball" the way her father did. He would have approved and so would Suzie, she thought. "Get them before they get you," they used to chant. "Kick ass today, Daddy-O," Suzie used to say when she kissed him before he left for work.

A
memory: I'm ten years old and a real pain in the ass. All day I'm naughty and selfish and rude. French Slave Girl, the au pair mother has brought over to take care of us and teach us French, has gone to her room to pack her bags. "
Elle
est
insupportable
, " she mutters, referring to me. "
Insupportable!
"

Child's building an elaborate structure out of blocks. She's been working on it for hours, and it's been a crummy Sunday for me, and she's enjoying herself, and I'm feeling like a bitch, so, just to spread the misery around a little more I march into her room and kick it down. KICK
KICK
KICK
, until every little brick is knocked across the floor. Child starts to wail. Daddy-O has finally had enough. He's going to punish me. I CAN'T believe it. He's never raised a hand to me before. But suddenly there I am being swatted right in front of Child. She's not crying anymore. IAM, I'm yelling Holy Murder. The humiliation is worse than the pain. When it's over I run to my room and slam the door.

That evening I refuse to come down to dinner. Finally Daddy-O comes to me. He walks in, sits down next to me on the bed, tells me he loves me, pats my tear-stained cheek. We talk. He asks me if I'm sorry. "Sure," I say, "I'm sorry all right. I'm sorry I got spanked."

"Yes," he says, "I understand that. But I had to punish you. Let's forgive each other now."

"Next time," I suggest, "why don't you punish me with kisses?" We laugh, embrace, then he kisses me good night.

JESUS! My ass has been a pillow for
fucked-out heads, something to pat and stroke and lay one's head upon. (To the last one who asked if he could spank me I said "Try it, buster, and I'll play badminton with your balls!") Jamie tells me my ass is one of my finest assets. He says he wants to photograph it close-up with a special lens that will reveal its texture. He'll make the curve into an horizon, catch the down in cross-light and make it glow "It'll be like something in outer space," he says, "some new galaxy which everyone would want to explore. Then they'll read the title and double take. I'll simply call it 'Suzie's Ass'—

H
er father called.

"Hi, kiddo."

"Daddy?"

"Course, dummy. Who else calls you 'kiddo'?" She imagined him, jacket off, trim figure encased in well-cut vest, pacing around his office with a squash racket slashing at the air, turning every so often toward the speaker phone on his desk. "Ready to take me on?"

"Play squash?"

"What else, kiddo? Want to play?"

"Sure."

"OK. Noon tomorrow. Then we shower and come back here for chow."

Their game was fierce. Her father looked good—fit and hard, agile and athletic—as he batted the ball against the wall. It was hard to believe he hadn't spent his youth playing racket sports; that, in fact, he had been the son of working-class parents and had spent his summers on construction gangs. Still he played with the verve of an Ivy League athlete, and he gave Penny no quarter—he played to win, and he shut her out.

His hair was still slick from his shower as they walked together through the lobby of the Racquet Club. His silver sideburns caught the sun and glowed as they stepped into the Cadillac limousine waiting by the curb. She could sense the aura of his power as chief executive of a multinational corporation from the obsequiousness of the doorman and the deference of the chauffeur.
He's like a king
,
she thought as they drove to Chapman International, a glass and steel skyscraper at Park Avenue and Forty-Eighth. A uniformed lobby attendant ushered them into a special elevator so they could ride to the executive floor nonstop. His reception suite gleamed with glove-soft black leather, pewter fixtures, tables of darkened glass. Electronic office machines clicked and hummed as he led her to his office, which was dominated by an oval conference table and an abstract sculpture of gleaming steel.

He left her there for a few minutes while he attended to some business in an adjoining room. While he was gone she inspected the photographs and framed memorabilia arrayed on the wall. They told the story well, she thought, beginning with a picture of her grandfather, Howard Chapman, standing in front of his old Stamford, Connecticut, plant, home of the original Chapman Plow. Her father stood beside him—he must have been twenty-two or twenty-three at the time—an eager-looking boyish young man who'd come to Chapman as a salesman, then quickly caught her grandfather's eye. It couldn't have been long after that, she realized, that her parents got married, Howard Chapman died, ownership of Chapman passed to her mother, and her father began the dizzying series of mergers and labyrinthine corporate moves that turned the small plow manufacturing firm into Chapman International.