The Anatomy of Violence (18 page)

“Lucky?”

“Because I’ve seen the ones you left alive. A woman who sat holding a milk bucket without a bottom because all she could remember was not to offend Jules Curtright. That girl Simone starting a downhill sleigh ride at your filthy club—”

“Simone was born for the profession,” said Jules, lighting another page.

“You know how people feel about you, Jules? You know if something takes away their fear of you they’ll be nothing left but hate. That’s why you want to die alone. Not because of that stupid theory about superiority. You’re afraid they’d hang you up by the heels like they did Mussolini, maybe in one of your own gas stations. After a few days they’ll burn you and line up to spit on your gravel” I stopped when I saw Jules grinning at me. I was breathing as though I’d run up a long hill.

“So …” He turned the page and studied the flames. “You don’t love me.”

An angry reply rose to my lips but I forced it back. Maybe if I kept him talking … “You think I should love you because you were first? Rape is a poor first, Jules.”

“Laurie, love is not a lace-trimmed valentine or two platonic figures on a wedding cake.” His tone was one of strained patience. “It isn’t a bride turning from the cookstove to kiss her husband on the cheek. Love is sweating bellies on a hot summer day, like ropes of taffy slapping together at a carnival.” He flipped away a charred corner and sucked his finger. “Ann didn’t worry about how it began.”

“She hated you at the end.”

Jules shrugged and tore out another page. “Ann was too direct to rationalize the help she gave me with you. She felt like dying and she died.” He grinned as he touched flame to the page. “She wasn’t weak. None of you were. You were like three cats, soft and purring when you were petted. But the soft pads could turn into sharp, tearing claws. And you—”

He slipped his hand under the blanket and squeezed my breast. “You’re the prettiest, so you’re probably the most dangerous. The prettiest flowers have the longest thorns, the loveliest snakes carry the strongest venom.”

He tossed away a charred corner and paused thoughtfully. “A woman told me once no female fully enjoyed sex because she was never sure of the consequences. It made me think.” He ripped out another page. Oddly, I thought of an uncertain lover pulling petals off a flower.
He loves me, he loves me not.

“Maybe women are never sure of anything,” I said.
Keep him talking, night is falling.

He made an impatient wave of his hand. “I thought, what about a woman who knew she’d die right afterwards and there’d be no consequences?”

I had a feeling of unreal horror, as though I’d just watched a python swallow a baby in a hospital nursery. He was talking about me. “If she knew she’d die, she’d think of everything but sex.”

“Maybe.” He frowned as he started burning another page.
He loves me, he loves me not.
It seemed important to him to justify killing me. Perhaps he worried about his sanity. “Jules, you said I couldn’t hurt you without evidence. If you kill me, it proves you’re crazy.”

He was silent a minute, then he rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. When he spoke his tone was peevish. “Laurie, insanity comes from a frustrated desire. I have no frustrations, I just don’t think like other people.” Savagely he ripped out another page and lit it.
He loves me not.

There were only a few pages left, and I could see smoke billowing over the ridge. “Have you tried to think like other people?

“Yes. Yes, I have. It’s like shuffling along in heavy shoes and not being able to get your feet off the ground.” He looked at me and his eyes reflected the yellow glow of the flaming paper. “Ever stand up high and watch people walk by under you? They waddle like bugs crawling under some kind of soft armor and you want to put your foot down and hear them squirt.”

Another page.
He loves me.
“Did you ever go to a psychiatrist?”

He barked a laugh. “Laurie, this thing comes out whether I want it or not. Look!” He doubled his fist and held it close to my face. His knuckles were shiny with scar tissue. “One night I held back. Later it hit me and I hammered on a brick wall until my fist was scraped to the bone.” He worked his fist and ropy muscles writhed in his arms. “It comes out.”

I watched another page burn.
He loves me not.
“In a way, Jules,” I said reflectively, “I pity you.”

He slapped me hard, then his voice grated through the ringing in my ears. “Save your pity for yourself. Think about what will happen after”—he riffled the notebook—“three more pages. Your heart will stop beating and your muscles won’t work but your brain will go on dying for several hours. I wonder what you’ll be thinking while your brain cells flicker out one by one like the lights of a city.”

His change of mood had taken my breath. He seemed to leap from the height of one emotion to the other, like a mountain goat leaping from crag to crag. I noticed how the hair swept off his chest and gathered into a dark river on his stomach.
If I had the gun,
I thought,
I’d shoot him without a twinge, right where that black river flows through his navel.
But the only weapon was Richard’s knife under the mattress. “How will you do it, Jules?”

“How?” He lit another page.
He loves me.
“The fire should reach the pier in two or three hours. Maybe you’ll be dead when it gets here, maybe you’ll just be tied up. It depends on you.”

I knew what he meant. It sounded simple; just relax and Jules would do the rest with the skill of long experience.

He loves me not,
said another burning page. Jules’ features seemed swollen and his eyes were slightly out of focus as though he’d been drinking.

I raised one knee and let the blanket slide off me. Then I straightened, bending my ankle so the leg was a straight line from hip to toe. The afterglow touched my skin with the color of light jade, ghostly green against an ebony triangle. I turned my head and watched the last page burn.
He loves me.

Jules flipped the expensive binder into the water. He leaned back on his heels and looked down at me. “Have you decided?”

I heard a fish jump. Later, far away, a waterbird loosed a reptilian screech. “What does it look like?”

He smiled, and his finger traced a figure eight around my breasts with a soft, lingering touch. “I like the way they come straight to the point with no fooling around. Just the way the brassiere people want them to look.”

He talked as though they were playthings I’d grown especially for him. I smiled at him.

He squeezed my knee and moved his palm up the inside of my leg. “Skin is always so soft there. Little bush shades it from the sun. And goose pimples. Scared?”

I waited for my stomach to stop jumping. “No.”

“Even though you know this won’t change anything?”

“Even though.”

A wistful expression crossed his face. “We should have met fifteen years ago.”

“I was four then. I wouldn’t have—’” I gasped as his hand touched a scratch on my stomach.” understood this.”

“You’re covered with scratches. You shouldn’t have run.” He bent, and his lips drew a tingling trail over my stomach and breasts. “Pink little buttons, so eager.”

“Jules—” I coughed. “There’s so much smoke out here.”

He leaned back and ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Inside?”

My stomach leaped again, then quieted. “Yes.”

He slipped an arm under my shoulders and the other under my knees and took the steps two at a time. Outside the bedroom door I squeezed his shoulder. “Put me down here.”

He did, and I turned and put my hand against his chest. “Let’s do it my way, Jules, this … last time. Wait until I call you.”

He frowned, but he didn’t stop me as I closed the door and turned the lock. It was still too light in the room; I had to gain fifteen minutes. In the closet I found a sheer shorty nightgown that had been Eileen’s. I pulled it over my head and it fell just four inches below my waist. Eileen had been smaller than I.

At the dressing table I dusted a powder puff over my body. I dampened my finger with perfume, dabbed behind each ear and at the base of my neck. I picked up the lipstick, then put it down. This would be a matter of touch and smell, all concealed in darkness.

Jules pounded on the door. “Hey!”

“I’m not quite ready, Jules.” My ears rang as he pounded again. A crack appeared in the paneling. I could picture his pouting, sullen face, his lower lip protruding, long arms corded, hands balled into fists. His mood had changed again. “Five minutes, Jules.”

“You’ve had long enough. You’re not going on stage.”

The hell I’m not.
“Please! I want to be perfect for you.”

There was a pause. “Five minutes, then I’m coming through.”

I ran to the bed and the nightgown flowed against my body like a soft breeze. I took the dagger from the mattress and slid it silently from the sheath. The blade glowed dully in the gloom. I set the point against my index finger, pushed gently, and watched blood well up on my fingertip like a dark ruby.
In the neck,
Richard had said,
or between the ribs in the back.

Could I do it? I was so unskilled and Jules was so old in killing—Ann, Eileen, Koch, Lillian, and the nameless girls in others’ graves. Maybe, when his knees were like jelly and his muscles strained harmlessly against themselves …

I lifted the pillow and placed the knife under it. Now the room was dark. I ran to the door. “Jules, I’m unlocking the door, but please wait until I call you. I want to get in bed.”

“Go ahead, it’s your party.”

I pushed down the lock lever, ran back to bed and crawled in. I pulled the cool sheet up to my chin and heard a frog chirr in a nearby tree. Little rats of fear began a scurry-scurry-scurry through my brain, gnawing at my self-assurance with sharp yellow teeth. I put my hand beneath the pillow and felt the dagger. “I’m ready, Jules.”

The door opened and I closed my eyes. His bare feet padded across the room, then his weight depressed the bed. I rolled slightly and felt his hands busy on my body, hearing his almost inaudible words. “Oh, you put on a nightgown … very nice, like a bride on her wedding night. Only a little one though, no …
problem.”

There was no delay; the sheet flew into the air and fluttered to the floor like a great white bird brought down by a hunter. The nightgown flew up as though a gust of wind had caught it from below. I felt his rough hands arranging me; my legs, my arms, my hips. He kept talking in an undertone like a boy immersed in a task, now faintly petulant. “Laurie … so passive … nothing is fun if you don’t fight for it … fight for business, fight for life … the world is a fight … Ann didn’t fight and look where …”

I thought, I
am not a whore to fake love; I can’t act what

I
don’t feel. I must really love him, or I’ll fail.

His fingers kneaded my back. He breathed on my neck and I caught more words. “Fill my nose with the smell of you … skin still full of the smell of water and sun, so clean, so fresh, you need no perfume if you’d only …”

I was surprised that there was no pain. I had remembered the last time and my body had expected pain. This was
… different.
A tiny nest of nerve ends deep in my loins curled tightly and drew heat from my body. His voice grew louder. ”
Now …
muscles roll breath warm against my neck you’re … strong.”

I didn’t know when my body had begun stirring; suddenly we were enclosed in a single bubble of movement. Then reaction led backward to stimulus and I wanted him completely. My limbs strained to enclose him entirely within myself.

This was the piece that had been missing from the puzzle. It explained the women in Jules’ life; how Simone accepted insults and Ann aided in murder, and both went back to open themselves to him again and again for this little bit of life.

Then I stopped thinking in words. I thought of waves on a beach growing louder. I was on a roller coaster going up and down, my heart rose to my mouth with each surge; each time higher and faster until at last I left the track and soared into space …

Then my mind broke free. For a moment I thought it was someone else who made the sharp little moans. Then I realized it was me. I was amazed at my passion; awed by the bubbling fire I’d tapped. Then my right hand gripped the dagger and raised it high. My left hand probed his twisting back. My ears caught more words:

“Clawing little thing … fingers in my back like little cat-feet exploring for a place to dig … raise up there it’s like lying across one of those little arched bridges … you’re strong Laurie—
ahhh!
Pain … worst ever, not even Ann hurt like—
ahhh!
My back is … Lord where did you get that … knife can’t reach … Laurie … the fire … you’ll die with … me.”

I paced the dock for a long time after I pushed myself from beneath the crushing, dead weight. I watched Venus set and I saw the gibbous moon rise. I watched the lights wink out in the little town and I felt alone in the universe with a dead man.

Later the wind quickened and I watched the fire march over the ridge and down the slope. Flames seized the house from the rear and entered to gorge themselves on thick carpets and tapestries, twisting in frenzy. I pictured them engulfing the limp shape on the bed.

Then fire splashed onto the veranda and heat struck my face as though an oven door had been opened. I jumped into the water and swam along the shore. A hundred yards away I stood in waist-deep water and watched the flames glow on low clouds. It was a pyre such as no viking had ever seen. Maybe Jules would have liked it.

Still nobody came, and I lost track of time. It could have been three or five when the breeze shifted and carried a burden of soot and charred leaves from the island. I lowered myself in water up to my chin. A familiar pain crossed my stomach: cramps. Now the genes of Jules and Laurie would never be shaken in that biological dice cup inside me; there’d be no child with black hair curling crisply about his forehead. The Curtrights were dead; the deep roots severed.

I heard a man’s voice a long way off shouting my name. I stood up in the water. “Here!”