Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

  He got up, lit a cigarette, and looked out the window. It was another overcast and gray day; Lake Michigan looked still and murky. He glanced in the mirror. The same Joe looked back at him. He assured himself there was nothing wrong with him. He knew his mother-in-law was poisoning his wife against him, knew that with Anne in Lake Forest he didn't stand a chance of getting her back. She would convince Anne he was wrong for her.

  He made a decision. Sitting back down at his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed. Anne picked it up on the second ring.

  "Hi."

  "Joe?"

  "Yes, babe, it's me. I called with a proposition."

  Anne sighed and Joe thought for a moment he was doing the wrong thing.

  "What is it?" she whispered, her voice ragged, as if she had been crying.

  "Come back."

  There was annoyance in her voice as she cut him off. "Please, Joe, we've been through all this already. I need some time to think."

  "I know you do. That's why I'm asking you to come back—"

  "Joe, I don't under—"

  "I know. Shh. Just let me explain. I was going to say that you shouldn't be all the way up there, away from your work and everything that means anything to you. It must give you a distorted perception of things, not to mention just being plain inconvenient."

  "I don't think you understand, Joe."

  "I do, Anne. That's why I'm offering to leave and you can have the apartment." He heard the catch of her breath, soft, but he knew he had her.

  "Think about things here. I'll find a nice place to hole up in while you think."

  "Why?"

  "All right, I am being a little selfish. I wanted you to be someplace where you'd be reminded of me. But I promise, I'll leave you alone."

  There was a long pause and Joe began to fear she would turn down his offer. He needed to get her back here, in their home and away from her mother, who had disliked him from the start. But he didn't want to beg; that was the most certain thing to make her turn and run. She had to believe it was her decision. Finally, to break the silence, he said, "All right, Anne. I guess I can understand. We have a nice apartment, but I suppose Lake Forest is a lot better for this sort of thing." He tried to make certain there was no sneer in his voice. "It's a lot quieter and I'm sure your mother likes the company."

  "Now, I didn't say that. Give me some time to think about it, Joe." She paused and then asked, "Where would you go?"

  Even Joe didn't know the answer to that question. "Oh, I'll find someplace in a second. Don't let that worry you. I promise, Anne, I'll give you all the time and space you need."

  "I might, Joe, I might. No promises, though. I'll let you know."

  The line went dead before he had a chance to say anything further. In a way he was grateful. He would have begged; he knew he would have been unable to stop himself from doing so. There was a lot, he thought, he was unable to stop himself from doing.

  The Chicago Tribune for that day was outside the apartment front door. Joe picked it up and brought it in with him.

  It hit him like ice water.

  He expected to see a story about the girl buried somewhere in the back pages. He did not expect the front-page story: slain girl found in lin-coln park, investigation continues. Joe sat down for a moment and closed his eyes. His hands were shaking, making the newspaper in them flutter. He took a long breath that ended in a quaking sigh and made himself stop trembling.

  He scanned the story; certain words and phrases seemed to jump out at him: runaway; evidence of sexual molestation; the victim was found nude; severe blow to the head; several lacerations to the skin with a very sharp, but unknown, instrument, possibly a razor; victim was almost entirely drained of blood. And a final, almost editorial note: ". . . one of the most brutal crimes in recent history, prompting law enforcement officials to redouble their efforts to apprehend the perpetrator of this bizarre slaying. Unconfirmed reports speculate the crime may be tied with several other unsolved local crimes over the past year."

  Joe let the paper drop to the floor. If Anne saw that, he thought, remembering her asking about the X-Acto knife in the bathroom, she could put two and two together and . . . no, she'd never believe he was capable.

  Anne put the test shots back in the manila envelope. It was twilight outside, and Anne stared out her bedroom window at the deep blue of the sky and the trees that stood out in black contrast against it. She followed the pale blue up to where the sky was darker, deepening into purple. She thought of Joe.

  She had always considered the future with him. And now she began to wonder if she really knew him. She thought back to when they were first a couple and had talked so much. But he had evaded her questions about his family, and after the first few times she had stopped asking, thinking he would tell her about them when he was ready. And yet that time had never come. When they were married she pleaded with him to invite some of his family, but he told her they were out of the country ... he wasn't sure where. Without the least attempt to conceal his lie he told her he had lost touch with all of his family and hadn't seen them since high school. She had caught the pain in his eyes, the look of a trapped animal, and had not pressed further.

  Anne lay back down on the bed, her head pounding. She was certain she didn't know Joe now, but wondered if she ever had.

  "Anne?" Phyllis's voice filtered up the back stairs from the kitchen. Anne got up and opened her bedroom door.

  "Yes, Mother. Is dinner ready?"

  "You guessed it. Why don't you come down."

  "I'll be right there."

  "I was wondering if you had plans for the weekend." Phyllis passed Anne the bowl of peas and smiled.

  "I'm not really sure. Why?"

  "Well, you remember Mrs. Carlisle?"

  "Of course, Mother. The two of you have been pals since high school. I've certainly seen enough of her." Anne lifted a bite of lamb chop to her mouth.

  Phyllis laughed. "Well, it turns out she has tickets to this play downtown at the Feldstone called Inappropriate Laughter. Have you heard of it?"

  "Yes, Mother. I hear it's supposed to be pretty good. Funny, anyway. Are you thinking of going with her?"

  "I was thinking we could both go. That is, if you're not busy."

  Anne thought of how much time she had been spending in her room lately, brooding about Joe. "Sure, I'd love to go."

  Phyllis smiled at her daughter as she cut into her second lamb chop. "Pass the mint jelly? Listen, there is one little catch."

  Anne pretended to be unconcerned, but knew what was coming and shifted into an excuse mode to try and get out of the evening.

  "Mrs. Carlisle would like to bring her son, Philip, along. He just completed his Ph.D. at Marquette, and he's home for a few weeks before he starts teaching in the summer at USC. They've given him an associate professorship there. He's really an intellectual, Anne, good to talk to."

  Phyllis and Mrs. Carlisle had been trying to get Anne and Philip together since high school, when they both went to Lake Forest High. Philip was very bright and good-looking in a porcelain sort of way: pale skin, dramatic cheekbones, dark hair, and pale blue eyes. Tall and much too thin, he did complement Anne's looks in a very similar way; he could have been her brother. He had many qualities that appealed to Phyllis: He came from money, he was polite and deferential and a brilliant student. What Phyllis didn't know and what Anne had known since high school was that Philip was gay.

  The fact of Philip's homosexuality had eluded their mothers. Even though he had never dated a woman in his life, Philip was still expected by his parents to find the right woman. "He's just far too busy with his studies," Etta Carlisle reasoned, "to while away his time with women. Once he's established, then he'll be fine. You really must admire his tenacity."

  Anne could think of nothing more pathetic than a separated woman and a gay man being fixed up and accompanied by their mothers on a date. Anne was tempted to tell her mother the truth and have the ridiculous matchmaking come to
an end.

  "On second thought, Mother, maybe I'd better not. I just remembered I promised Louise I would go out with her early on Sunday for some test shots near the lake. I really don't want to be out late."

  "Oh, heavens! We won't be out late at all! We'll have dinner somewhere nice, then we'll go to the play. It'll be over by ten and we can come right home. I'm sure Philip's looking forward to it."

  "I'm sorry, Mother, but I'd really rather not go. But please don't let me stop you. I'm sure the three of you will have a wonderful time."

  "A wonderful time? A nice-looking man like Philip is going to have a 'wonderful time' with two old bags like us? I'm sure he'd love to be out with a beautiful young woman like you."

  Anne had to laugh. "Two old bags? Come on, Mother. Besides, I don't really think I should be dating. Not yet, anyway. No, I think I'll just stay at home." Anne stared down at her plate, pretending to be absorbed in cutting her lamb.

  If she had been looking up at her mother, Anne would have seen her face take on a look of determination, edged with anger. "I've already told Mrs. Carlisle you'd be coming. We made dinner reservations and have already bought the tickets." Phyllis's voice waslobviously under a strain, trying to stay level.

  Anne put her fork down. "Well, you can just unmake the plans for me. You should never have gone ahead and done those things without asking me first."

  "You always were ungrateful."

  Anne sighed. "It's not that I'm not grateful, Mother. I really just don't want to g—"

  "Five minutes ago you said you'd love to go. What's wrong with you?"

  "I don't owe you any excuses." Anne felt her voice rising, in spite of her efforts to keep the conversation on an even keel. "It was insulting to hear you made all those plans without having the courtesy to ask."

  "I would have asked, but you weren't here. I just assumed you'd enjoy an evening out, a chance to take your mind off your troubles. Excuse me for trying to do something nice for you."

  Anne would not let her mother make her feel guilty. "I appreciate the effort, I really do. Please, let's not argue."

  "Who's arguing? Would you please just say you'll come? What will Philip think?"

  "I don't care what Philip thinks! My marriage is falling apart, I don't know who my husband is anymore, and I'm supposed to sit here and worry about hurting some acquaintance's feelings?"

  "Anne, you've always been hard-headed, but never inconsiderate. I don't know what living with that man has done to you, but I'm glad to see you're getting away from him before it's too late."

  The words stung. Phyllis had never liked Joe, but she had never so blatantly condemned him.

  "Joe has nothing to do with this."

  "The case is closed, then?"

  "The case is closed."

  "Fine. I'll just stay home on Saturday night. I suppose I can watch The Golden Girls. It's what I do every Saturday anyway."

  "Enjoy it." Anne picked up her plate and took it into the kitchen. Numbly, she switched the water on and rinsed her plate, glass, and silverware. There was no sound in the dining room. She knew from past experience that if she went back in, Phyllis would be sitting and staring off into space, not outrightly weeping but with silent tears pouring down her face. The tactic had been used many times, with varying degrees of success. Anne was certain she'd have to put her arms around her, say some comforting words, listen as her mother described how hard it had been to raise her daughter alone, how lonely. Anne would placate her with more words, the most comforting of which would be "I'll go with you on Saturday; please don't feel bad." Her mother would turn and ask if she was sure, that she felt like she had railroaded her into it. And Anne would say nothing could be further from the truth, that she should stop moping so much and get out more.

  No, she was not going to live like this. Anne knew that if she stayed she would be berated every weekend. Undoubtedly her mother would try to fix her up on other occasions with Philip, since he would be at home throughout the spring.

  Anne turned and hufried up the back stairs. There was a light feeling in her stomach. She wasn't positive she was doing the right thing. Joe would be overjoyed, even if he wouldn't be staying with her. But she couldn't tolerate living with her mother, couldn't stand her glee if Anne decided to make leaving Joe permanent. And there were practical reasons for going back. Her agent had called early that morning with an armload of assignments. Starting next week she would be very busy, and living in Lake Forest did not make things convenient.

  She flicked on the light in her bedroom and went to the phone.

  Margo kneels on his back, her knees digging brutally into his young shoulder blades. Near his ears, the sharp red nails hold his face down into the green carpeting, the nails digging into the tender flesh behind his ears. All he can smell is the dustiness of the rug. "Daddy's coming," she whispers. "Now you're going to get what I had all these years. Now it's your turn, brat."

  And the footsteps grow louder.

  Joe awakened from the dream, sweating. The phone was ringing, and for a few seconds he didn't know where he was, how old he was, and it scared him. The terror remained with him as he stood on weak legs to answer the telephone.

  "Yes," he breathed into the phone, desperately trying to regain control. He gulped lungfuls of air.

  "Joe, are you okay?"

  Anne's voice, through the phone, comforted him.

  "Yeah, I fell asleep. I must have dozed off."

  "Oh, Joe, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up. Listen, hang up and go back to sleep."

  "No! I mean, I'm fine. It's too early for bed. What is it? Eight o'clock?"

  "A little after. Sure you're okay?"

  "I'm fine, really. What's up?"

  "Well, I think I'd like to take you up on your offer. I'd like to come back."

  "Great! I can't believe it . . ."

  "Now, Joe," she felt guilty. "I mean the whole offer. I still need some time to be by myself, some time to think. So I hope you were serious about giving me that."

  "Of course I was." Joe fingered the phone cord, twisting it around his forefinger again and again. He had hoped she'd be coming back to him. But he'd change her mind. He had to.

  "Good. I don't know how much time I'll need, but I do need it."

  "I understand."

  "I'm glad. Do you know yet where you'll stay?"

  "Um, I'll probably just get a cheap motel room somewhere. Maybe I could stay at the Y."

  "Can we afford that?"

  "Sure. C'mon, the fucking Y?"

  Anne laughed. "All right."

  "When do you think you'll be back?"

  "Well, Mother's not going to like it. Give me a couple days. I don't really have any work in the city until Monday. Maybe Saturday?"

  "Anything you want. I'll make dinner for us."

  "Joe, I'd really rather you didn't . . . Oh, what the hell. Okay, I'll see you on Saturday."

  "Anne, I love you." He whispered the last part into the phone right before the line went dead. He wasn't sure she heard.

  11

  The session had been a real bitch. She hoped the effort was worth it. She had never worked with the photographer before. Ching was a perfectionist, already amassing a following in the galleries, his fashion photographs coming out in the fall in a tabletop book.

  She had been at his studio at eight o'clock that morning. Now, at midnight, she was just pressing her key into the lock of their apartment. As she inserted the key she pressed her forehead against the door and let her body sort of fall into the apartment.

  People who thought models had it easy were crazy. Trying to look perfect for eighteen hours was no easy task, and she hoped she had survived, hoped the film didn't show any of the weariness she was feeling toward the end as Ching urged her, "Lift you chin . . . Higher! Give me that look."

  Anne closed her eyes. The photographs would appear in Chicago magazine this summer. She hoped they'd find their way into one of Ching's shows, or better, one of his books.r />
  The apartment was cold. She had turned down the heat the night before and had forgotten to turn it back up before she left in the morning. Anne shivered, wanting nothing more than to slip into a hot shower and then sleep for hours.

  Anne had been alone in the apartment for a week now. She hadn't really had time to think about Joe and their marriage. They had been in touch over the phone a couple of times. They had played games: he, trying to find ways to come back to the apartment, and she, trying to find out where he was staying. She could not understand why he was being so evasive.

  Unless he was staying with someone she shouldn't know about . . . But then why was he so eager to get back together again? Anne shrugged, heading for the shower. Maybe he's in love with us both.

  Struggling out of her clothes and turning on the water full blast, Anne decided she was too tired to think. Too tired for anything but this hot water.

  The sheets felt cool after the shower. Anne stared up at the cream-colored plaster ceiling, at the delicate pattern of swirls. She remembered the first apartment she and Joe had shared. Rogers Park. A little studio the developers had chopped into a "one bedroom." Joe had painted the ceiling navy blue and studded it with glitter, meaning to imitate the night sky.

  Anne rolled over, pulling the comforter close around her. He had wanted to make love right after the ceiling was painted. "It'll be like being outside," he had said. In order to see the stars, though, some lights had to be left on, and Anne never really felt like she was outdoors. But Joe's gesture had been romantic, and she wondered where the romance had gone.

  Flicking off the lights, Anne closed her eyes and tried to sleep. In spite of her weariness there was no sleep for her. She was wired from the photo session. And she couldn't help wondering if there was another woman. Had Joe been channeling all of his romantic impulses into that relationship?

  She found herself wondering where Joe was right now . . . and what he was doing. Was he with someone else? Had she driven him into the arms of another? What were they doing? Was she telling him how she really loved him and that his wife would be with him now if she loved him?

  Outside, a wind blew up, rattling the glass in the window.