by Gary Braver
“Do I have to?”
She gave him a hard look. “Yes, you have to.” Then she softened. “It’ll only take a minute.”
She leaned forward so he could get at her back. Reluctantly he took the sponge, a large fat yellow thing, and he began to rub it across her shoulders and upper back.
“That’s not so bad now, is it?”
“It’s okay.”
“That’s my little Beauty Boy.”
He wanted to tell her to stop calling him that, but she’d probably get mad. Except for some freckles on her shoulders, her skin was milky white.
She held out one arm for him to sponge.
“You said just your back.”
“Well, since you’re at it.” She flashed him a smile.
Because she was being nice he didn’t mind, but he was still anxious to leave. When he finished her right arm, she held out her left. A shiny puckered circle he never noticed before sat on the inside of her arm. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing.”
“No, really.”
“Just a little scar that never faded.”
“What from?”
“You don’t want to know.”
It was a phrase she’d use to tantalize him, knowing that she couldn’t hold back.
“Tell me.”
She hesitated for a moment. “If you really want to know, it’s from my daddy. He burned me with a cigarette. He wanted to give me a sample of what the fires of hell are like.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“What did you do?”
“I was dirty.”
That awful word again. He said nothing. He didn’t want to know. She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “It’s not important.”
He pondered what she might have done to drive her daddy to do that, trying to imagine the man in the photograph on her shelf actually clamping her arm with his fist, then taking a lit cigarette out of his mouth and putting it against her flesh while she screamed. “Did it hurt?”
“What do you think?” Then her face brightened. “Hey, did I ever tell you that when I was about your age I was voted prettiest girl in my junior high school class?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Well, I was. And we had a pretty big school in Macon and some stiff competition, ’cause Southern gals are grown real cute. But you know what my daddy said? He said that I’d better grow some titties or the boys wouldn’t take me seriously.” Suddenly she raised her body out of the suds so that her breasts were fully exposed. “You think these can be taken seriously?”
For a stunned moment he just gaped at her large white breasts with two ripe nipples poking up at him like some kind of animal with big pink noses.
“Well?”
He tried to respond but only grunted and looked away.
“Well, there was a time when your father thought so.”
He dropped the sponge into the suds and started out. But she caught him by the wrist. “Not so fast, Buster.”
“What?”
“You’re not finished.” She had that hot flushed look again.
“What?”
“Wash me.”
“What?”
“Wash my titties.”
“No, Mom. Please.”
In a sharp low voice that sounded as if it rose from somewhere else, she spit out the syllables with menacing insistence. “Do as I say. Wash them.”
“No, I can’t.”
She gripped his wrist. Her eyes were like bulging dark marbles. “I’m your mother.” And she thrust her breasts toward him.
His insides clutched. She was crazy again and there was nothing he could do about it or she’d get mad and turn to stone. So he took the sponge and made a quick dash across the top of her chest just under her neck.
“You’re not washing my car.”
She took his hand and showed him what she wanted—to rub the sponge across her nipples in slow deliberate circles.
“That’s better. Now show me you can do it properly yourself.”
He began to do what she wanted. But after another moment, she said she didn’t like him standing over her, that she wanted him on his knees. So he got down on the bathroom rug.
“That’s it. Nice and slow. Just like that.”
As he sponged her, he felt confused and scared. She liked what he was doing, lying back against the wall, making soft moans. But did other kids wash their mom’s breasts? He didn’t think so. At least it wasn’t something they’d talk about. But she had told him to do it, said it was all right; and since his dad was never around, she made the rules.
“You like doing this?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
He didn’t answer.
“What’s the matter?”
“I have to go.”
“You’re crying. What’s the problem?”
For a long moment he could not get the words out as tears flooded his eyes.
“Tell me.”
“I-I don’t want to make you naughty.”
Her face froze. “What?”
“I don’t want to make you dirty. I don’t want Jesus to be mad at you.”
His words hit a nerve, and for a moment her face flickered with expressions as if she were trying to decide the punishment. But she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He could see her struggling. When she opened them again, she looked at him directly, as if staring through all the shifting rubble of her mind and into his wounded soul. “Then, you’d better leave.” She let go of his wrist.
Without a word he turned and left the room.
Later that evening, she and his father returned. He heard them come in, heard her heels on the stairs and landing like small hammers in the still of the night. Moments later the wall thumped rhythmically. Then the sounds of her gasping. At first, he was terrified that something was wrong, that maybe his father was hurting her. But then he heard her muffled giggling.
When he was older, he would look back to that night—and to others that followed—only to realize that those sounds, which had sent seismic pulses through his brain, had been meant for him. Lila’s sex sounds were for him, not herself or Dad. For him: she was getting back.
39
That Saturday afternoon, Lanie Walker drove Dana to Dr. Monks’s clinic for her upper lid lift. The rhinoplasty would be scheduled at another time.
As instructed, she had nothing to eat or drink for six hours, and she felt some heightened anxiety as they rode to the clinic. Lanie prattled on as was her way, saying how the procedure was a piece of cake, like going to the dentist, and that it would be over before she knew it. Dana knew all that, and although it was irrational, she wished Steve were taking her. In spite of their difficulties, he had for so long been her source of comfort and support that she felt vulnerable. She also wished she had told him it was more than Botox she was getting.
Lanie accompanied her up to the suite. The receptionist and other staffers all said how great Lanie looked. When Dr. Monks came out they embraced. “Now you take good care of her.”
He smiled and promised he would. Before she left, she gave her cell phone number to Ms. Madlansacay to call when Dana was ready to be taken home.
Dana was taken into the prep room where Dr. Monks and the nurse practitioner explained the procedure. The operation would take less than an hour. They would do the upper eyelids first, then the Botox injections. Because she was young and healthy and the surgery was minor, they would not need an anesthesiologist. Dr. Monks would administer the local anesthetic himself.
“We’d like you to strip down to your underpants and put on a gown,” he said.
She nodded, but for some reason, that innocent doctor-patient statement rendered a slight self-consciousness. Maybe it was the way he looked at her or her awareness of how the green scrubs made his eyes blaze like gemstones.
“Maureen will set up an IV in your arm for Versed. That will put you in sedation.”
“So I’ll still be awake.”
“Yes, but in a twilight state—in fact, it’s quite pleasant and you won’t feel any discomfort. You also won’t remember any of the operation.”
She was not so concerned with discomfort as much as her own possible reaction. In her research she had read that while Versed created a pain-free state, it also lowered inhibitions. “Am I going to say a lot of dumb things that I’ll be embarrassed about later?”
He smiled with amusement. “I doubt it, Mrs. Markarian. It’s not a truth serum.”
She had imagined those comforting social barriers in the fore of her brain all but dissolving as she blurted out that she hoped he wasn’t gay or asked him if he ever got romantically involved with his patients.
He explained the procedure, patting her arm. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
When he and the nurse left, she undressed. Maybe it was her changing mind-set—her emerging “new self”—but she wondered what he was like behind the scrubs and professional sheen. What he was like as a man. She tried to imagine him being loose and casual, laughing with friends, banging his fists in frustration, making love. As she got ready, she wondered if maybe she was no different from all those other women who developed crushes on their cosmetic surgeons.
A few minutes later the nurse returned to take her blood pressure and insert the IV needle intake. She was then led across the hall to the operating room where Dr. Monks was getting ready.
“How you doing?” he asked as he slipped on his surgical gloves.
“I’m doing fine.”
“Good. A week from now you’ll be nearly healed and glowing with even more youth than you already radiate.”
The nurse slipped under her a grounding pad for the electrical coagulator. She then put on a blood pressure cuff and hooked her up to a heart monitor. When it was set in place, Dr. Monks repeated, “It’ll be over before you know it. All set?”
“Yes.” Remarkably she felt none of the anxiety she had brought with her. In fact, she glanced at the blips on the monitor, certain that her heart rate was not even elevated.
Dr. Monks’s smiling face filled her vision. In spite of the rough skin, it was a kind, serene, almost genderless face that reminded her of saints in Italian Renaissance paintings.
With a syringe he administered the sedative into the IV and patted her arm again. The nurse then pulled back her hair and put a paper hair net on her head. She washed her face with an antiseptic solution, patted it dry, then put on a drape so that only her face was exposed.
In a moment, Dana felt the sedative flood her brain and thicken, leaving her with a delicious drowsiness.
She heard Dr. Monks ask, “How you doing?”
And she heard herself respond, feeling her lips and tongue move, sensing the words as they dribbled out of her mouth. Although she thought she was in control and making sense, like a delayed echo the last thing she heard was her own voice: “I hope you like me.”
She closed her eyes and never saw his hand inject her with the Xylocaine and Epinephrine anesthetic. Nor did she feel the cut of the surgical knife nor hear the buzz of the coagulator as it cauterized the line of blood vessels as he removed the excess skin and small subcutaneous gobs of fat. Nor did she feel the tug of the stitches as they closed her up.
What she did recall was waking up in a recliner chair in the recovery room and feeling a tightness across her upper face and bleary vision. And Dr. Monks saying, “You did great.” And the touch of his hand on hers.
40
HAWTHORNE ENGLISH PROFESSOR ARRESTED IN THE MURDER OF STRIPPER
Hawthorne State College English Professor Earl Pendergast was arrested for the murder of Terry Farina, a personal trainer and part-time exotic dancer from Jamaica Plain. According to Boston District Attorney Carol Dean, Pendergast, fifty-one, had been a person of interest in the case from the beginning and had been brought in for questioning after police discovered that he had dated Farina.
Investigators began to make a connection when they discovered sexually explicit documents on the college-owned desktop computer used by Pendergast in his English Department office. Police described the material as a variety of “porn images” as well as promotional photos of the Mermaid Lounge in Revere, Massachusetts, where Farina was an exotic dancer.
Pendergast vigorously denies killing the woman. According to Alden Goodfellow, Pendergast’s attorney, his client was at home when Farina was apparently murdered.
Pendergast has a record of three misdemeanors as well as an arrest in New Hampshire for lewd conduct involving a female seventeen years of age.
Farina’s naked body was found in her bedroom on June 3. Police are not saying how she was murdered. She was last seen at the club two days before her death talking to Pendergast.
It was early evening, and Steve was parked in front of the Northeastern quadrangle, across the avenue from Conor Larkins.
Do it, he told himself. Call Jackie, cancel the appointment, drive to headquarters, and tell Reardon what you know about you and Terry on the day she was killed. It’s the only decent thing to do. Get Pendergast the hell off the hook. Get Neil off the hook. Get Reardon off the hook. Get everybody off the friggin’ hook.
Dana, too. ( Sorry, baby.)
For too long he had kept alive the illusion that he and Dana would put the pieces back together again, that he’d find a center and reinvent himself as the family man….
Reinvent yourself. Such romantic bullshit. Can’t do that except on the outside. And just below the skin you are what you are. Always were. “The child is the father of man.” He had never known how brutally true that Wordsworth line was.
Do it. Call her and cancel. Put the car in gear and drive down the street and end this.
Another voice cut in: Do that and consider that this is the last day of the life you used to live. That your life as an ordinary man and cop is over. And the rest, just miserable details—investigation, arrest, arraignment, trial, and, if found guilty, incarceration until your death.
On some deep level that possibility seemed to have a sublime inevitability. He fingered his PDA.
But you still don’t know that it’s you. What about the stockings? Everything else lines up but the murder weapon.
Don’t know. They could have been hers. She had a hundred pairs.
Besides, Jackie had spent the night poring through the files, watching the video. He couldn’t cancel now. He got out of the car, thinking, What a feeble excuse.
Because it was nearly seven P.M. on Sunday, the Northeastern campus was dead. He cut across Huntington to the quad and made his way to Churchill Hall and up to the fourth floor to the College of Criminal Justice where Jackie was waiting for him in her office.
“You look like you could use some java,” she said. She nodded him to a coffee machine where he poured himself a cup. Her office was lined with journals and books. She was at her desk with a small pair of reading glasses that sat on her face like a toy. The Farina file lay open before her. Also a copy of that day’s Boston Globe.
“I take it you read about the arrest.”
“And the file, the M.E.’s report, the C.S.S. report, the student blogs, and evaluations. I also watched the entire interrogation.” She peered over her glasses at him. “And that dinner will be at Tour d’Argent in Paris.”
Steve smiled. “I’ll check our consultation budget.”
“In that case, Wendy’s in Saugus.” Fanned out in front of her were crime scene photographs of Farina, including close-ups of the stocking ligature.
“So what do you think?”
“No news flash, but there was considerable rage in this killing. The speed and force to knock her out before she could resist suggest the attack was explosive, committed by someone quick, strong, and determined.”
Steve nodded, and felt his forehead begin to bead with sweat.
“But if, as you speculate, he brought the stockings with the intention of killing, he’s someone who planned his moves and
charmed his victim.”
“Do you see that in Earl Pendergast?”
“Well, on the surface he’s the quintessential womanizer—smooth, articulate, and handsome. He’s probably adept at faking romance and presenting himself as every female’s dream. He’s got an eye for beautiful women and cruises strip clubs, escort services, and porn sites. While that suggests a man out to score as many as possible, I think one of his students says it best: Professor Pendergast just ‘wants to be loved.’ My guess is that he’s got insecurities big-time—that he still feels vulnerable and isn’t able to trust others. Isn’t able to commit to anyone.”
That rat uncurled in Steve’s gut again.
“Possibly he suffered some form of abuse as a child and/or abandonment.”
“Enough to make him snap and kill a woman?” Steve asked.
“Possibly. He seems threatened by women, perhaps in fear that they may assert power over him, discover his weaknesses then drop him. Maybe Terry Farina had a special hold on him and they had more of a relationship than reported. Maybe she announced it was over and he lost it.”
Steve’s throat was suddenly so dry he downed half the coffee. “He said he was searching for the right woman to fill a void. Doesn’t sound like someone bent on killing women who don’t measure up.”
“No,” Jackie said. “It sounds more like someone who’s in constant search for an ideal soul mate who’s forever out of reach.”
“Like his first love.”
“Or his mother.”
The rat took a nip at something.
“Of course, he could be lying to get pity from the interrogating officer. From what I’ve read, he’s got a history of prefabrication. But what I see is a man who feels bad about himself. The guy who killed Terry Farina feels bad about women. It’s not clear why—maybe to punish them for something. He’s also a person who craves control and authority, suggested by how he made his way into the bedroom, killed her, then staged a suicide without a trace.”
“You said punish her.”
“For being sexy, for turning him on, for not turning him on, for reminding him of his mother, his old girlfriend—”
