Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

She leaned over and planted her mouth on his and gave him a long tongue-twining kiss. “What, my little Beauty Boy?” she whispered, pulling up.

  He looked at her wide deep gorgeous eyes, her breasts, and the red pubic mesh that crawled toward him like a crab. He thrust himself high into the air and groaned.

  “Would you like to make love to me?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  God! If she dragged that stocking across him one more time he’d explode. “Pleaaaaaaase.”

  She pulled the stocking across the head of his penis, then coiled it around the shaft. His breath caught in his throat as he felt himself about to come. And at just the moment he erupted, she pulled the stocking into a stranglehold.

  He let out a cry of agony as if something inside had ruptured.

  Lila stood over him, her face again the demon. “Dirty girl,” she said, and shot out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

  51

  Steve had that dream again.

  There was no buildup, no foreplay. He was straddling the woman as she lay naked on her bed, her red hair spread under her like brushfire. Digging into his palms were the opposite ends of a black nylon that he pulled with all his might, causing the loop to cut into her neck, making her face swell grotesquely under him, her nose seeming to inflate toward his, her eyes bulging to the popping point, her mouth emitting a high, shrill, jingling sound.

  The PDA ringing from his night table shocked him awake.

  And he said a silent prayer that he was awake. He had begun to hate the thought of going to bed, of risking having that dream again. It made him fear for his own sanity—fear that he was the person in those nightmares. Fear that those dreams weren’t imaginings but memory.

  Through the dark he could make out that the digital clock said 4:24, and his first thought was Dana: something was wrong. He was instantly alert.

  “Hey, Steve,” Captain Reardon said. “Sorry to wake you at this hour, but I’ve got some bad news. Pendergast’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Committed suicide. The guards found him about an hour ago. He tore off the sleeve of his shirt and wrapped it around his neck and the bed frame.”

  “Christ! Where the hell was the guard?”

  “He’d just finished his rounds and must have gone out for a coffee or something. The last time he had checked, he was sound asleep.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “Yeah, a tough break. But it might be his way of confessing without having to face the music and the prospect of life in prison.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know you thought he was the wrong man. But the way I look at it, if he wasn’t capable of rising above the shit, he was in too deep.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “No.”

  “It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Nothing does at four in the morning. But on the bright side, maybe it vindicates Neil and gets us out of the tree.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Unit meeting’s at nine. Go back to sleep, and when you wake up things will make sense.”

  “We can only hope.”

  Part II

  52

  SUMMER 1975

  Becky was right. He had become Lila’s puppy.

  But Becky didn’t know the half of it. Lila in her craziness had twisted mother love into something unrecognizable. Spread over the years she had done it with so gentle a madness that it was as addictive as it was scary. She had romanced him, brought him places he could not imagine. Made him her boy toy. As the years passed, he became certain that it was wrong, that she had betrayed a trust, leaving him confused and ashamed.

  But that night with the stocking had done something to him, put some kind of hex on him. He didn’t think it was medical—a crushed urethra, ruptured organ, something physical. No, that stocking was like a tourniquet around his libido. He could still become aroused by sexual fantasies. But he could not for some time sustain the arousal to achieve pleasure. Lila had ruined that.

  At the same time, she had left him with a dark and impossible longing he could do nothing about. So, he followed her around, hoping she’d snap her fingers and reverse the spell. But that wouldn’t happen. That fancy lace stocking had become a punishing noose that had left him suspended between wanting her and fearing her, loving her and loathing her. At times wishing he were dead. Wishing she were dead.

  Likewise for years she had spoiled all other females for him, making herself his gold standard. As everybody said, she was a classic beauty—a woman blessed with a goddess face. As a boy growing up, he had taken her appearance for granted, never having thought of her as having or not having beauty. Young kids didn’t think in those terms. Not until his teen years did he become aware of Lila’s specialness.

  It was also when he began to suspect that his father was right—that she was crazy. Her mood swings were so violent and unpredictable, her demons so tangible, her suffering so consuming, that he could only guess at whatever abuse she had grown up with. Although his father was never physically hurtful, it was an angry and unfulfilling marriage—and one that had scarred him.

  But there was still hope, and it took form and substance at a wedding.

  It was a big elegant affair held at the Ralph Waldo Emerson Inn in Rockport, Massachusetts. The couple, friends of his father, got married at five in the afternoon under a canopy on a grassy cliff over the ocean. After the ceremony, a full dinner reception was held in the inn’s restaurant.

  He and his parents sat at a large round table that held about a dozen people. Everybody was dressed to the nines. But nobody, including the bride, was a match for Lila, who wore a sleek designer gown made of shiny black and gold markings that made him think of an exotic African cat. Her glazed copper hair was done up in twists and curls that tumbled down the sides of her head, framing her perfectly sculpted features and large sapphire blue eyes. Sporting a modest suntan, she looked like the icon of some goddess found in the tomb of an ancient pharaoh. When she moved, intoxicating eddies of Shalimar trailed her and so did all eyes.

  Sitting on the other side of her was his father, who was maybe six feet tall and twenty pounds overweight. In his closely cropped hair and broad shoulders he was every bit the airline pilot—a guy who had spent four years in the Air Force and flown fighter jets in the Korean War. Dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie, he looked more like Lila’s bodyguard than her husband.

  At the rear of the room was a five-piece ensemble and a female singer. After dinner, the lights dimmed and people began to dance. His father was not a good dancer, and he sat out the slow numbers. But he liked the fast songs and pulled Lila to the floor when one caught his fancy. The problem was that his style was embarrassingly overdone as he flashed his arms and moved big-hippedly. By contrast, Lila moved with feline elegance, looking like a cheetah forced to dance with a rhinoceros.

  But Lila went through the fast numbers with her eyes closed as if doing solos. The slow numbers she just could not sit out, so she danced with some of the husbands at their table. When the band played “Misty,” she asked the groom, who jumped to his feet and moved to the dance floor while the bride and her family hooted them on. Meanwhile Kirk drank his scotch and watched, saying nothing. His mood was hard to read, but he was drinking one scotch after another. Kirk was a bad drunk, so when the waiter came by for refills, he whispered, “Dad, think maybe you’ve had enough?”

  Kirk flashed his son a hot glassy look. “Uh, when I need your advice I’ll ask for it.” And he ordered another scotch and water.

  In spite of him, Lila was feeling particularly expansive. The other day Harry Dobbs had called to say that the casting director of a new Martin Scorsese film had invited her to try out for a speaking part they were shooting in Manhattan. He had seen her in another movie and liked her look. Next week she was to go to New York for the screen test. When she returned from her dance amidst compliments, his father raised his glass. “By the way, folks, Lila’s going
to be in a movie.”

  “She is?” squealed one woman at the table.

  “Kirk, it’s only a screen test.”

  “Yeah, but she’ll get the part, guaranteed.”

  The others leaned forward for Lila to fill them in. “It’s being directed by Martin Scorsese.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said one man. “Didn’t he do Mean Streets?”

  “Yes. With what’s his name—Robert De Niro.”

  “Wow.”

  “I like him. Who else is in it?”

  “Cybill Shepherd, who was in Last Picture Show.”

  “Lila, this is really big-time. Congratulations.”

  “What’s the name of the movie?”

  “Taxi Driver.”

  “Is it a comedy?”

  “Not quite. But, listen, I haven’t got the part yet.” She was clearly embarrassed by the attention.

  “Well, if you ask me,” his father boomed, “she’s a shoo-in. Tell them what the part is.”

  Lila made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “That’s not important.”

  “Well, I’ll tell them. It’s an aging prostitute who mentors a fourteen-year-old. She’s got it hands down.” He snorted a laugh.

  Some of the others began to chuckle but stopped when it was clear that Kirk was on the attack. “Go ahead,” he said to her with glazed wild eyes. “Recite some lines.”

  Lila’s face flamed. “Kirk, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

  “Christ, don’t you start, too.”

  The band began to play “You Are My Destiny” and Lila grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him to the dance floor.

  “But I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Follow me,” she said, and led him into the middle of the couples. He was as tall as she in heels. He put his head against her ear. “Why do you stay with him? He’s such a fucking asshole.”

  She pulled her head back with a look of shock. “Because he’s my husband. And where did you learn such language?”

  “From him,” he snapped. “Please divorce him. He’s ruining your life.”

  “And what would happen to you?”

  “I’d live with you. Really. It could be great.”

  “And how would we live, on your good looks?”

  “No, you’ll be in movies and I could get a job.”

  “You’re talking crazy. You’re not even sixteen. You’re still in school.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Aren’t we getting a little personal?”

  “Do you?”

  She thought that over for a moment. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “You don’t. You shouldn’t. He’s a jerk.”

  “You’re talking about your own father,” she whispered.

  “I don’t care. I hate him.”

  “Maybe we should drop the subject.”

  “He abuses you, insults you in front of others. He’s a goddamn pig of a man.”

  “Calm down and dance, okay?” She squeezed his hand. “And I don’t like you swearing.”

  He didn’t say anything for a while and followed her lead. She was so smooth and supple it was like dancing with someone made of taffy.

  “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you get the part in the movie you won’t even need him anymore.”

  “That’s not going to make me rich.”

  “But it’s a start. And I know you’ll get it because you’re great.”

  “And you’re sweet. No more.” She gently pressed against him as she led him to the music.

  He closed his eyes as the Shalimar filled his head like dreams, and the song lulled him into a dark warm place. He caressed her shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “That’s part of the problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But before she could respond, he felt a sharp stab between his shoulder blades.

  “May I cut in?” His father’s big offensive red face filled his vision.

  “What?”

  “I’m saying I’d like to dance with my wife, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, I mind,” Lila said.

  “Pardon me?” Kirk glared at her as he weaved in place from the alcohol.

  “I’m tired of dancing anyway,” she said, and started to leave when Kirk grabbed her arm.

  “Well, you don’t look it. In fact, you’re making quite a little spectacle of yourselves.”

  “Kirk, you’re stinking drunk.”

  “And you’re a stinking slut.”

  The people around them were stunned in place. Lila snapped away and walked across the room and out the French doors and onto the patio. He shot after her, and Kirk came after them.

  “Get away from me!” she shouted.

  “No, I won’t get away from you.”

  Kirk raised his hand, but the boy grabbed his arm. “Don’t you touch her, you pig.”

  Just then three men burst through the doors laughing and talking loudly. Kirk caught himself and lowered his hand. But the look in his eye told him that were they alone his father would have whaled him. “Pig am I? Well, sonny boy, maybe there’s something you should know about your dear old stepmother.”

  “Kirk! You keep your fat mouth shut.”

  But he disregarded her. “Seems dear little Lila, she was brought up in good ole Southern hillbilly tradition.”

  Lila slapped his chest with the flat of her hand. “Shut up! Shut up!”

  “See, her mother and father didn’t have much of a marriage—”

  “Shut up.”

  But he continued. “She was her daddy’s little princess. A way to get back at dear old Mom, who spent more time in church than she did in bed. Then Lila disappeared for a few months. So did her kid. Let’s see, did that make him your son or your brother?”

  Lila flew at him and grabbed his shirt like a cat. But he clamped his hands on her wrists and bent them painfully until she cried out.

  “Leave her alone.” And he picked up a heavy glass ashtray fashioned after a clamshell, and came down with it to the side of Kirk’s head. But at the last moment Kirk deflected the blow, sending the ashtray flying.

  Lila swung at him, screaming, but Kirk pushed her off him.

  She bolted from the patio. “Nice wholesome family!” he shouted after her.

  “I hate you, Dad. I wish you were dead.” He ran after Lila.

  He found her in the parking lot at the front of the inn. She had found their car and he got in and they drove home, where she got her things and some money and made him pack.

  Then they drove off to a motel where Lila said they would sleep in separate beds. That was fine with him because as he lay in the darkness of their rented room, he knew that evening was a turning point. He didn’t know what the outcome would be, but he knew that they had passed a point of no return: that she could live without his father.

  53

  The Pendergast arrest and suicide was the kind of story the media loved.

  For the next two days the local papers and news shows were all over it like seagulls to garbage: popular college prof suspected in the strangulation murder of stripper student sent to jail where either out of guilt or disgrace he’s found hanged, some commentators noting the symmetry of justice.

  As expected, Pendergast’s family members and friends protested that the police had targeted him for past mistakes and had arrested him on “exaggerated evidence.” They presented him as a popular teacher whom students had invited to their homes, to graduation parties and weddings; a first-rate educator who had done good things in the eyes of the student body and the community, teaching writing workshops in local high schools and visiting book groups in senior centers. A sister threatened a lawsuit against the Boston P.D. for wrongful arrest and criminal neglect in his death, arguing that he should have been given psychological counseling and put on suicide watch.

  Of course, the D.A.’s office expressed reg
rets and offered condolences to the family. However, when asked by a reporter if the case was closed, the D.A. said that at this point in time Mr. Pendergast remained their most likely suspect.

  Steve muted the television in the middle of another rant about a travesty of justice by Pendergast’s lawyer—most of which Steve agreed with. He was in the Queen Anne chair sipping a beer. His eyes had come to rest on the fireplace photo of him and Dana in Jamaica. The jangle of the phone brought him back.

  “What are you doing?” Dana asked.

  “Sitting here thinking about you.”

  “Are you drinking?”

  He couldn’t lie. “I’m having a beer.”

  “Beer?”

  “I’m ramping down. And before you ask, stopping at two, which I read is good for you.”

  “That’s red wine.”

  “Oh, boy! Then after I finish this I’ll have two Merlots.”

  He heard her chuckle. “You don’t need the beer.”

  “It helps me think about you.”

  “Now you’re trying to put a guilt trip on me.”

  “And apparently it’s not working.”

  “The papers are saying that Pendergast’s suicide was tantamount to a confession.”

  “That’s what they’re saying.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I’d like to—”

  Oh, do I ever!

  “—since that would close the case.”

  And get the spike out of my back.

  “But they’re saying that he might have taken his life because he was mortified by the charges and the exposure of his past offenses. Wasn’t he coming off a year’s suspension?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means he was probably already anxious about returning to the classroom in the fall.”

  “I’m sure. Conviction or not, his future wasn’t bright.”

  “Didn’t you say he was on medication?”

  “For depression and anxiety.”

  “Then he was a high-risk candidate for suicide. So why wasn’t he put on suicide watch?”

  “I guess the psychiatrist didn’t think he was a danger to himself.” And then he thought, Because nobody alerted the correctional authorities.