by JoAnn McCaig
Subject: please
Something terrible has happened. please come to me in London as soon as you can. Love, Leland
First essays are due back in a week. Midterm scheduled for Friday. Mom in hospital. Hockey, soccer, dog, kids. Her first response is “Why?” She deletes that and begins to write “Okay but you must tell me — ” She paces. Deletes that too. Her third attempt begins “Okay, I’ll see what I can do — ” but stops there. She paces, makes half a dozen phone calls, then writes and sends:
Reply:
Subject: yes
AC 496 arriving Thurs 19th at 3:14. Love, Jay.
He’s not there, at Heathrow, when she arrives, rumpled and sweaty. Instead, a cheery little man with bad teeth and a grey uniform stands with a cardboard sign that bears her name. The driver takes her bags and shepherds her to a limo idling in a Strictly No Parking zone.
Once in the car, she ventures, “Is Mr. Mackenzie all right?” The driver growls, “A family tragedy, no doubt. At least they’ve kept it out of the papers.” After an hour in traffic, they pull up to a two-storey building on a quiet street; a small discreet sign announces Kensington Suites. Glass doors slide open to admit them. At the front desk, a handsome East African man in a sleek green uniform smiles amiably at her, while an elderly woman in a nightgown unleashes a torrent of Arabic at a porter. But the driver waves at the desk clerk and motions Jay to follow him. “All taken care of, Miss. This way. You’re expected.” He stops before a closed door at the end of the hall and sets down her bag, presses a key into her hand.
“Here? What do I owe?” fumbling for her wallet.
“All taken care of, Miss. Please. You’re expected.”
She shoves the bag into the entranceway, shuts the door behind her. She’s in a darkened corridor. It’s still light outside, but this room, or whatever it is, seems to have every shade drawn tight against the sun. Silence.
“Hello . . . ?”
A shambling, hunched figure looms, lunges at her, making her raise her hands defensively; he encloses her in his arms, this smelly desperate wreck of a man.
“Leland, my god — ”
He has her in a fierce hug, pushing her coat off her shoulders, her handbag skittering onto the parquet floor.
“Leland. Hey. What — okay, it’s all right — ”
He nuzzles her hair and neck hungrily, muttering only, “Thank god thank god thank god,” and then he’s all over her, hands wandering over her butt and up under her shirt. His breath is sour, he smells of whiskey and sleeplessness and he’s got her pinned against the wall now, pushing his hips against her.
“Take it easy. Leland. Holy shit — ”
He is rock hard already, lifting her shirt, fumbling with the bra clasp, his breath ragged and guttural. In that moment, she just decides, no doesn’t even really decide, just reacts, goes along, reaching behind to undo the hooks for him. This is all the encouragement he needs. Her shirt and underwear are peeled off clumsily, then, impatient, he wrestles her onto the floor. She lies partly on the soft Persian runner, partly on the cool hardwood as he grinds himself into her. He’s wild, pumping with a ferocity that feels vicious, but she rides it with him, listening to his gasps of what might be pleasure or just as likely pain. He finishes and falls heavily on top of her, breath coming in sobs, and so still. He’s too heavy. She tries to squirm away, but he won’t withdraw, just shifts his weight a little. He still has not said her name or anything coherent at all. His hair is lank with grease. She seems to be in a suite of some sort — dimly perceived rooms beyond two, no three doors, all in darkness. When he does eventually speak, his voice is strange — harsh and commanding.
“Do you know what has happened?”
“The driver told me a crisis. But what, Leland?”
“Katie. Gone.” He shrinks away inside her and slides out with a juicy sound, shifts to lift himself off her.
She rolls her head back onto the rumpled carpet, closes her eyes. “I am so sorry.”
Then she sits up, reaching to gather her scattered clothes, separating his into a pile. She absently strokes his forehead as she rises and pads off in search of the bathroom.
When she emerges from the fortunately well-stocked shower (her own bag remains unopened near the front door), Leland is gone. He has left a note:
The service for my daughter is at St. Mark’s, North Findley Street, 11 tomorrow. If you are there, somewhere in the back, perhaps I might bear it.
14.
Church of England high mass, censers, interminable droning about resurrection, the family concealed behind a curtain in an anteroom at the front of the church, and in the crowded pews the cultured world pays its respects. Jay has never seen so many designer iterations of black in one place. All she thought to bring was black levis and a 90s blazer with shoulder pads and torn lining. She speaks to no one, though a scruffy, probably uninvited, mourner who sits behind her at the back mutters, “Not done to give full rites to one that done violence to hersel’. Not done! Shame on ’em!”
Complete silence from the family enclosure. Grief, private. Sorrow and shame hidden from view. She has attended funerals that celebrate a life well lived, and also funerals that gaze bleary-eyed and uncomprehending at a life thrown away. Katie’s is certainly the latter.
Leaving the church, a glimpse of the girl’s mother? Of Leland’s current wife? All the women interchangeably sleek and beautiful. Leland expressionless, wan. Someone has cleaned him up at least, washed his hair, put him in a neat dark suit.
She stands on the church steps and watches the line of limos drive off.
She thinks about Katie’s image floating on a screen at the front of the church — a pretty girl, with Leland’s narrow face. Some likeness around the eyes too, but lacking his intense, interested directness and curiosity, the gaze already far away. The photo kindly evaded the jutting bones, the hollow cheeks, but that willful detachment from the real world, she knew it, had seen it in her own sister. The crushing logic of the anorexic, an absolute conviction that self-destruction is the only thing that makes sense. Then again, what woman on the threshold of facing all that womanhood requires could argue otherwise?
15.
She’s on the couch in the sitting room, marking papers by the light of a single lamp when she hears his key.
“Leland.”
It’s more than twenty-four hours after the funeral. There’s no greeting, just that silent menacing shamble toward her. She can smell it on him, just like the day she arrived. “Don’t say it was a lovely service.”
“Okay. I won’t.”
“Don’t say anything.” And he slouches into the little kitchen, which he has thoughtfully stocked for her: prepackaged Sainsbury dinners for the microwave, fresh milk and fruit and bread. A bottle of wine. Without looking at her, he pours himself a glass of single malt. She steps behind him and reaches into the fridge for the wine. She can feel his eyes on her back, sense the lunge and, though she tries to spin out of his grasp, the room’s too small to get past him. The wine bottle drops from her hand but doesn’t break, just spins on the floor, striking her ankle; he grabs her by the shoulders, shoving her into the sitting room, toward the couch.
“Leland, you listen to me, dammit — ”
He pushes her over the armrest and she falls onto her back, but rolls off before he can pin her. She scrambles to her feet, and stands, poised, with the easy chair between them. She’s sober, and he’s far from it.
“I will not let you . . . rape me again. Do you hear?”
He stops at this, then swings himself with feline laziness to a sitting position on the couch, regards her with a blandly cruel smile: “Odd word to use. You seemed to like it well enough two days ago.”
“For god’s sake, you used me!”
“‘Like’ isn’t the right word, now that I think about it. You loved it. Or was that somebody else moaning like a hot bitch?” and he springs off the couch at her, but stumbles over the table. “Shit!”
She dodges. “I am not some . . . receptacle.”
This stops him. His face twists, an ugly parody: “Oh I see.”
Jay stands speechless, staring at this unrecognizable creature.
He goes on, raging, “That’s how it’s done out where you live, is it? What does Oprah recommend? So what we’ll do now is hold hands and I’ll share my feelings and then we’ll both have a nice little cry and feel so much better? Look, Jay, I don’t want to talk to you. I want to fuck you. Do you have any questions about that? I mean, if you weren’t so bloody stupid you’d have figured out all by yourself that there is absolutely not one word to say in this matter that’ll make the slightest bit of difference.”
She is terrified, reeling. “You’re a writer, asshole! Well, aren’t you? So find the words. Don’t be such a fucking coward.” She can hardly hear her own voice for the panic rising in her chest.
He comes at her, slamming his hand on the easy chair, making it spin crazily, then just as suddenly storms back to the kitchen. She hears the glass, the ice cubes, the whiskey gulping from the neck of the bottle into the tumbler.
“I’m — ” she begins. Too faint, too shaky. “I’m a writer too, you know. It’s terrible beyond words, what’s happened, but you have to say it anyway. You know that, don’t you?”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“You’re right.”
16.
Leland sways slightly as he refills his glass. He can hear her in the next room, importantly shuffling papers, denying him, insisting she knows what he needs. She doesn’t. What he needs right now, the only thing that will do, is a piece of ass. And because he loves her more than he’s ever loved any woman, he wants it from her. And because, he knows, she loves him more than she ever thought she could love a man, she’s going to give him what he needs. Bed posts, yes, at the head of the bed, thank god.
He swallows the whiskey, then pours another and leaves the kitchenette. She glances up at him, her hopeful little face, but he brushes past, into the bedroom, and closes the door behind him. She’s not the type for scarves, damn. Well, there’s his tie, and . . . what else? His belt? Not flexible enough. Think, think: one more, no, two. His tie and . . . her flannel shirt, that could work and . . . oh, scissors. He bolts back into the living room, noisily opening the desk drawer, and yes, this is a class establishment, the whole array of office supplies thoughtfully provided. She is pretending to mark papers, ignoring him, but he conceals the scissors in his waistband anyway, and returns to the bedroom. He rummages in the dresser drawers: bras, no — ah, the knickers. Feverish now, he fingers through them, selecting a pair of soft cotton, black. He stuffs these into his back pocket, the scissors into the other. The flannel shirt will work just okay, a little awkward, and there’s the tie — no wait, save the tie! His trench, her trench! Delighted with himself, he dashes into the hallway. Their two trench coats hang on the rack at the entrance to the suite. The belts are sturdy but soft. Perfect. He secures his navy belt to the left bedpost and her beige one to the right. The scissors — maybe he should leave those on the dresser for now, concealed under something, because what if she grabs them out of his pocket? Yes. Tie in one back pocket, knickers in the other. He’s nearly ready. He tries the bedcovers turned down, but then changes his mind and remakes the bed neatly, adjusting the pillows at a comfortable angle.
Leland is excited and happy and utterly absorbed. He takes another sip of his whiskey. Now: getting her into the room. He sips for a while, then goes into the bathroom, comes back out for her empty suitcase. Then stands in the bathroom, grins at himself in the mirror, and throws the suitcase against the toilet. The result is better than he could have hoped. The ceramic lid crashes (but does not break — good luck, that), the towel rack above it rips from the wall and clatters to the tile floor and the thud of the suitcase sounds exactly like a body. He is so pleased he very nearly forgets to shout.
“Uh! oh . . . God. Unnh!”
“Leland? Are you okay?” She’s coming. “Le — ”
And he’s on her, from behind the bathroom door. As she struggles in his arms, it occurs to him that he probably should have thought this through a bit more. He’s just strong enough to pin her arms, but she’s yelling and he doesn’t have a free hand to cover her mouth. She’s kicking too. Christ, she’s going to fracture his shins. And when he tries to cover her mouth, her free arm flails at his face, pulls his hair. Oh hell, let her scream, it’s only another moment. He focuses on just getting her down, that’ll help, and encloses her upper body in a tight squeeze, hoisting her feet off the floor and dragging her over to the bed, falling on top of her. It’s better like this, he can use his legs to stop the damn kicking. She’s still yelling, though; someone might come to the door if he doesn’t do something, fast. She’s face down, head turned to one side, he’s stretched out full length on top of her. He grabs the black underpants, wads them up and, letting her arm go (she can’t do much face down anyhow), stuffs her mouth. Her outrage is cartoonish, but he manages to grab her hand back before she can rip the gag out.
He’s already tired, and there’s still so much to do. So he rests a moment, stretched out full length on her back. The squirming begins to feel quite pleasant; he’s getting hard. He presses against her to let her know and makes a grateful, pleased sound in her ear — which makes her lie still immediately.
God, how he loves this woman.
Turning her over is a challenge. He hops up onto hands and knees, flips her and then falls on her again, but her knee connects with his crotch, and she lands a surprisingly good punch to the side of his head, which slows him for a few seconds. But he has a bigger problem. He didn’t think to make the loops ready on the end of the belts. Fuck! That’s the attraction of handcuffs, one snap and you’re done. During the course of these manoeuvres he actually considers trotting down to the nearest naughty shop for supplies, but then dismisses the idea. Too calculated, too tacky. This project must be . . . organic is the best word he can think of at the moment.
So. He’ll need two hands for the belts; how, in god’s name . . . ? He pins her arms with his knees and when she bucks, he rides her. And she can’t kick from this position either, though she tries.
The first arm, the right, is the hardest of course. It takes him a good five minutes of the most wonderful struggle; she pushes the gag out with her tongue, twice, but he gets it back in quickly each time. The nails of her left hand draw blood from his face, and it’s so hard to get the bloody knot tied when she won’t keep still. He finally has to stretch out full length again, which leaves her left arm free to do its worst and he has to deflect the eye-gouges with his elbow — once, twice, yes, God how she fights — and he pushes her left arm out of his face with a chuckle of the most glorious triumph.
He rests only a few moments before securing the left wrist. Much easier. She seems to be giving up: no more muffled shrieks. Her body goes limp, she has tears in her eyes. He slides down her, holding her still between his thighs. He reaches for her face, gently removing the glasses and setting them on the bedside table, lenses up, of course. Earrings off, watch too. She’s nearly pushed the knickers out again — oh no, he forgot the tie but finds it now, turns her head to the side, snugs the striped silk against the freshly wadded black cotton, gently lifting her hair from the back of her head so as not to pull it when he ties the knot.
There. What else? The tears. He brushes them away with a gentle finger, leans close and whispers, “Don’t be afraid of me, I promise I won’t hurt you.”
He has to hop off quickly, just in case she tries another kick. Takes a long slow drink, decides on a refill and a trip to the loo. He can take his time, now.
Leland regards himself in the bathroom mirror as he washes his hands, gives himself a smile. He is startled at how happy he feels at this moment.
Returning to the bedroom, he leaps at her from the side, hops onto her, pinning her between his legs and, humming, removes the scissors from his back pocket. He
r whole body lurches in terror, her eyes widen; she tries to squirm away but he places a hand on the centre of her chest, commands, “Lie still.” Then, with exaggerated care, lifts her T-shirt six inches off her belly and carefully snips the fabric from the bottom, as if there were an invisible line drawn up the middle of the garment. He gently opens the halves and folds them back. She’s wearing a black bra. He’s so pleased. He protects her neck with one hand while snipping the cotton jersey from neckline through sleeve — left, then right. Reaches underneath to lift her up from the bed, sliding the mangled T-shirt out from under her and tossing it on the floor. He knows she’s watching his every move, but he isn’t interested in her eyes, right now. The bra next: straps first, or . . . ? Like a giddy kid, he can’t wait; a gentle hand on the solar plexus, a snip between the cups and her breasts are revealed. A snip for each satiny strap. He is very, very hard now. He’s going to have to slow down here. Gets up, goes to the dresser, has a deep long drink. Glances over at the bed. She’s motionless, acquiescent? Maybe, but probably not quite yet.
Back in position, on her hips. Fly button, zipper, delicious. Massages her hips and arse with strong sure fingers. Tugs gently, stroking the pants right off her, oh hell, might as well take the knickers at the same time, slide them down to her feet.
He contemplates what he has wrought. Leaving one arm on her thighs, he runs a finger between her legs — oh yes, good. He’s ready too. He stands at the foot of the bed and looks into her eyes. He says, softly, “Right, I want to do things to you now. But first you need to say yes.”
A small shudder runs through Jay’s body. She nods her head.
