Come Out Tonight

by Richard Laymon

“Antiseptic. Bandages. I don’t want to…get infected.”

  “We’ve got all kinds of stuff,” Pete said.

  “Should we dry you off first?” Jeff asked.

  She shook her head slightly. “No. It’d hurt. I’ll be dry…pretty soon.”

  “Not in this steamy place,” Pete said. “Maybe we should go to a different room.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “If we go outside,” Jeff said, “the sun’ll dry her off. The wind, too.”

  Pete frowned. “I don’t know. Might be better to stay in the house. Somebody might see her back there.”

  “Nobody’s gonna see her.”

  “Probably not, but…”

  “Outside,” Cherry said.

  “Sure,” Pete said. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Yeah.”

  Trying to smile, he could feel his lips trembling. “Want me to carry you out?”

  “Thanks. Don’t want to break you. I’ll—”

  “I’ll carry you,” Jeff offered, his red face grinning. “I’m a strong shrimp.”

  “You’d drop me.”

  “Nah!”

  “I’ll walk. But thanks.”

  “We’ll need to take some stuff out with us,” Pete said. He entered the bathroom, turning sideways to slip past Cherry.

  She turned, too, and stepped backward toward the counter.

  In front of Pete, the bathtub was empty. The string bikini was draped over its faucet handles. He wondered how she’d managed to take it off.

  Probably easier to take it off, he thought, than to put it on.

  He turned toward the medicine cabinet. Its mirror was fogged except near the very bottom. There, the glass had already gone clear. It showed a reflection of his belly and swimming trunks. The trunks, though loose and baggy, jutted out enough to be fairly obvious.

  He wondered if Cherry had noticed.

  How could she not?

  Blushing, he swung the cabinet open. He took out a plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a tin of bandages, and a small box containing packets of Neosporin. He held them in one hand and took down a clear plastic box full of cotton balls. He set the cotton container on the edge of the sink, then reached up for a roll of gauze.

  “Need a hand?” Cherry asked.

  She was leaning back against the counter, her knees bent slightly, her head turned toward him. Her right arm was down at her side, her hand flat against the tile surface. The edge of the counter was pushing into her buttocks. Pete lifted his eyes to her face. “Jeff can help me,” he said.

  “Sure. What do you want? More than happy to oblige, old bean.”

  Cherry, almost smiling, turned her head toward Jeff.

  “Come on over and help me carry some of this stuff.”

  “On my way.” Hurrying past Cherry, he smiled and said, “Excuse me, please.”

  Pete saw the way Jeff’s trunks were sticking out.

  Oh Lordy, he thought, we’ve both got boners. This is insane.

  What’s so insane about it? he asked himself. We’re a couple of horny teenagers and she’s standing around without a stitch of clothes on. And she’s gorgeous.

  Or she would be gorgeous if she weren’t so banged up.

  Shit, she’s gorgeous anyway.

  “Here, take this stuff,” he said. He handed Jeff the container of cotton balls, the roll of gauze, and a dispenser of adhesive tape. “That should do it.”

  “What about scissors?” Jeff asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” He stepped past Jeff and cast a nervous smile at Cherry. “They’re over here.”

  “Am I in the way?” she asked.

  “No. No, huh-huh. You’re fine. They’re just in this drawer here.” He glanced at the drawer. It was below the counter top and dangerously close to the side of Cherry’s right buttock. As he approached it, he tried not to let his gaze stray.

  Still a long stride from the drawer, he halted and bent forward and stretched out his arm. He pulled the drawer open. Though he kept his eyes on it, he couldn’t avoid seeing Cherry’s belly. Still wet, her skin was shiny.

  Don’t look, he told himself.

  I’m not!

  But rummaging through the drawer, keeping his eyes off Cherry, he saw how her pubic hair was matted down, curls clinging to her pink skin.

  He found the scissors and raised them high. “Got ’em!” He shoved the drawer shut.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “All set.”

  She pushed herself away from the counter and turned toward the bathroom door. She had a red crease across her buttocks from the edge of the counter. It looked deeper and darker than the cuts and scratches and scrapes scattered up and down her back and rump and legs.

  As Pete turned, he met Jeff’s eyes.

  Jeff raised his eyebrows.

  Pete scowled and shook his head.

  Hands loaded with first-aid supplies, they followed Cherry into the hallway. Jeff hurried out in front of her. Sidestepping, he smiled and said, “I’ll go first and get the door for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  But Jeff didn’t hurry off to open the door; he stayed a few paces ahead of her. “How you doing?” he asked.

  “Better.”

  A lot better, Pete thought. She limped and held herself stiffly, but she seemed much steadier on her feet than she’d been before her bath.

  After the gloom of the hallway, the living room seemed very bright.

  For the first time, Pete noticed a pattern among the injuries on her back. Hidden like a secret code in the midst of random abrasions and scratches and bruises were ten or twelve long, narrow streaks as if someone had marked her back with a tube of lipstick. But the streaks looked raw and shiny.

  Pete felt his throat tighten.

  “Jeez,” he muttered.

  Cherry’s head turned slightly, but she didn’t look back at him.

  “Somebody whipped you?”

  “What?” Jeff blurted.

  “Looks like she’s been whipped.”

  Jeff, almost at the door, hurried back for a look. He stood by Pete’s side and shook his head. After a few seconds, he muttered, “Shit.”

  “What’d he whip you with, Cherry?”

  Turning around, she glanced from Pete to Jeff and said, “Shhhh.”

  They went silent.

  Did she hear something? Pete wondered.

  He listened carefully.

  “What?” Jeff whispered to her.

  “Shhhh-erry. Not Cherry.”

  “Huh?” Jeff asked.

  “Oh!” Pete blurted. “I get it! Your name’s Sherry!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not Cherry?” Jeff asked.

  “Shhherry,” Pete told him.

  Sherry nodded, almost smiled, the turned away from them and limped toward the glass door.

  “I’ll get it,” Jeff said. He rushed ahead of her, shifted the cotton container to his left hand and slid the door open.

  Sherry stepped outside. Pete and Jeff following her, she limped over the hot concrete to the table.

  “What should we do for you?” Pete asked.

  She shook her head. Then she dragged one of the chairs away from the table. Turning her back to it, she bent her knees, gripped the aluminum arms, and lowered herself gently onto the plastic seat. Perched near its front, she didn’t lean back.

  “Bring the stuff,” she said.

  They came over to her.

  “Start with the…hydrogen peroxide,” she said. “On cotton. Get me…every open wound.”

  We can’t get them all, Pete thought. Not while you’re sitting down. But he decided not to mention it.

  “No problem,” Jeff said.

  “Then Neosporin,” Sherry said.

  “Okay,” Pete said.

  It’s a goo, he suddenly thought. We’ll have to put it on with our fingers!

  “Then…I don’t know. We’ll see about bandages. Some, I guess. Anyway…” She looked from Jeff to Pete. “You guys…y
ou’re so nice.”

  Pete felt himself blush. Again. “We just want to help,” he said.

  “We’re here to serve you,” said Jeff.

  “I know…it’s tough on you. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Pete said.

  “Nothing at all,” Jeff said. “Our pleasure.”

  Pete scowled at him.

  “Well, it is.”

  “I just…don’t let all this…embarrass you. Okay?” said Sherry.

  “Nothing embarrasses Jeff.”

  She met Pete’s eyes. “Don’t you be embarrassed. Okay? It’s okay for you to…you know, see me like this. And touch me. Hell, you haven’t got much choice.”

  He tried to smile. “Not under the circumstances, I guess.”

  “So don’t…worry about it. Or, you know, about being aroused.”

  Pete blushed so fiercely that he wondered if smoke might be rising off his face.

  “It’s okay,” Sherry said. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” he murmured.

  “Ready to go?” she asked.

  “Who gets the front and who gets the back?” Jeff asked.

  Rising to her feet, Sherry said, “Share.”

  Chapter Forty

  After taking a long, hot shower, Toby got dressed and went looking for Sid.

  In the den, the curtains were shut across the glass wall, keeping out most of the daylight. Toby found Sid reclining in the glow of the big screen television, a Bloody Mary in one hand, his eyes on the TV where an oiled, shiny guy was posing on a stage, showing off his enormous muscles in time with the song, “Macho Man.”

  The guy on the TV wore skimpy white bikini pants.

  Sid wore leopard skin.

  Though Toby felt a sickening tightness in his stomach, he asked, “What’re we gonna do about the car?”

  “Fuck off,” Sid told him.

  “But—”

  “I’m busy.”

  “We just gonna leave it there?”

  “Not gonna have my whole day fucked up ’cause of you.”

  “How about if I just borrow your keys? I’ll walk over and get the car and—”

  “The hell you will. Get out of here and leave me alone.”

  “You promised.”

  “I didn’t promise shit.”

  “Sid!”

  “You say one more word, I’m gonna get up and rip you a new asshole.”

  Toby kept his mouth shut and started to walk away.

  “Fuckin’ tub of lard,” Sid muttered.

  Toby felt as if he were crumbling inside. But he kept his mouth shut and left the room.

  He went looking for Dawn.

  This time of the morning, if she hadn’t gone off on an errand, she could usually be found poolside working on her tan.

  Toby entered the living room. The curtains were open, the room full of sunlight. He walked over to the glass door and looked out.

  Dawn was face-down on one of the loungers by the pool.

  Toby eased the door open and stepped outside. He slid it shut with barely a sound, then walked silently toward Dawn.

  She had untied the strings of her bikini top so they wouldn’t leave lines on her back. All she wore was a lime green thong. Sid must’ve spread the suntan oil on her back. Her tawny skin glistened all the way down to her feet. She looked spectacular except for her bruises. They looked like dark smudges on her arm, on the side of her ribcage and on her left buttock.

  Toby crouched down beside her.

  Dawn’s head was turned in his direction. He could only see her right eye, and it was shut.

  “Dawn?” he said quietly.

  The eye opened. “Go away, Toby,” she said, her voice a husky growl as if she were half asleep.

  “Didn’t Sid say he’d go and get duplicate keys made this morning?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t drag me into this. Go away. You’re not supposed to be out here.”

  “It’s my house, too.”

  “Sid catches you out here, he’ll pound us both.”

  “He can go to hell.”

  “You go to hell. Okay?” She raised her head off the mat and scowled at him. “I mean it, Toby. I’m supposed to have my privacy when I’m out here sunning. You know that. He doesn’t want you looking at me. And I don’t, either, frankly.”

  “I’m not hurting anyone,” he said.

  “I’m not here for your benefit. I’m Sid’s gal, not yours. So go on and get out of here.”

  “I thought you liked me.”

  She frowned at him in silence for a few seconds, then said, “You’d better get going before he catches you back here.”

  “He isn’t gonna. He’s watching some muscleman thing on the TV.”

  “I don’t care. Go away.”

  “You’re the one who oughta leave. What do you want to stick around here for when he’s always beating you up?”

  “He isn’t always beating me up. Besides, it’s none of your business.”

  “If you were my girl, I sure wouldn’t hit you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not. So…”

  “I’d treat you right.”

  “Sure you would. But I’d never be your girl, Toby.”

  “Why not?” he asked, cringing inside, crushed by the answer before she’d even spoken it.

  “Look in a mirror sometime,” Dawn said.

  “Real nice,” he muttered.

  “Now will you go away?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Sorry I bothered you.”

  Not saying another word, Dawn sank down onto the mat and shut her eyes.

  “See ya later,” Toby said.

  She didn’t answer.

  Early that morning, Toby had left Sherry’s pistol in the van so he wouldn’t have to walk into the house with it. He’d parked the van on a quiet street a couple of blocks away.

  He didn’t feel like walking that far.

  Besides, he didn’t want to take the risk of neighbors hearing gunshots.

  So he stepped back inside the house just long enough to grab a ring of keys. He took the keys outside, unlocked the side door of the garage, opened the door, and entered. He flipped a light switch. An overhead fluorescent came on, buzzing and filling the garage with bright pale light.

  There were no cars in the two-car garage.

  The day of their parents’ funeral, Sid had banished the Mercedes and Mustang to the driveway. Soon, he’d converted the garage into an exercise room with all the latest muscle-building equipment and a wall of mirrors.

  But he’d allowed the workbench to stay.

  He liked to build things other than his own muscles now and then.

  And he prided himself on his collection of tools.

  Toby saw himself in the mirrors as he made his way toward the workbench. He hated what he saw.

  I’m a tub of lard, all right. No wonder everybody hates me.

  But I can fix myself up, he thought. I’ll have all this stuff to myself, and I can work out every day and pretty soon I’ll look like one of those guys on the TV.

  I’ll do it, too. I’ll look great. All the babes’ll throw themselves at me.

  Sid’s new Black & Decker cordless drill with a twelve volt battery pack was standing upright on top of the workbench. It had a stubby little screwdriver attachment sticking out of its chuck.

  Toby turned the chuck and slipped the screwdriver out.

  He inserted a drill bit that was about a quarter inch in diameter and maybe four inches long. He twisted the chuck tight. Then he tried to wiggle the bit. It felt good and firm. He smiled.

  He set down the power drill.

  Hands trembling, he removed all his clothes.

  A box cutter was hanging from a hook above the back of the workbench. He took it down and thumbed out an inch of razor-sharp blade.

  He set it on the workbench beside the drill.

  In a nearby cupboard, he found several pairs of gardening gloves. Most had belonged to his mother. They would be too small for Toby’s hand
s. But there were larger gloves, too. Gloves that his father sometimes wore when digging holes for new bushes—and that Toby had worn, himself, on several occasions when Dad had ordered him to bury animals.

  You killed it, you sick fuck, you can bury it.

  Sick fuck, Toby thought. Nice thing to call your son.

  “Well, guess who got the last laugh,” he muttered, and pulled on a pair of large, cloth gloves.

  Naked except for the gloves, he picked up the box cutter and the power drill.

  On his way toward the front of the garage, he turned his head and watched himself in the mirrors.

  “Sick fuck in action,” he muttered. Though he smiled, he felt his lips trembling. He seemed to be trembling all over, though none of it showed in the mirrors. He didn’t look nervous at all.

  “Just nuts,” he said, and chuckled.

  When he entered the house, he heard music and voices from the television. On shaky legs, he walked to the den. Before stepping through the entryway, he put his hands behind his back.

  Sid was reclining in the easy chair, the same as before. He still wore his leopard-skin bikini pants and still held a Bloody Mary in one hand. His eyes slid away from the television, settled on Toby, then suddenly grew wide. They darted down Toby’s body, then up to his face.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Sid demanded.

  “Figured you might wanta blow me,” Toby said.

  “WHAT?”

  “Come and get it, honey.”

  “I’m gonna kill your fat ass!” Sid roared. He slammed his glass down on the TV tray beside his chair, leaped to his feet and rushed Toby.

  Toby waited for him.

  He saw a flicker of doubt in his brother’s eyes.

  Must be wondering how come I’m not running away. And maybe wondering what I’ve got behind my back.

  But the doubt only lasted an instant before the rage came back to Sid. The rage and the confidence. Because, after all, what could this repulsive little puke do to him, a wonder of strength and agility?

  Charging and growling, Sid reached out for Toby with both hands.

  Toby swung up the power drill from behind his back and pressed its trigger. The tool whined into action. He put the four-inch bit into Sid’s left eyeball.

  Sid squeaked and crashed into him and took him down backward.

  Toby slammed against the floor, Sid on top of him.

  The drill still in Sid’s eye.

  Toby’s finger still pressing the trigger.