Sacrifice

by Edward Lee

  A sudden despair settled on Holly, like polluted air. She admired Alice’s easy resolve—it was wonderful— but it made her contemplate her own self at the same moment. And what was there to contemplate? The image of herself standing there, half drunk already, with a drink in her hand…

  She’s becoming everything I’ve tried to help her learn to be, Holly realized. And I’m becoming…just the opposite—

  The doorbell rang, severing the rest of the thought. Alice gave money to an Asian boy, then brought in two large Styrofoam boxes and set them down on the kitchen table. “Let me give you something for mine,” Holly offered, thinking of it too late.

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Holly. Just sit down and eat.”

  Takeout sushi, Holly thought. She almost flubbed sitting down at the table, the chair leg smacking her ankle. Straighten up, you ass!

  “Oh, this looks so good,” Alice said, beaming over her open box.

  Alice seemed to have an assortment of raw fish sitting in piles. Holly had an assortment of raw fish sitting on piles of rice. “This looks… interesting,” Holly said, fumbling with her chopsticks. The first piece was a slab of maroon fish on a lump of rice, and it tasted pretty good. It was just that the food looked so unusual, and then there was always the stigma attached: raw fish. “I didn’t realize you were so adventurous,” Holly said, plucking up the next piece.

  “Oh, I love this stuff. I tried it for the first time very recently, and now I’m hooked.” Alice, much more skillful with her chopsticks, tweezed each piece of fish, dipped it into soy sauce, and ate it. “Try the octopus. It’s the piece right there with the red skin.”

  Octopus, Holly thought. Jesus. She could even see the little suction cups on it. She took a big hit on her drink, concluded, What the hell, and put it in her mouth. It was kind of…rubbery.

  “I read somewhere that it’s good for the sex drive.” Alice laughed. “Like oysters, I guess.”

  That’s just what I need, Holly thought, sitting here with a woman I’m in love with.

  Alice chatted about this and that. Holly would’ve listened more attentively if it weren’t for her encroaching inebriation; it fuzzed the world out to an edgy texture, made Alice’s words sound grainy and far away. If Holly could focus on anything at all, it was the tiny glimpse of Alice’s bare right breast, which was visible in a gap in the loose blouse. Alice chattered on, completely unaware that it was showing, as she lifted her sashimi with her chopstick, and again this reminded Holly of Matt the voyeur, peeking at naked flesh without the flesh-owner’s knowledge. I’m a pervert, Holly thought, and then, even more dreadfully, I’m shitfaced. She tried to smile and nod, to at least act as though she was listening—Alice seemed to be talking about further refurbishments to the watch house, inquiring as to Holly’s opinion, chatter, chatter, chatter. Any other time Holly would’ve been delighted with such a conversation; now, though, she had to devote all her attention to the task of merely appearing normal. She was failing.

  “Holly? Are you all right?”

  Holly, now, felt as if she were sitting on the fantail of a large ship, and the ship was on rough seas, pitching. Some impulse caused her to grit her teeth hard, saliva welling in her mouth, and an undeniable nausea began to rise.

  “Holly?”

  “I—oh,” Holly said, gulping.

  “You look white as a sheet all of a sudden.”

  “I’m fine; I—” That large ship she was on rose up on a swell, then plummeted. Her stomach flinched. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, and teetered to her feet.

  Alice rushed to help guide her to the bathroom. Holly’s knees thudded to the floor, and at once her head was in the bowl. What had they called this in college? Worshipping at the porcelain altar? Driving the porcelain bus? Well, Holly began driving that bus hard, the gas pedal to the floor, vomiting in little erps as her hands gripped the rim. Humiliation, disgust, and disgrace all piled up on her at the same time.

  “You poor thing,” Alice consoled, kneeling by her side. She gently put her arm around Holly’s back, gripping her, and when Holly was finally done Alice cautiously helped her to her feet.

  “I’m so sorry. I guess the sushi was spoiled.”

  “It wasn’t the sushi.” Holly glimpsed her own face in the bathroom mirror: washed out, pasty as raw dough. She groaned at the sight. “I drank too much.”

  “But you only had one drink.”

  Holly gulped bile; her mouth tasted awful. “I had…a few earlier.”

  Alice withheld further comment, her lips pursed. She ran warm water from the faucet, dampened a towel, then wiped off Holly’s mouth.

  Holly wobbled in place, frowning against the remaining acid taste. “God, I feel like such an idiot.”

  “Don’t worry about—” Alice paused, then exclaimed, “Oh, no, look at what you’ve done!”

  “What?”

  “You’ve gotten it on your dress!”

  Holly felt so awful now, she didn’t really care, but she did groan again when she noticed the streak of vomit decorating the scalloped fuchsia material at the bust line.

  Then, suddenly, Alice was unbuttoning the dress from behind. “Take it off quick; if I get it into the washer right away, it might not stain.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Holly said, still fighting her imbalance. She’d made enough of an inconvenience of herself. “I’ll soak it when I get home.”

  “Holly, there’s no way in the world that you’re driving home. You’re drunk. Now get out of that dress and maybe I can save it.”

  “But I’m, I’m—”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m not wearing a bra.”

  Alice laughed. “We’re both girls, you know. And don’t worry; I have seen breasts before. I see my own quite regularly. Now stop making excuses, otherwise this beautiful dress will be ruined.”

  Holly resigned herself to this, knowing full well that if she drove home in this state, she probably wouldn’t make it to West Street before winding up in someone’s front yard. Cumbersomely, then, she struggled out of the dress while Alice assisted her. Alice was giggling.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.” Alice giggled again. “I can’t believe how wasted you are.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  “Well,” Alice was polite enough to rephrase, “everybody gets drunk now and then.”

  “I have a—” A burp interrupted the sentence. “I have a confession to make. I, uh, I drank some of your Scotch when you were taking a shower. And I filled the bottle back up with water.”

  Alice nearly wailed with laughter. “I’ll be right back. Just stand here and don’t go anywhere.”

  Holly gulped again, and nodded, as Alice scurried away with the dress. You really know how to screw up, don’t you? she asked herself. She felt ridiculous, leaning against the sink in her panties, braless to boot, not even able to stand up straight. All the drinks she’d had today, even after so promptly emptying her stomach, were continuing to sneak up on her now, rekindling the earlier headache tenfold. She couldn’t think of a time when she’d been so imprudent. Her secret feelings for Alice were bad enough—a complete violation of professional demeanor—and now this. Snitching her patient’s booze, getting drunk at her patient’s dinner table, upchucking in her patient’s toilet, for God’s sake. She morosely lifted her head again, and dared to take another look at herself in the mirror. Good God, Holly, she thought. Her disgust with herself reached new a pinnacle, and her drunkenness made her feel entirely unattractive. Her breasts looked pallid, her eyes sunken, her skin sickly in its pallor and cold sweat. Yeah, I’m wasted, all right, she agreed.

  “Here, put this on,” Alice said when she returned. She’d brought the same terry robe she’d been wearing earlier. Holly awkwardly slipped it on; then Alice was patting her face again with the damp cloth.

  “Alice, I’m really sorry about this. I don’t know what came over me, drinking so much. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my lif
e.”

  “Shhh!” Alice replied. “Don’t be silly.” Then she was leading Holly out of the bathroom, her arm around Holly’s waist to prevent her from stumbling.

  “You need to go to sleep,” Alice said. “Sleep it off, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “I’ll just lie down for an hour—”

  “No you won’t,” Alice insisted. “You’re staying here tonight, whether you like it or not. Now get in bed, and I don’t want to hear anymore about it.”

  Holly stretched out on the bed in Alice’s guest room. Stupidly, Holly began, “Let me—” But then she cut herself off, thank God. She came very close, in her stupor, to saying Let me sleep in your bed. With you. But once she finally got off her feet, she felt calm, safe. Alice placed a bag-lined wicker wastebasket by the bed. “I’ll leave this in case you get sick again and can’t make it to the bathroom.”

  “Thank you,” Holly peeped.

  “And if you need anything, just come and get me. I’m not going anywhere tonight, so if I’m not in my bedroom, just look around and call out for me.”

  “Thank you,” Holly repeated. Her head was still reeling, but she felt a lot better, or at least she felt better than one would expect in these circumstances. “And, again, I’m really sorry about all this trouble I’ve put you thr—”

  “Shhh! Go to sleep!”

  Alice retreated from the guest room, turning off the light and closing the door.

  Holly turned in the high, comfortable bed. The sheets smelled brand-new, and what was even better was that the scent of Alice’s soap or shampoo was all over the robe she was wearing. And that scent, hand in hand with the image of Alice herself—so kind and thoughtful and beautiful—lulled her to sleep in a matter of minutes…

  — | — | —

  23

  The muse—and its imagery—held him spellbound. He could see it in his mind. He could see her…

  The sound of her garments as he cut them off. The muffled scream raging deep in her throat behind the gag. The sheen of her flesh and her dark, dark skin, her brown legs splayed, her breasts and her sex bared for his gaze.

  Big white eyes bulging in terror as he slowly strangled her…

  Aw God, Steve thought. What a luxury these images were, what a kick. Especially knowing that, in just a little while, they’d be more than just images. They’d be real.

  But—

  Back to business.

  The car soon left the suburbs, its headlights plowing ahead through tree- and field-lined roads. It wouldn’t be much longer before he was there.

  Clarence T. Mullins. Six-term city councilman. Doctorate in political science from Georgetown University. An esteemed member of the community. Respected by his colleagues, loved by the voters. And—

  He was black.

  Steve had read in the newspaper—his greatest resource—that Clarence Mullins was expected to run for county executive next year, and he’d probably win. He was a hot local politician who’d done a lot of things and was going places. One day he’d wind up in the governor’s mansion or the U.S. Senate.

  But this week, according to the Evening Capital, Councilman Mullins was out of town, part of a state representative team which had accompanied the governor and the current county executive to the National Governor’s Conference in Chicago.

  Mullins’s picture beamed in the newsprint photo. Late thirties, probably, tall, trim, sharp. What, no ballcap? Steve thought in jest. No baggy pants or red sneakers? A dangerous nigger, ’cos this guy’s got respect; he’s got power. And he also had a wife, looked good too. And Steve would be getting a much closer look very shortly.

  No kids, either; wifey was the assistant county school superintendent. They had a nice little rancher down in south county near the woodlands. Remote—the closest neighbor was over a mile away. Steve would be able to take his time…

  He parked on an old dirt utility road on the other side of the woods; the hike up to the house had taken about ten minutes. Another big bright moon tonight, perfect. Steve hunkered down behind some trees at the edge of the yard and let his vision acclimate itself. The house was dark save for a single window on the end. Bedroom, Steve deduced. Come on, sweetheart. Go to bed so Uncle Steve can get cracking. This was one job he’d really been looking forward to.

  Eventually the light went out.

  Steve smiled behind his mask.

  Like a shadow, then, like a component part of the darkness, he approached the rancher. He skipped the slider—there was a lock-bar on it—so he went to the utility-room window. Within a minute or two, using his glass cutter and duct tape, he was in the house, moving down a short hall and then into the kitchen. More dead-silent steps took him on his usual inspection tour; his red-lensed penlight swept quickly across the family room and the living room. Nothing much to haul here, but then he spotted two laptops and a nice laser printer in the den. How cute, he thought. His and hers laptops! And maybe wife’s got some good jewelry and maybe some—

  There was no time to even finish the thought.

  The light switched on.

  A woman’s voice sounded:

  “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

  Steve froze in place.

  Oh, shit…

  “Put your hands up and turn around real slow.”

  Steve obeyed, reaching for the sky, and when he’d finished the turn he came face to face with Mrs. Clarence Mullins. A slim, pretty black woman in her late thirties. She was wearing a white nightgown.

  And she was aiming an absolutely huge revolver directly at Steve’s head.

  “Who are you?” the woman demanded.

  It seemed an absurd question under these circumstances. “Well, my name’s Steve,” he replied, shrugging, “and I’m a burglar.”

  The woman took a step forward, holding the weapon in a competent, two-handed grip, one eye closed, the other wide open behind the sights. “I’ll bet you’re the scumbag who’s been in the papers this past week. Raping women, murdering them.”

  “You got the wrong guy, lady. I’m just a burglar, and I—”

  “Shut up!” she shouted.

  Steve shut up, but he was already thinking. The woman, he could see, was close to panicking; she was holding a gun on him and she didn’t know what to do. There’s no way she’s taking me down, Steve reflected. No fuckin’ way I’m gonna let this uppity nigger chick send me to the joint. Are you kidding? In this state? The prison population was 80% black. A young white boy like me? In the can? I’d be instant cheesecake. Instant cellblock bitch. Those porch monkeys in Jessup’d be arm-wrestling every night to see who gets me; they’d be trading me back and forth like I was a reefer…

  No. No way.

  So Steve, standing there with his arms up like a ref signaling a touchdown, easily identified his tactical advantage. Yeah, she was scared, for one thing. For another, she probably didn’t have much experience with firearms, had probably never even fired one. For yet another, she was a small woman, and that piece in her hand—a .44, it looked like—was a big gun. Top-heavy, cumbersome. If he moved quick, chances were she’d miss with the first shot, and the concussion and kick would scare the shit out her, distract her enough for Steve to hit the floor, roll, and then shuck his own piece…

  It was a big chance, but it was the only one he was going to get.

  And, anyway, Steve liked to take a chance every now and then…

  “Move out to the kitchen,” Mrs. Clarence T. Mullins ordered, her firm grip on the pistol wavering a bit more now. “We’re going to call the police. So start moving your ass.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Steve replied.

  A long oak credenza sat against the wall next to the entry. Steve took a step forward—

  “Don’t!” Mrs. Mullins yelled.

  —and jerked to the left, and fell.

  As predicted, her revolver discharged. It was heinously loud, unruly, rude. It hurt Steve’s ears even as he fell to the floor, and he could’ve sworn that he felt the actual
vacuum drag as the bullet zipped past the right side of his head. When he fell he rolled, rather expertly, and when he finished the roll, he had his .25 shucked from his pocket.

  He didn’t waste time.

  He popped up from behind the other end of the credenza, sighted his target, and—pap-pap!—squeezed off a quick double-tap.

  A reckless shot by any expert’s standard, but good enough. Mrs. Mullins had not even come close to recovering from the kick and concussion of that big hand-cannon of hers. She was disheveled, shocked, turning as she made an effort to lower the gun to where she assumed her target had escaped, when Steve’s bullets hit. The first caught her in the belly, and the second, fired as the .25 rose from the foot-pound-acceleration of the first shot, tagged her very neatly in the left breast.

  She let out a breathless shriek, then toppled.

  Her gun clunked to the kitchen floor.

  Steve rose.

  “Good thing your husband never had sense enough to show you how to use that thing.” He looked down at her. She lay on the floor shivering, her bare heels thudding. Steve aimed lackadaisically and squeezed off another round into her thigh. Nothing happened.

  Wow, he thought. Looks like that belly shot went clear through to her spine. Wiped out those slim black legs. This had possibilities; Steve could have some real fun with a woman who couldn’t move. “Thanks for the piece,” he said, and picked up her revolver, stuffing it into his belt.

  But…what to do now?

  He could pretty much do whatever he wanted, he knew—there were no neighbors to hear the shots. Way back here in the woods? No way. The professional thief in him insisted that he be as objective as possible. Kill her right there on the floor, go through the house for valuables, then leave. However—

  That’s no fun, he thought.

  He leaned over and very simply dragged her by her nightgown back to the bedroom. Light as a feather, he thought, smiling. And fuck the house; Steve was too geared up to worry about any shit they had worth stealing. He was only interested in one thing.