Punish Me with Kisses

by William Bayer

  Now she had six new cats to serve in addition to her own. Suddenly there were cats leaping all over her bed and crying in the night. Her apartment was getting messy, the litter box in her bathroom was overflowing, there was shrieking and fighting, and she couldn't remember all the new ones' names. It was like having all these strangers in her home, having to play hostess to them, feed them, clean up after them, and all the time she felt James watching her, studying her, daring her to meet his stare. She felt dominated by the animals, felt that they were running her life. She complained to Dr. Bowles and told her she couldn't handle them. The doctor assured her that she could.

  "There're too many," Penny said. "They're taking up too much time."

  "What would you do if you didn't have to care for them? Go out to singles' places, bring home strange men?"

  "Not necessarily that," she said, "but I need quiet to read, peace and calm to think."

  "People think too much, worry too much about their problems. Better to do constructive work, take responsibility for little lives."

  "Can't someone else take some of them at least?" Surely, she thought, Dr. Bowles would agree to that.

  "I'm afraid not, Penny. Everyone else has more. Some of our friends take responsibility for forty or fifty lives. You'll just have to wait until John finds a new place to live."

  "I don't know," said Penny, "don't know if I can wait that long."

  Dr. Bowles' face turned stern, her tone a little cross. It was the first time Penny had seen her annoyed. "I'm disappointed in you. I wonder if my therapy has taken hold. Maybe you should worry a little less about your personal life and a little more about why you can't deal with cats." Penny thought about it, decided she could deal with them. It was James she couldn't deal with—he wasn't loving, wasn't sweet, made her nervous, seemed to gloat over her frustration, made her hate her apartment, hate staying in. The others, John's females, and her two little blue-points, touched her, but James just gazed at her, cold and arrogant.

  Cindy really impossible these days. I'd make her a fucking slave if I wanted a slave, but since I don't I'm stuck with her on another level. "You're really making an ass out of yourself," I told her today. "You're really acting like a jerk" She stared at me like I'd just told her she had incurable cancer of the tits. "All right, " I said, "take out the garbage. And you'd better drive down to the village and pick me up a couple boxes of Tampax. I feel my period coming on." Well—that ought to keep her off me a couple of days at least, unless, of course, she's a vampire (ugh!) on top of everything else. (All I need now—right?)

  Where could she go? Where could she find relief? She was bored with Aspen now, the mad scramble to find a partner and get out. The Chapman security men were still following her, especially attentive, she noticed, since the night she'd given them the slip. She could toy with them, she supposed, continue to try and use them to provoke her father. But she'd pretty much given up on that—it seemed like a lost cause to her now. Still she couldn't stay in, had to get out, get away from James. Desperate one night, she thought of Cynthia French. She called her at the hot line number and was amused to hear her Daisy Buchanan voice: "Hi! Lesbian hot line. Cindy speaking. How can I help you?"

  She was about to identify herself when Cynthia put her on hold. She'd just meant to see if Cynthia were free, if she could meet her someplace later for a drink, but something about the way she'd answered reminded her of the Cynthia portions of the diary, and then, when Cynthia came back on, she found herself assuming Suzie's mocking tone.

  "Gee," she said, "I got a real problem."

  "That's what we're here for. Fire away!"

  "Well, it's kind of complicated really—"

  "Don't be shy."

  "It's kind of strange."

  "I have a feeling, whoever you are, that you're trying to put me on."

  "No. It's true. I really am growing a penis."

  "Who is this?"

  "Hi, Cin! Who do you think it is?"

  "Child?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "For a minute there—Jes-sus."

  "Thought maybe I was someone else?"

  Cynthia paused. "Thought you were mad at me," she said.

  "Why should I be mad?"

  "Well, for talking to those security guys, I guess."

  "Forget it. I told you that."

  "I'm really sorry about that, Child."

  "Believe me, it's OK."

  "You sound just like her, you know."

  "I know. Listen—I'd like to see you. Let's get together. I've never been to the Sahara. I was wondering—would you take me there?"

  "You really want to go?"

  "Sure. Why not? I'm trying to open myself up to different things."

  They made a date for Saturday, because Cynthia was on the "hot line" the next three nights. After Penny hung up she asked herself what she was doing. Was she putting Cynthia on? Trying to be her "Suze"?

  The Sahara was dark and atmospheric, full of slinky models in beautiful clothes as well as women dressed as men. Penny had dressed in a tight blouse and jeans, then had splashed herself with Amazone. Cynthia wore an army surplus jumpsuit and paratrooper boots. She obviously felt secure at the Sahara, nodding to people, exchanging whispers and pats. "They all want to know who you are," she said.

  "I'm surprised they don't recognize me."

  "Well, it's kind of dark, you know."

  They went upstairs to the disco and began to dance. Penny could feel the "vibes," the smell of women on the make, perfumes mixing, female perspiration. She didn't feel repelled. The music took over, sweat broke out on her forehead, and for an hour she became lost in the mood. People came up to dance with her and ask questions: "How are you?"

  "What's your name?"

  "What do you do?" Finally Cynthia squeezed her arm. "Want to come home?" she whispered. Penny nodded and they left.

  It was bitter cold out on the street. Cynthia hugged her for warmth. In the taxi going downtown Cynthia kissed her on the mouth. Penny paid off the taxi at Bank Street. Cynthia unlocked the door, led her to the bedroom, lit up a joint, inhaled, passed it, urged her to take deep drags. While Penny inhaled Cynthia reached to her, slowly unbuttoned her blouse.

  She lay back then, watching Cynthia take off her top, the joint hanging Bogart-style from her lips. They lay together for a while, smoking, getting high. Their legs entwined. They strained against each other. Then they started kissing and stroking each other's breasts.

  "You're hot," said Cynthia. "I can feel it coming off you." She unbuckled Penny's belt, unzipped her fly, pulled off her jeans, then reached in with her hand. "Hot. Are you ever, Child. Oh—you're really hot."

  Penny lay back, letting Cynthia do what she wanted. Again she felt as if she'd walked into the pages of the diary. She thought of those nights when Cynthia had come into New York from Sarah Lawrence and Suzie had let her "do me" while she lay back thinking about her own attempts at oblivion. Then she heard herself gasping, crying out. She was excited, coming. Cynthia smiled.

  "You're really into it," she said. "You're not like Suze, not a tease at all."

  They were sharing a second joint when Penny heard a key turning in the lock. She looked around for her jeans. "Stay cool," Cynthia said. "That's just Fiona coming in." Cynthia went into the living room. Penny could hear whispering, then Cynthia came back. "Hey, meet my roommate." Penny looked up, saw a stunning black girl leaning in the doorway, smiling wryly at the scene.

  "Hi," Penny said.

  "So you're little sister, huh?"

  Penny shrugged. Cynthia smiled. Fiona stood there examining her, her hands set on her hips. "Well, well, well —what a sweet duet." The girl laughed. "How 'bout I join the fun?"

  "Here, take a drag." Cynthia handed Penny another joint. "That OK with you?" she asked.

  Well, she thought, why not?

  "Good girl." Cynthia patted her cheek. Then the three of them were together, snuggling, kissing, making out. Mostly Penny watched. She didn't feel she had to
"do" anything. She was Suzie now—she felt as if she were.

  "Her sis was my first lover," Cynthia was saying. They were lying around at odd angles to each other, exhausted, close to sleep.

  "Yeah," said Fiona. "I've heard a lot about that."

  "Ought to be getting home," Penny said, beginning to feel embarrassed, not wanting to intrude upon the delicate relations of these roommates. Cynthia went downstairs with her, stood with her while she waited for a cab. "Ever find that diary?" she asked just as a taxi pulled up. Penny shook her head. "Guess it's just as well. No good could come of it." She made a kissing motion with her mouth, then gently closed the taxi door.

  Back at home Penny found her apartment smelling of cats, filled with the acrid odor of their urine. Sometimes I hate the damn things, she thought, as she flushed the litter down the toilet, scrubbed out the box, refilled it, and set out the bowls of water and of food.

  James was staring at her. He knew what she'd been doing. "Wasn't so bad," she whispered to him. "Lot better than some of the slobs I've had." James blinked, arched his back. A sign of recognition, she thought. She reached out to pet him, but he hissed and then recoiled. "Screw you, James," she said. "Screw you and go to hell."

  She wondered what the Chapman security men thought as they followed her to the burial grounds. She spotted two of them in a Chevrolet crossing the George Washington Bridge, tried to imagine their report: "11:04—subject and two young women carrying aluminum suitcases, subject's landlady, and two young men carrying shovels drove black van toward New Jersey, destination unknown—"

  The dead cats were in the suitcases; each had been wrapped carefully in silver foil, labeled and stored in Dr. Bowles' enormous freezer until enough had accumulated to justify a trip. At first it felt strange accompanying a load of dead cats to the country, but after a while the sincerity and friendliness of her companions pushed the macabre aspect of their mission out of her mind. To the Chapman men following the van, she thought, they probably seemed a convivial group out on a weekend outing, perhaps a nature walk.

  The burial grounds were in a state park. It took them nearly an hour to hike their way in. It was a cold winter's day; the chill burned her ears. When they finally reached the site Wendy showed her little piles of stones which marked the other graves. The two boys, Tom and Doug, set to work digging a hole in the nearly frozen ground. Penny helped Wendy weed around the older markers, then searched out stones to mark the new remains. When the hole was finally dug, the suitcases were opened and the sausage-shaped silver packages were placed in a row on the ground. Tom and Doug stood in the hole while Penny and Wendy passed the bodies down. The boys arranged them neatly at the bottom of the grave, then they all stood with bowed heads while Dr. Bowles read the names:

  " 'Peanuts,' female, three years old, dead of unknown causes; 'Lucy Blue,' female, daughter of 'Big Sylvia,' stillborn; 'Mike,' much beloved king-cat of Richard, sire of numerous kittens, dead at seven years—" Sometimes Dr. Bowles paused in her reading to recount a little incident about one of the cats. Penny was surprised the psychiatrist could keep them straight—she seemed to know them as well as she knew her patients. The compassion of this woman never ceased to astound her—she was always available to listen to one's troubles, usually cuddling a kitten, or nursing one while she talked. She often gave Penny special tidbits which she thought her kittens might enjoy, and catfood cookies she made up specially for James.

  When the reading of the list was completed the five of them stood in silence for a time. Then they each tossed a little bit of earth upon the foil-wrapped carcasses, and then the boys filled up the hole. Penny erected the marking stones, having studied the pattern at the other graves. It was late afternoon and extremely cold when they were finished. Dr. Bowles put her arm around her, embraced her as they hiked back to the van.

  "I saw you shared our anguish," she said. "I'm glad you helped us bury our fallen little friends."

  "Look what I got," said Lillian on Monday morning. She came into Penny's office waving a telegram. "A classic author's missive. Jesus, what a nerve! I saved this guy's book, edited out all the artsy-fartsy stuff, got it down so maybe somebody would want to read the thing. Now he tells me he wants all his precious prose restored. Threatens to withdraw if it we don't print every word." Lillian was one of those editors who seemed to have a special loathing for writers, hating them for their vanity, their complaints, their demands for expensive lunches, their requests for gratis copies of other B&A books. ("They think because we're their publishers we're a free bookshop or something. Yuck!") Penny nodded as Lillian ranted on, but she knew the author was right, that Lillian had harmed his book, didn't know the difference between functional writing and graceful prose.

  She spent the day brooding over her miseries, felt herself becoming unhinged. The glow she'd had after the cat burial trip was superseded now by anxiety. Some madness was driving her, but she didn't know toward what. MacAllister, noticing her lack of concentration, spoke brusquely to her for the first time since their affair. When she looked up at him to apologize he asked her what was wrong. "You've got tears in your eyes."

  "It's nothing, Mac. Just the weather, I guess."

  He looked at her, nodded. "Yeah—the Februaries." He told her to go home early so she wouldn't have to face the rush hour. She stayed until five-thirty anyway. The elevator felt claustrophobic when she rode it down. The men who always followed her were waiting in the lobby. Noises were too loud. The city shrieked. The subway seemed to scream.

  That night she sat in front of her TV and watched the awful news: more on a mass cult suicide and a madman in Chicago who was torching winos on skidrow. The whole country, except for the eastern seaboard, was blanketed in snow. A professor of meteorology came on, said the weather patterns were changing, that within a hundred years the earth would enter a new ice age which would drive populations to the tropics and cause unprecedented famines, social dislocations, political upheavals and strife.

  So—the whole world was going crazy. What else is new, she thought. She couldn't bear being cooped up, being stared at by James, knowing that Chapman security men were waiting downstairs for her in their cars. She wanted to go out, but there was no place to go. Aspen was out of the question; Cynthia lived too far downtown, and anyway she wasn't in the mood for that. She thought and thought: whom could she call? There wasn't anybody—she had no lover, no friends. For the first time in many weeks she thought of Jared, wished he were back, wished he were there to hold her in his arms. Finally, tired of self-pity, she pulled out her copy of Suzie's diary, flipped through it, read passages, wondered as she had so many times just what it really meant.

  There was something too cruel about the way Suzie mocked her lovers, their ineptitude, their incompetence in bed. Penny wondered whether all this overstatement had a purpose, whether these mockeries had been written with a particular reader in mind. Her father? Could Suzie have been addressing the diary to him? There was something about its tone that made her feel it had been written for her father's eyes. It was the same feeling she'd had about Suzie's actions—the too-deliberate overheated way she'd carried on those final weeks. Could the diary, too, she wondered, have been part of Suzie's plan to make her father jealous, try and win him back?

  She pulled out the old worn wallet, the one with the photos and the keys she and Jared had found in Maine. She spread the photos out on her bed, studied the shot of her father in his bathing suit. He was poised to dive into the pool, his body extended, muscled, sleek. She hated him for being so attractive. No wonder Suzie had let him drive her to despair.

  She lay back on the bed, the photo in her hand. Then she became lost in a reverie. Memories started pouring in: her father lifting her when she was a child, putting her on his shoulders, walking with her on the beach. That time they'd all gone to Switzerland, ascended the mountain in the cable car, then met the young Swiss photographer with the Leica, and the four of them had sat for him as a perfect American family posing on a mount
ain top. She'd loved her father. He used to come to her room to kiss her good night. He brought her her first two-wheel bicycle, put it out on the back terrace of the Greenwich house, then took her hand, led her to it, and there it stood, the best bicycle in the world, with a big red ribbon tied around the handlebars and an oversized card: "Happy Birthday, Kiddo. Love from Dad."

  Yes, she thought—she could imagine Suzie making love to him, she could imagine that his body would be fine to touch. How had it started? Perhaps he'd come into her room to say good night, had stroked her cheek, kissed her lips. Perhaps Suzie'd complained she was sore from tennis and asked him for a massage, then had raised her top so he could knead her back.

  Penny closed her eyes, tried to imagine the scene. Suzie had known intuitively how to arouse a man, and there was her father, lusting after her, ready to take advantage the moment he saw an opening, as he'd always done in business and in life. He would have been affectionate. That was his attraction—that for all his aura of power and control he could be fatherly and sweet. Yes, she could imagine it all, could imagine Suzie's pleasure, her aroused sexuality, as the massage turned into love-making, the kneading fingers beginning lightly to caress. Suzie'd have known what was happening, but she'd have let him go on. There was that tantalizing mystery about any new lover—what would he do? Where would he touch her next?

  Yes, she could imagine it, could imagine him turning her, his mouth suddenly crushing hers, then his body pushing her down against the bed. He would reach for her, slowly gently stroke her breasts, then take one of her hands and press it upon the swelling hardness between his legs. He'd let it rest there, let her feel his desire. After that she would be his. She'd lay back, let him take over, let him do with her what he wished. He'd lie on top of her, his strong body heavy on hers, his beautiful arms, the arms she'd always admired when they played squash, wrapping her, pinioning her, then his cock, so big, so long, suddenly revealed—she'd feel it prodding, would move and twitch to help it finds its way, would gasp as suddenly it slipped inside, would feel it filling her, would push against him, begin to sigh and moan.