Punish Me with Kisses

by William Bayer

  That would show you, wouldn't it? That would show you what can happen when one party to a deal decides it's time to cut the deck. Give you something to think about wouldn't it? Rack you with guilt—wouldn't it? Make you miserable. Really make you PAY.

  Yeah—thought of that. Won't pretend I didn't. Seriously too. Thought it through. But where does that leave Suzie? Leaves Suzie dead and that's no good for me. Big Deal—I teach you a lesson but I'm not around anymore to lick my chops. You always taught me to play to win. This way, taking the count, I can only lose.

  So—what to do? That's why I'm writing. Want to make you an offer, one I hope you won't refuse. Deal's this: OK, cut the deck. Cut it, move on, find someone new to play. I'll do the same. Everyone needs a new cock to ride, a new pussy to sheathe his sword. But still, every so often, let's get together and ball. We can control it. We can keep it cool. Use each other to buzz-off on, relieve the old tensions, rub away a little excess lust. I know I flung myself at you, know I was naughty, know I was bad So punish me then for Christ's sake, but PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don't cut the deck for keeps.

  Can't go on like this. Really can't. Try to catch your eye but always you turn away. Only man in the world whose eye I can't catch. Only guy who looks me in the eye, doesn't see me at all. I model, squirm, smile, grin, make sucking motions with my mouth, whisper "cheese." But can't catch you, can't catch the lens.

  Do you love me or do you not? Why do I care? Who are we anyway? Just bodies, animals I guess, hungry for flesh, thirsty for sweat and come. Got to save ourselves. Got to save what we got, what we had. Salvage something. OK? All right? Can't write anymore. Tears pouring out again. Can't go on. Don't want to make myself sound crazy, raunchy-sleazy-cheap. Suzie's in trouble, Dad. Hurting. Help me. Please. Punish me with kisses. Please. PLEASE. OK?

  She read the letter standing in the kitchenette, her palms down on the counter, the pages spread on the granite between Suzie's toaster and the plastic rack where the dishes dried. So many things became clear as she read it, things from the diary she'd never really understood. Her fantasy of him massaging her, then turning the massage into sex, was wrong. She saw that now and was stunned, stunned too by Suzie's agony and pain. Had she really done it just for kicks? Had it really just started as a lark, then turned into this devouring love, this obsessive love that ruled her life? What would have happened if the intruder hadn't come? Would Suzie have won him back, gotten his agreement to her "deal?" She'd won him now. He kept this shrine to her, came here at night, slept in her bed, the same huge bed that Cynthia had described, upon which she and Suzie and the basketball player from the Midwest had had their orgy, upon which Cynthia had made it with Suzie that first momentous time. No—he hadn't killed her, couldn't have—Jared was wrong. She'd known that from the start. Her father had made a cult of Suzie; she'd finally won him back in death. The suicide that she'd contemplated and then rejected because it was a loser's game—being murdered by that insane intruder had had the same effect.

  Penny moved out of the kitchenette, stood in the main room, looked around again. She was more confused, more distraught than ever, deranged by her discoveries, full of terror and pity and a deep longing she could not explain. She looked at the bed. He'd slept there. She stared down at it, aroused, wondering whether there would be some trace of him, some faint odor of him upon the sheets, some trace of that body which Suzie had so fiercely loved.

  Slowly, carefully she lay down on the crumpled sheets, then centered herself and sniffed. She stood up suddenly, worried—worried about herself. Something was happening. A force was moving over her, a force she'd felt since she'd begun to follow him, a power that appealed to a part of her she feared. She backed away, retreated to the windows, turned and stared again at the bed. It seemed to beckon to her. She could almost imagine him naked upon it, calling to her, summoning her to come be stroked and kissed.

  She turned so she wouldn't have to look at it, moved over to the dressing table, sat down and studied herself in the mirror. She reached for the atomizer, sprayed some Amazone on her neck. Then she opened Suzie's lipstick, the worn-down one she'd been afraid to touch before. She brought it to her face and with trembling hand applied it to her lips.

  She looked at herself again. Then she reached for Suzie's hairbrush and ran it several times through her hair. She gazed at it—her hairs caught in the bristles, merged with Suzie's now. She could be like her. She knew she could. Jamie Willensen had seen it in her manner. Cynthia had heard it in her voice. Would he see it, hear it? Could she turn him on the way she'd done with them? Yes, she thought, it was possible. If she really tried she could.

  She stared at the bed again, feeling the pull of it. She wanted to resist, felt flushed and breathless as she tried. It was pulling her, pulling at that part of her she knew was sick, that Suzie part that had been emerging all these months. It was strong, so strong—she felt dizzy again for a moment, and torn.

  There had been some faint trace of him upon the sheets; she thought she'd caught the scent of his soap when she'd lain down there before. She went into the bathroom to check, sniffed at the bar in the recess of the sink. Yes, it was the English soap he liked, the soap with the smoky leathery smell she'd given him on his birthday so many times. So, this is what he smells like, she thought—this is what comes off of him when he's hot and making love.

  She couldn't fight it anymore, felt it pulling her, too strong, too strong. She flung herself wildly upon the bed, closed her eyes and writhed there on the sheets. She thought of Suzie and her father, the two of them clinging, fucking, biting, licking each other, copulating like dogs, and then she saw herself with him doing all that, too. She pulled down her jeans and her panties, pulled them down to her knees. It felt good to be bound by them there—it was as if she were being forced, were tied. Then she reached down, touched herself, began to press and stroke and knead. She didn't care now whether she was sick or not. She only wanted to come, there in the very bed where he had slept.

  Afterwards she was disgusted with herself, and then, quite suddenly, angry, infuriated with him. How could he have this power over her, to make her follow him, dream of him, imagine him holding her in his arms? First Suzie; now her. Was she doomed, then, to replicate her sister's agony, drown in a sea of perverted sex? She loathed him now for this power he had, wanted him to suffer as he'd made Suzie suffer, as he was making her suffer now, making her lose her mind. Send him a message, she thought. Teach him a lesson. Freak the bastard out.

  She went into the kitchen, searched the drawers, and found what she was looking for, a thick-bladed carving knife. She tested it against her thumb. It was sharp enough. He'd violated her apartment, sent his black-bag crew to break in, break her dishes, throw her books on the floor, slash the cushion of her window seat. Now she'd do the same to him—she'd desecrate his sacred shrine.

  She took the knife, ripped it across the sheets, cutting at them wildly, slashing back and forth. She cut and slashed until they were ribbons, then she plunged the knife into the pillows, gouged out the feathers, flung them about the room. She'd teach him. She'd scare him. She'd make him suffer now. And he'd never suspect. He'd wonder who'd done it, and how they'd gotten in.

  She went to the dresser, pulled out his shirts, punctured them again and again. She shredded his underwear, his socks, kicked his electric razor across the room, but somehow, for all her efforts, she felt she hadn't done enough.

  No—it wasn't just that she hated him; she hated Suzie too. For all the men she'd had, how easy it had been for her to catch them, for stealing away Jared, for seducing her father—most of all for that. Her anger was fed now by raging jealousy. She attacked Suzie's clothes, her pants suits, her raincoat from Saks, then the blowups on the wall. Slash! Slash! It was like her mother throwing the Christmas stocking in the furnace. She'd destroy all traces of that little slut. She'd cut and slash until Suzie was really dead.

  When she was finished, panting and exhausted, she let the knife slip to the floor. Trem
bling from her labors she examined the apartment—in three or four minutes of rage she'd reduced her father's shrine to trash. The mess pleased her, especially the ripped up bed. She felt released from her demons. She let herself out, quietly locked the door, rode the elevator down. No one had seen her coming or going. She wobbled slightly on the street, still nursing a bit of pain.

  Early Monday evening she was at her post across the street from Chapman. She watched the limousine, saw him come out at six, get in the car, speed away uptown. She came again on Tuesday, and again he drove away. But on Wednesday, he dismissed the car and started to walk uptown.

  She followed him, excitement rising, as he stopped at the wine store again, and at the food take-out place. She could feel her pulse quicken as he turned on Sixty-sixth and walked up the block. She stood just around the corner on Fifth Avenue, against the wall of a synagogue where she could watch the apartment house, could see Suzie's windows, and could see him, too, when he came storming out. She waited there trembling.

  Suddenly she felt a little leap —the lights had gone on upstairs. She tried hard to imagine his reaction, his shock and then his fear. The sheets and clothes all cut, the dishes and glasses smashed—he'd take that in, know this was no ordinary break-in, feel hostility and danger, would know that someone powerful enough to obtain a key was issuing him a threat. Perhaps he'd be so frightened he'd drop his package. The wine bottle would break when it hit the floor. She watched, throbbing with satisfaction. Then the lights went out.

  She stood very still, flat against the synagogue, as still as she'd ever waited in her rocking chair, gripping the arms, not allowing the rockers to move, to squeak. She willed herself to become part of the building, to be unseen when he emerged.

  He came out fast, stepped into the street, waved frantically for a cab just emerging from the park. She stepped out, feeling a need to see his face, and caught a glimpse of him looking distraught as he jumped into the back seat and the cab roared away. She leaned back panting against the synagogue; she could feel sweat on her forehead though she'd barely moved and the temperature was forty degrees. She'd done it, terrified him. He'd never go back to the apartment again. She felt ecstatic—it was so good to make him quake, make him feel afraid.

  She waited for him on Thursday night; she had to see his face again. She was worried about the Chapman men, too —they'd become frantic; it was getting harder and harder to shake them off. She considered letting them follow her, follow her as she followed her father. "Subject tracking father"—that would shake him up. But she didn't want him to know she was the one who'd desecrated his shrine. Not yet.

  When her father came out he dismissed his car, then started to walk. He headed downtown this time, the opposite direction from the apartment, down Park Avenue between buildings made of steel and glass. She followed, but then he crossed Forty-seventh just as the light changed, forcing her to dodge between a pair of cabs then jog half a block to catch up. He turned onto Vanderbilt, passed the Yale Club, turned again, passed Brooks Brothers, then crossed Fifth Avenue, turned south, walked to Forty-second, walked west beside the Public Library, then along small and dangerous Bryant Park.

  The crowds were thicker as he crossed Times Square. There were camera-watch-binocular discount stores, and restaurants offering steak dinners for $9.99. Banners announced close-out prices on "odds and ends." Old men stared aimlessly from cavernous cafeterias grotesquely lit by fluorescent lights.

  At the corner of Eighth and Forty-second, in the midst of utter sleaziness, he paused as if deciding what to do. There were sex shops all around, hookers and male hustlers speaking over telephones in doorless booths. He turned uptown on Eighth, walked several blocks, then went into a porno cinema. She waited a few minutes until she was sure he was seated, then bought herself a ticket from a whiskered old lady cashier.

  The lobby was dark, the theater small, smelling of stale smoke. She stood at the rear looking over the heads of the men inside, inspecting them row by row while hearing moaning and sucking noises coming from the screen. There weren't many customers. She spotted him right away. She moved down the opposite passageway, took a seat apart two rows behind and a dozen seats to the side, then watched him, his face immobile, cold and hard, his familiar squared-off jaw illuminated by light reflected off the screen.

  The movie was horrible, tawdry, badly made, the print scratched, the soundtrack, barely audible, consisting of sighs and moans, whispers of "suck me" and "fuck me" enunciated by despicable men. She couldn't follow the story. It seemed to be about two girls, roommates, who had a variety of adventures with ghastly looking males. Mostly she watched her father, studied his iron jaw, the immobility of his face. She searched his profile for some response —a moan, heavy breathing, some indication that he was involved or moved, but all she could find was the same hard grimace she'd known all her life, that cold mask she'd dreamt about, that mask that Suzie, at the end, had so desperately tried to crack.

  Finally, after forty minutes or an hour, she saw him gather up his coat. He stood and began to leave. When he reached the back of the theater she followed him out. She reached the street just as he turned the next corner and headed east on Forty-fifth.

  She rushed after him, nearly running down an old wino who growled at her as she brushed by. "Hey! Hey you! You!" a black pimp yelled. She walked faster to get away. She reached the corner just in time to see her father enter a doorway a third of the way down the block. "Hey!" the pimp said. "Hey! Stop a minute. I want to talk to you." She walked faster, saw her father had entered a hotel, one of the innumerable fleabags clustered around Times Square where whores kept rooms and lonely old people lived on welfare checks—the sort of place Jared had stayed his first few weeks in New York.

  She passed, glancing in. She could see him chatting with the clerk. He was employing the same bantering manner she'd seen him use so many times with waiters, golf caddies, chauffeurs. The pimp was still following her, calling. She ran up to Broadway, lost him in the crowds, then circled the block and passed the hotel just in time to see her father mount a stairs behind the desk.

  She stopped, wondered what to do. Should she follow? There was a risk of running into him, and she couldn't just barge in and interrogate the clerk. What was he doing? Were there whores upstairs? Did he act out his fantasies with them? She didn't know what was driving her except a tight breathlessness, a need. She didn't care if he saw her now. She didn't care about anything. He was a monster, a pervert—she was going to find him out.

  She brushed past the clerk, mounted the stairs, found herself in a passageway leading toward a door. There was a sign on the wall, neatly lettered, directing her toward "Martha's Massage." She entered. A girl sat behind a desk, cute and cheap looking, a girl about her age. A black man, huge and muscular whom she figured for a bouncer, looked her over as she approached.

  "Sorry, honey," said the girl, even before she could open her mouth. "No openings here, but try Freida's up the block. I hear she's taking girls."

  That night she dreamt wild vivid dreams. She was a whore at "Martha's Massage." There was a parlor illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. She stood in line with other girls while her father walked back and forth. He chose her. She led him down a narrow corridor with open cubicles on either side. She led him into her cubicle. He made love to her without a word. She received no pleasure from it—he averted his face and she averted hers. Afterwards he pulled out a roll of money, peeled off some twenty dollar bills, pressed them into her palm. After he left she stared at the sheet in the doorway, trembling from his exit, swaying back and forth.

  She woke up suddenly to find five of her cats sitting on her bed. "Get away, damn you, lousy cats," she said, waving her hands at them, trying to brush them onto the floor. They peered at her, then lept off one by one. She lay back and willed herself to sleep. Then she had cat dreams.

  Dr. Bowles stared at her with slit cat's eyes. She had whiskers and sharpened teeth. Then Penny was running down a side
-street off Times Square pursued by a pack of cats, scampering, meowing, closing in, reaching out with their claws to tear her flesh.

  When she woke this time James was sitting on her chest. He was so near she had to squint to see him. His breath was hot upon her face.

  She pulled herself back and met his eyes. He knew—she could feel that—knew all about her incest fantasies, knew she was willful, worst of all that she hated him. Dr. Bowles had said animals could sense such things. The psychiatrist had warned her that James would read her mind. Yes, she was sure of it: James knew she despised him. He was sensing her hatred even now as he stretched and arched and hissed.

  Suddenly she was terrified. He was like an incubus. "Get off me," she shrieked. "Off! Get off!"

  James peered at her, then crouched as if he were going to leap. She was afraid, raised her hand to shield her face. Then she felt a fierce pain. He'd grabbed her wrist. His jaws were open, his teeth sunk deep into her skin. She screamed. He wouldn't let go. She shook her hand, tried to pull her wrist free, but the more she pulled the harder and deeper he bit. She screamed again, thinking she might faint from the pain. Looking around frantically for something to hit him with, she grabbed the alarm clock beside her bed with her free hand and brought it down hard against his skull.

  This time it was James' turn to scream. His eyes rolled back in his head. Then his jaws loosened, and she pried his mouth away. She hit him five or six more times, then stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and let water wash over her gushing wounds. The pain was still bad—the searing had given way to a deeper throbbing hurt. Blood poured from little holes. There was blood all over the sink, on the tile floor, on her sheets and comforter, too. James lay on her bed where she'd hit him, twisted, still. She went to her closet, brought out her broom, poked him with the handle. He didn't move. Her hand was getting numb now. She knew she needed medical care. She dressed, stumbled out to the street, and searched frantically for a cab.