Kimberle had not been installed in my apartment more than a day or two (crying and sniffling, refusing to eat with the usual determination of the newly heartbroken) when I noticed that Native Son was gone, leaving a gaping hole on my shelf. I assumed that she’d taken it down to read in whatever second I had turned my back. I trotted over to the futon and peeked around and under the pillow. The sheets were neatly folded, the blanket too. Had anyone else been in the apartment except us two? No, not a soul, not even Brian Eno, who’d been out hunting. I contemplated my dilemma: how to ask a potential suicide if they’re ripping you off.
Sometime the next day – after a restless night of weeping and pillow punching which I could hear in the bedroom, even with the door closed – Kimberle managed to shower and put on a fresh black T, then lumbered into the kitchen. She barely nodded. It seemed that if she’d actually completed the gesture, her head might have been in danger of rolling off.
I suppose I should have been worried, given the threat of suicide so boldly announced, about Kimberle’s whereabouts when she wasn’t home. But I wasn’t, I wasn’t worried at all. I didn’t throw out my razors, I didn’t hide the belts, I didn’t turn off the pilot in the oven. It’s not that I didn’t think she was at risk, because I did, I absolutely did. It’s just that when she told me she needed to be stopped, I took it to mean she needed me to shelter her until she recovered, which I assumed would be soon. I thought, in fact, that I’d pretty much done my duty as a friend by bringing her home and feeding her a cherry-smoked ham sandwich.
Truth is, I was much more focused on the maniac whose quarry was still bounding out there in the wilderness. I would pull out the local print-only paper everyday when I got to the smokehouse and make for the police blotter. I knew, of course, that once the villain committed to the deed, it’d be front-page news, but I held out hope for clues from anticipatory crimes.
Once, there was an incident on a hiking trail, two girls were approached by a white man in his fifties, sallow and scurvy, who tried to grab one of them. The other girl turned out to be a member of the campus tae kwon do team and rapid-kicked his face before he somehow managed to get away. For several days after that, I was on the lookout for any man in his 50s who might come in to the smokehouse looking like tenderized meat. And I avoided all trails, even the carefully landscaped routes between campus buildings.
Because the smokehouse was isolated in order to realize its function, and its clientele fairly specialized – we sold gourmet meat (including bison, ostrich and alligator) mostly by phone and online, though our bestseller was summer sausage, as common in central Indiana as Oscar Mayer – there wasn’t much foot traffic in and out of the store and I actually spent a great deal of time alone. After I’d processed the orders, packed the UPS boxes, replenished and rearranged the display cases, made coffee and added some chips to the smoker, there wasn’t much for me to do but sit there, trying to study while avoiding giving too much importance to the noises outside that suggested furtive steps in the yard, or shadows that looked like bodies bent to hide below the window sill, just waiting for me to lift the frame and expose my neck for strangulation.
One evening, I came home to find Kimberle with my Santoku knife in hand, little pyramids of chopped onions, green pepper and slimy octopus arms with their puckering cups arranged on the counter. Brian Eno reached up from the floor, her calico belly and paws extended towards the heaven promised above.
“Dinner,” Kimberle announced as soon as I stepped in, lighting a flame under the wok.
I kicked my boots off, stripped my scarf from around my neck and let my coat slide from my body, all along yakking about the psychopath and his apparent disinterest this year.
“Maybe he finally died,” offered Kimberle.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought when we were about fifteen, ’cause it took until January that year, remember? But then I realized, it’s gotta be more than one guy,” I said.
“You think he’s got accomplices?” Kimberle asked, a tendril of smoke rising from the wok.
“Or copy cats,” I said. “I’m into the copy-cat theory.”
That’s about when I noticed Sapphire angling in unfamiliar fashion on the bookshelf. Woolf’s Orlando was no longer beside it. Had I considered what my reaction would have been any other time, I might have said rage. But seeing the jaunty leaning that suddenly gave the shelves a deliberately decorated look, I felt like I’d been hit in the stomach. I was still catching my breath when I turned around and saw Kimberle. The Santoku had left her right hand, embedding its blade upright on the knuckles of her left. Blood seeped sparingly from between her fingers but collected quickly around the octopus pile, which now looked wounded and alive.
I took Kimberle to the county hospital, where they stitched the flaps of skin back together. Her hand, now bright and swollen like an aposematic amphibian, rested on the dashboard all the way home. We drove back in silence, her eyes closed, head inclined and threatening to hit the windshield.
In the kitchen, the onion and green pepper pyramids were intact on the counter but the octopus had vanished. Smudged paw tracks led out Brian Eno’s usual route through the living room window. Kimberle stood unsteadily under the light, her face shadowed. I sat down on the futon.
“What happened to Native Son, to Orlando?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“Did you take them?”
She spun, slowly, on the heel of her boot, dragging her other foot around in a circle.
“Kimberle . . .”
“I hurt,” she said, “I really hurt.” Her skin was a bluish red as she threw herself on my lap and bawled.
A week later, Native Son and Orlando were still missing but Kimberle and I hadn’t been able to talk about it. Our schedules failed to coincide and my mother, widowed and alone on the other side of town (confused but tolerant of my decision to live away from her), had gone to visit relatives in Miami, leaving me to deal with her cat, Brian Eno’s brother, a daring aerialist she’d named Alfredo Codona, after the Mexican trapeze artist who’d killed himself and his ex-wife. This complicated my life a bit more than usual, and I found myself drained after dealing with the temporarily housebound Alfredo, whose pent-up frustrations tended to result in toppled chairs, broken picture frames and a scattering of magazines and knick-knacks. It felt like I had to piece my mother’s place back together every single night she was gone.
One time, I was so tired when I got home I headed straight for the tub and finished undressing as the hot water nipped at my knees. I adjusted the temperature, then I let myself go under, blowing my breath out in fat, noisy bubbles. I came back up and didn’t bother to lift my lids. I used my toes to turn off the faucet, then went into a semi-somnambulist state in which neither my mother nor Alfredo Codona could engage me, Native Son and Orlando were back where they belonged, and Kimberle . . . Kimberle was . . . laughing.
“What . . .?”
I sat up, water splashing on the floor and on my clothes. I heard the refrigerator pop open, then tenebrous voices. I pulled the plug and gathered a towel around me but when I opened the door, I was startled by the blurry blackness of the living room. I heard rustling from the futon, conspiratorial giggling, and Brian Eno’s anxious meowing outside the unexpectedly closed window. To my amazement, Kimberle had brought somebody home. I didn’t especially like the idea of her having sex in my living room but we hadn’t talked about it – I’d assumed, since she was supposedly suicidal, that there wasn’t a need for that talk. Now I was trapped, naked and wet, watching Kimberle hovering above her lover, as agile as the real Alfredo Codona on the high wire.
Outside, Brian Eno wailed, tapping her paws on the glass. I shrugged, as if she could understand, but all she did was unleash an even more high-pitched scream. It was raining outside. I held tight to the towel and started across the room as quietly as I could. But as I tried to open the window, I felt a hand on my ankle. Its warmth rose up my leg, infused my gut and became a knot in my throat. I looked
down and saw Kimberle’s arm, its jagged tattoos pulsing. Rather than jerk away, I bent to undo her fingers, only to find myself face to face with her. Her lips were glistening, and below her chin was a milky slope with a puckered nipple . . . she moved to make room for me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I don’t know how or why but my mouth opened to the stranger’s breast, tasting her and the vague tobacco of Kimberle’s spit.
Afterwards, as Kimberle and I sprawled on either side of the girl, I recognized her as a clerk from a bookstore in town. She seemed dazed and pleased, her shoulder up against Kimberle as she stroked my belly. I realized that for the last hour or so, as engaged as we’d been in this most intimate of manoeuvres, Kimberle and I had not kissed or otherwise touched. We had worked side by side, a hyaloid membrane – structureless and free.
“Here, banana boat queen,” Kimberle said with a sly grin as she passed me a joint. Banana boat queen? And I thought: Where the fuck did she get that? How the hell did she think she’d earned dispensation for that?
The girl between us bristled.
Then Kimberle laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said to our guest, “I can do that; she and I go back.”
In all honesty, I don’t know when I met Kimberle. It seemed she had always been there, from the very day we arrived from Cuba. Hers was a mysterious and solitary world. I realized that one winter day in my junior year, as I was walking home from school just as dusk was settling in. Kimberle pulled her Toyota next to me and asked if I wanted a ride. As soon as I got in, she offered me a cigarette. I said no.
“A disgusting habit anyway. You wanna see something?”
“What?”
Without another word, Kimberle aimed the Toyota out of town, past the last deadbeat bar, the strip malls and the trailer parks, past the ramp to the interstate, until she entered a narrow gravel road with corn blossoming on either side. There was a brackish smell, the tang of wet dirt and nicotine. The Toyota danced on the gravel but Kimberle, bent over the wheel, maintained a determined expression.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready . . .? For what?” I asked, my fingers clutching the shoulder belt.
“This,” she whispered. Then she turned off the headlights.
Before I had a chance to adjust to the tracers, she gunned the car, hurling it down the black tunnel, the tyres spitting rocks as she swirled this way and that, following the eerie spotlight provided by the moon . . . for a moment, we were suspended in air and time. My life did not pass in front of my eyes how I might have expected; instead, I saw images of desperate people on a bounding sea; multitudes wandering Fifth Avenue or the Thames, the shores of the Bosporus or the sands outside the pyramids; mirrors and mirrors, mercury and water; a family portrait in Havana from years before; my mother with her tangled hair, my father tilting his hat in New Orleans or Galveston; the shadows of birds of paradise against a stucco wall; a shallow and watery grave, then another longer passage, a trail of bones. Just then the silver etched the sharp edges of the corn stalks, teasing them to life as spectres in black coats . . .
“We’re going to die!” I screamed.
Moments later, the Toyota came to a shaky stop as we both gasped for breath. A cloud of smoke surrounded us, reeking of fermentation and gasoline. I popped open the door and crawled outside, where I promptly threw up.
Kimberle scrambled over the seat and out, practically on top of me. Her arms held me steady. “You OK?” she asked, panting.
“That was amazing,” I said, my heart still racing, “just amazing.”
Not even a week had gone by when Kimberle brought another girl home, this time an Eastern European professor who’d been implicated with a Cuban during a semester abroad in Bucharest. Rather than wait for me to stumble on to them, they had marched right in to my bedroom, naked as newborns. I was going to protest but was too unnerved by their boldness and then, in my weakness, seduced by the silky warmth of skin on either side of me. Seconds later, I felt something hard and cold against my belly and looked down to see Kimberle wearing a harness with a summer sausage dangling from it. The professor sighed as I guided the meat. As she licked and bit at my chin, Kimberle pushed inch by sitophilic inch into her. At one point, Kimberle was balanced above me, her mouth grazing mine, but we just stared past each other.
Afterwards – the professor between us – we luxuriated, the room redolent of garlic, pepper and sweat. “Quite the little Cuban sandwich we’ve got here,” Kimberle said, passing me what now seemed like the obligatory after-sex joint followed by the vaguely racist comment. The professor stiffened. Like the bookstore girl, she’d turned her back to Kimberle. Instead of rubbing my belly, this one settled her head on my shoulder, then fell happily asleep.
“Kimberle, you’ve gotta stop,” I said. I hesitated. “I’ve gotta get my books back. Do you understand me?”
Her head was buried under the pillow on the futon, the early morning light shiny on her exposed shoulder blade. With the white sheet crumbled halfway up her back, she looked like a headless angel.
“Kimberle, are you listening to me?” There was some imperceptible movement, a twitch. “Would you please . . . I’m talking to you.”
She emerged, curtain of yellow hair, eyes smoky. “What makes you think I took them?”
“What . . .? Are you kidding me?”
“Coulda been the bookstore girl, or the professor.”
Since the ménage, the bookstore girl had called to invite me to dinner but I had declined. And the professor had stopped by twice, once with a first edition of Upton Sinclair’s Mental Radio. Tempting – achingly tempting – as that 1930 oddity was, I had refused it.
“I’ll let Kimberle know you stopped by,” I’d added, biting my lip.
“I didn’t come to see Kimberle,” the professor had said, her fingers pulling on my curls, which I’d found disconcerting.
Kimberle was looking at me now, waiting for an answer. “My books were missing before the bookstore girl and the professor,” I said.
“Oh.”
“We’ve got to talk about that too.”
Down went her head. “Now?” she asked her voice distant and flimsy like a final communication from a sinking ship.
“Now.”
She hopped up, her hip bones pure cartilage. She shivered. “I’ll be right back,” she said, headed for the bathroom. I dropped on the futon, heard her pee into the bowl, then the water running. I scanned the shelf, imagining where Mental Radio might have fit. Silence.
Then: “Kimberle? Kimberle, you all right?” I scrambled to the bathroom, struggled with the knob. “Kimberle, please, let me in,” I pleaded, imagining her hanging from the light fixture, her veins cascading red into the tub, that polymer pistol bought just for this moment, when she’d stick its tip in her mouth and . . . “Kimberle, goddamn it . . .” Then I kicked, kicked and kicked again, until the lock bent and the door gave. “Kimberle . . .” But there was nothing, just my breath misting as I stared at the open window, the screen leaning against the tub.
I ran out and around our building but there was no sign of her, no imprint I could find in the snow, nothing. When I tried to start my car to look for her, the engine sputtered and died. I grabbed Kimberle’s keys to the Toyota, which came to life mockingly, and put it into reverse, only to have to brake immediately to avoid a passing station. The Toyota jerked, the duct-taped fender shifted, practically falling, while I white-knuckled the wheel and felt my heart like a reciprocating engine in my chest.
After that, I made sure we spent as much time together as possible: reading, running, cooking venison I brought from the smokehouse, stuffing it with currants, pecans and pears, or making smoked bison burgers with Vidalia onions and thyme. On any given night, she’d bring home a different girl to whom we’d minister with increasing aerial expertise. At some point I noticed American Dreams was missing from the shelf but I no longer cared.
One night in late January – our local psychopath still loose, still victimless
– I came home from the smokehouse emanating a barosmic mesquite and found a naked Kimberle eagerly waiting for me.
“A surprise, a surprise tonight,” she said, helping me with my coat. “Oh my God, you smell . . . sooooo good.”
She led me to my room, where a clearly anxious, very pregnant woman was sitting up in my bed.
“Whoa, Kimberle, I . . .”
“Hi,” the woman said hoarsely; she was terrified. She was holding the sheet to her ample breasts. I could see giant areolae through the threads, the giant slope of her belly.
“This’ll be great, I promise,” Kimberle whispered, pushing me towards the bed as she tugged on my sweater.
“I dunno . . . I . . .”
Before long Kimberle was driving my hand inside the woman, who barely moved as she begged us to kiss, to please kiss for her.
“I need, I need to see that . . .”
I turned to Kimberle but she was intent on the task at hand. Inside the pregnant woman, my fingers took the measure of what felt like a fetal skull, baby teeth, a rope of blood. Suddenly, the pregnant woman began to sob and I pulled out, flustered and confused. I grabbed my clothes off the floor and started out of the room when I felt something soft and squishy under my bare foot. I bent down to discover a half-eaten field mouse, a bloody offering from Brian Eno, who batted it at me, her fangs exposed and feral.
I climbed in my VW and after cranking it a while managed to get it started. I steered out of town, past the strip malls, the corn fields and the interstate where, years before, Kimberle had made me feel so fucking alive. When I got to the smokehouse, I scaled up a back-room bunk my boss used when he stayed to smoke delicate meats overnight – it was infused with a smell of acrid flesh and maleness. Outside, I could hear branches breaking, footsteps, an owl. I refused to consider the shadows on the curtainless window. The blanket scratched my skin, the walls whined. Trembling there in the dark, I realized I wanted to kiss Kimberle – not for anyone else’s pleasure but for my own.
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Page 47
