Killing Johnny Fry

by Walter Mosley

  “Did you ever see him again?"

  “No."

  “Did he . . . damage you? Physically, I mean."

  “He did love me, you know,” she said.

  “No. He raped you."

  “Sometimes I‘d looked forward to seeing him,” she said reaching out for my hand again. “Sometimes I‘d fight him on purpose so that he would punish me."

  “He was fucking with your mind,” I said, but she wasn‘t listening to me.

  “It felt good when he punished me,” she admitted. “Sometimes he‘d drink water all day and when I‘d get there he‘d make me get into the bathtub and, and urinate on me because I was so disgusting."

  “It‘s lucky the motherfucker‘s dead,” I said. “If he wasn‘t, I‘d kill him."

  Jo looked me in the eye right then. Her gaze was clear and innocent.

  “He couldn‘t help it,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “His stepmother, my grandmother, kicked him out when he was only twelve. He went to live with his grandmother, who beat him and sold him to men and women for sex. He didn‘t know how to have normal love.

  “Over the years, I learned how to deal with him. And I knew how to get him to give my mother what she needed."

  “I‘m so sorry, baby,” I said. “I never knew."

  “For many years, I never so much as went out on a date with any man,” she continued. “And when I did start dating, I never liked anyone. I never let them get close. Then, when I met you, I knew you were the perfect man for me. I didn‘t want what I‘d had with Rex. If I needed to be alone, you let me be. If I wanted to make love, you were gentle and kind.

  “But when Rex died, something happened. After all those years, the hunger for crazy sex started to eat at me. That‘s why when you changed, I was so wild for you. I needed you to do what you did to me in the park. That‘s why when you pretended to slap me, I got so excited."

  And that‘s why, I knew, she had started the affair with Johnny Fry. She needed to be abused and humiliated. She needed to be treated like an object—the object of lust.

  “Do you want me to come home with you?” I asked.

  “No. I want you to go home and think about what I‘ve told you,” she said. “I‘ve told you a lot. You have to think about it. And I can tell from the way you‘re blinking how much your head hurts."

  “I am in pain. But I wouldn‘t leave—"

  “Don‘t talk about it now,” Jo told me, bringing her finger to my lips. “Just go and come back tomorrow at three . . . if you still want to be with me."

  Even though my head hurt terribly, I decided to walk. With each step on the hard concrete, I could feel and even hear the reverberations going through my body. It was like the pounding of great bass drums.

  I wasn‘t walking in a straight line. I drifted from one side of the sidewalk to the other, looking at dogs on leashes and clouds in the sky. For four blocks, between 62nd and 59th, I counted the black splotches of dried chewing gum on the white concrete. I counted 292 before the headache got too bad for counting.

  I went into Central Park for a while, hoping that sitting under the trees there would ease nay pain. But the headache got worse and worse. The light in the dome of my head glimmered, and flashes of imagined lightning flickered in among the boughs overhead.

  When I even thought about standing, I got nauseous. I had other symptoms too: my heart was pounding, I was dizzy, and now and then my hands trembled Uncontrollably.

  I hated those splotches of gum. For some reason I blamed them for my malady.

  Hours later, the sun began to set. With the night, my symptoms eased up just a little. I was able to make it to my feet and stagger to a cab in Columbus Circle.

  “What did you say?” the cabbie asked three times before he understood my slurred speech.

  It was an $8 ride, but I gave him a twenty and told him to keep the change.

  It took a quarter of an hour for me to find and work the keys on the doors to my building and my apartment. By that time, the pain in my head was worse than ever. It hurt so badly that it seemed to be making a sound, a deep humming note fluttering through the folds of my brain.

  I found the slip of paper that had Cynthia‘s number on it and punched it into the keypad of my phone with great difficulty.

  “Enter code or wait for first operator,” the voice told me.

  It took much longer than it should have. There were flashes in front of my eyes, and momentary dark spots. It‘s a wonder that I wasn‘t frightened. I could have had a brain tumor or some parasite or virus. But the only thing I cared about was getting Cynthia‘s name into that phone.

  “You have entered the wrong code,” the man‘s voice told me, and the line was disconnected.

  I hit the redial button, and even though the memory held more numbers than I needed, the phone rang again. The man told me to enter the code again.

  By this time pain was dripping from my eyes, nose, and mouth. When I pressed the pound key on the phone pad, it felt like the last thing I would ever do.

  I knew that I was going to die but I wasn‘t exactly sure why. It had something to do with me not being responsible. There was a phone ringing somewhere. I was drifting slowly toward the floor. It was a known fact that once I‘d rolled out of the chair, I‘d never get to my feet again.

  “Hello?"

  “Cynthia?"

  “Cordell? Is that you? How are you?"

  How are you?

  All it took was her asking after my well-being, and the pain lifted—completely. I wiped the mucous, tears, and drool from my face and took a very deep breath in through my mouth. The air felt really good in my lungs. The world was filling with possibilities.

  “Cordell?"

  “Yes, yes, Cynthia. I‘m sorry if it‘s late, but I just had to call. My head."

  “What happened?"

  I told her about my talk with Jo, about her uncle and her brave sacrifice to keep her family alive.

  “So I couldn‘t tell her about what I knew,” I said at the end of the long tale. “I mean, she was in so much pain already, and obviously she couldn‘t control herself."

  “It sounds as if she‘s in full control,” Cynthia said. “She said that she couldn‘t get a job."

  “She was only fourteen,” I said defending my girlfriend as a child.

  “When it began,” Cynthia said. “But she was seventeen when her uncle . . . Bernard?"

  “Yes."

  “When her uncle Bernard took the family away. A seventeen-year- old could have found a job. And from what you said, she felt that she had some power over Rex. She never told anyone and she received his letters without turning him over to the police. It would be interesting to know what he wrote in those letters."

  “It doesn‘t matter,” I said. “She was a victim of sexual abuse. She couldn‘t turn him in because of what he did to her mind."

  “That‘s no excuse for what she did to your trust,” Cynthia said with conviction.

  “You‘re a woman too,” I exclaimed. “How can you say such a thing?"

  “Because,” Cynthia said, “if I forgave her, then I would have to forgive Rex for his actions. He was abused you say. He was sold into prostitution and mistreated by his grandmother. Can I tell you that he should therefore be forgiven for what he did to your girlfriend?"

  “That doesn‘t mean that Jo is not a victim. I don‘t care about Rex."

  “I don‘t either,” Cynthia said. “Neither do I care about Joelle. All that concerns me is you, Cordell. You are the one in pain. You are the man in need of trust and love. I feel for the pain you brought to me when I first heard your voice tonight."

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why did it just go away like that? I thought I was gonna buy it before you answered."

  “Because you know that I am here for you,” she said. “I‘m not going to lie or try to fool you out of your money. I‘m not going to betray you. Your pain was the onset of the despair we experience when we are marooned in life."

  �
�Are you sure you‘re not a therapist?” I asked the dial-a-friend.

  “No,” she replied. “The benefactor who funds this service doesn‘t want psychological professionals manning the lines. He wants people who will listen and also care."

  I inhaled again, taking in a great quantity of air. Then I began crying and couldn‘t stop. I fell onto the floor and rolled into fetal position. My chest was wracked with sobs. My face hurt from the contortions it went through.

  When the bawling began to ebb, Cynthia asked, “Can you talk now, Cordell?"

  “Call me L,” I said. “And yes, I can talk some."

  “Are you angry at your girlfriend?"

  “I don‘t know. Yesterday I would have said yes. But now . . . I don‘t know."

  “What about her boyfriend?"

  “I hate him,” I said. “I hate him. But I can‘t pay attention to that."

  “Why not?"

  “Because the more I feel, the crazier I get. All the wild sex I‘m having with Jo, and then there‘s the night with Lucy. And my obsession with The Myth of Sisypha. I‘m losing control."

  “What‘s that last name you said?” Cynthia asked.

  “It‘s this X-rated film I bought, The Myth of Sisypha. There‘s a woman in it, the star. I can‘t explain it, but she seems to understand."

  “Understand what?"

  “I only watched a few scenes,” I said, “but I can‘t stop thinking about the woman and what she‘s doing to her husband. It‘s brutal, but I keep thinking that he needs someone, that I need someone to, to . . . I don‘t know—to wake me up."

  “Hm You say that you‘re losing control,” Cynthia said. “But maybe what you‘re doing is finding your way."

  “This isn‘t my way, Cynthia. I don‘t have semisecluded sex in the park and follow after another man with my own girlfriend. I don‘t quit my job on a whim and start a new profession that I know absolutely nothing about."

  “But you have done all of that,” Cynthia said. “I think what you have to do is trust your own heart. You‘re alone, L. You‘re looking for contact somewhere in the world. Sex is the first step to that contact. Don‘t abandon it. Jo hasn‘t. She found a lover to fill the void of her loss and longing. She took you where she needed you to be."

  I couldn‘t argue. If I was to forgive Jo, then I‘d have to forgive myself too. And I was lonely, desperately lonely.

  “But isn‘t indiscriminate sex using people?” I asked.

  “People work together all the time,” Cynthia replied. “They use each other to make their lives whole. A mother walks down the street with a year-old toddler in her arms. The baby sees a big beautiful woman and reaches out his arms for her. The baby hugs this woman‘s neck and kisses her cheek. But the child has not abandoned the mother. The beautiful woman is elated by the love shown her through this child. There‘s nothing wrong with people helping each other, loving each other."

  “I guess I never felt anybody loves me like that,” I said feeling simultaneously shy and self-absorbed.

  “Then it‘s time you felt it,” Cynthia said. “Take your journey, L. Don‘t be afraid to reach out."

  On the answering machine I had three messages. One was an offer to consolidate my credit card debt into a new card that would charge only 2 percent interest for the first sixty days. The second was from Sasha Bennett.

  “Hi, Cordell,” she said. “I just sent Enoch off in a taxi. I‘m in my apartment all night. Any time you‘d like to drop by, I‘d be happy to see you."

  The third call was from Jerry Singleton again.

  “I can‘t believe that you‘re being this unprofessional, Cordell. I‘ve had to scramble all week just to get somebody to cover this meeting. You should at least call me to explain yourself."

  After erasing those messages, I was worried that the headache would return. I was expecting pain but all I felt was depletion. Every part of my body, down to my fingers, felt weak and tired.

  Still I managed to call a number.

  “Hello,” she said on the third ring.

  “I love you, Jo,” I said.

  “Does that mean it‘s over?"

  “No. Why would you think that?"

  “I thought you were going to say that you have to let me go because of what I did, because you‘re so disgusted with me."

  “No,” I said. “I‘ll be there tomorrow at three."

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Are you sure?"

  “Of course I am. It‘s not your fault what your uncle did."

  “That‘s not what they used to say in my mother‘s church,” Jo whispered.

  “No? What did they say there?"

  “That a man couldn‘t be evil alone,” she said. “Men create evil between themselves."

  She answered the door only moments after I knocked. All she wore was a white T-shirt that came down to just above her knees.

  “I was expecting you,” she said.

  It was 2:22 in the morning.

  Sasha took my hand and led me to a brown chaise longue that sat near an open window. The apartment was lit by several dozen candles and four glass-encased oil lanterns.

  “I lit all the lights for us,” she said. “Enoch left early, but I didn‘t care. All I‘ve been thinking about for days is getting together with you."

  She stood at the end of the backless sofa and reached down to the hem of her white T-shirt. Two of the lanterns stood on a table to the right, and so, when she pulled the shirt up to her belly button, I got a clear view of her wide hips and dense pubic hair.

  Sasha wasn‘t fat but she had a generous woman‘s figure. She sat back on the chaise longue, bringing her left foot up so that her vaginal lips and clitoris were presented deliciously.

  Without a word, I sank to my knees and gently sucked the engorged clitoris into my mouth, enough to get my tongue up under the hood.

  Sasha let out a groan that reverberated around the gutted apartment.

  I spent many long minutes in that groaning room licking and sucking her perfectly formed pussy. It was leaking big dollops of tangy fluid. When I would get down and run my tongue from the bottom back up to the clit, she‘d say, “Swallow the come, baby. Drink it all down. I want you to eat me up."

  I swallowed as she commanded, smacking my lips so that she knew what I was doing.

  While I was still flicking my tongue over the erect clit, Sasha moved back and sat up.

  “Stand in front of me,” she said.

  I did as she asked, and she pulled down my pants and underwear with one expert yank. I realized then that I had lost weight in the last few days.

  My cock was standing straight out. I stared down at it and at Sasha‘s face beyond. It seemed to me a miracle to be there. The fact that Sasha wanted to be with me was what made me so hard.

  There was a small drawer in the table next to the chaise. This she opened, taking out a rubber dildo, a ceramic cup filled with some kind of fluid, and a small square packet containing a condom.

  She ripped open the condom and took hold of my erection, gently looping the rubber over the head.

  While she rolled the band down on me, she said, “The dildo has been boiled and washed. It‘s completely sterilized."

  “What are you going to do with it?” I asked her.

  “Put that big fat cock inside me,” she commanded.

  I got on top of her and did what she said. It surprised me how tight she was. Much more so than Jo or Lucy. I imagined that all her lovers had small members, and this for some reason excited me.

  “Not so fast, Cordell,” Sasha whispered in my ear.

  Instantly I slowed my beat.

  “Look at my right hand,” she said.

  I saw that she was holding the dildo, dipping it into the ceramic bowl. When she took the thing out, I could see that the liquid was thick and viscous.

  “It‘s the best lubricant,” she breathed.

  Then she moved the dildo behind me, where I couldn‘t see it. But I felt the thick oil falling into the crack of my as
s and flowing down over my balls. There it seemed to heat up a little.

  I groaned loudly so as not to increase my pace.

  “That‘s right,” Sasha said. “Fuck it slow like you love that pussy. Take it all the way out and then come in again like your big dick is kissing it again and again and again."

  Every time she said the word, I reentered her. This obeisance caused both of us great joy.

  “It‘s so tight,” I hissed.

  She got more oil and dribbled it over my ass.

  The heat became greater.

  Then I felt the head of her dildo press against my rectum.

  “Get ready, baby,” she said. “I‘m gonna shove it all in, all at once. Then you‘re going be in control. If you don‘t want it too deep, don‘t pull out so much when you fuck that cunt. If you can keep it to short deep thrusts, you won‘t have to take too much."

  “What if. . . “ I said, and then she pressed the full length of the phallus into my rectum, filling it up.

  It didn‘t hurt exactly, but felt like I had to defecate. It was as if an empty space that I had never considered was suddenly completely filled.

  “Do you feel it, baby?” Sasha whispered in my ear.

  “Yes."

  “Then fuck it. Fuck it hard."

  Her words were in complete control of my mind. I rose up above her and pounded down on her sex like that was my one purpose in life. When I was just about to come, she moved the dildo around in a wide circle inside me. It was as if someone had grabbed me by the insides and pulled me back. My body faltered and my cock came out of her, hovering above the opening as I tried to compensate for the new feelings inside me.

  “I‘m going to move it around again,” she whispered. “Okay?"

  I nodded, holding my breath.

  I thought that I‘d be ready the next time, but the broad arc of the dildo made me grunt like a wild boar. Before the spasms left my body, Sasha whispered, “Fuck me, Daddy."

  Daddy.

  As I came in and out of her tight pussy, her dildo went in and out of me. The harder I fucked her, the more she plunged the gray-and-white phallus into me. Whenever I began to cry out, she moved the thing in a circle, effectively stopping any orgasm.