by Lutz, John
When she was finished, she gathered up the pages and the mutilated fake leather Bible jacket, carried them in to the kitchen sink, then burned them.
The forsaken, the truly lost, obeyed only their own commandments.
It was almost midnight when Molly loomed over David. She’d removed her sleep shirt and panties and stood nude next to the bed, trailing a corner of her silk scarf lightly over his cheek.
She grinned as he swiped at the scarf with his hand, then opened his eyes and saw her in the dim light.
“Mol?” There was surprise in his voice. And, she thought, anticipation.
She bent lower and kissed him then, reached down and felt him between the legs. His penis was flacid now, but she could change that. The really sensual sexual organ was the brain, and she was going to enter David’s mind tonight even if he thought it was the other way around.
Standing up straight, she used both hands to twirl the scarf into a taut twist of smooth material. Then she smiled. “How about tying my hands and feet, lover? Would you like that?”
He paused, then surprised her.
“Not tonight, Mol. Not that kind of game.”
“You’ve played that kind of game before.”
He almost sat up, as if she’d alarmed him.
“Remember? The lodge in Maine?”
“Ah, yeah.” He seemed to relax. “No forgetting that.”
Puzzled, she stared at him. “You want me to tie you up?”
“No.”
“Something wrong, David?”
“Nothing.”
“The way things have gone lately, I thought you might want me to spice up our bedroom time.”
He reached up and grabbed the scarf, hurting her finger as the material was wrenched from her grasp, then threw it across the room into shadow.
She was stunned. Confused. “Jesus, David! There’s no reason to get mad.”
He lay very still for a while, not answering. Then he cupped a hand behind her head and pulled her down to him. She resisted, still unsure and angry. But this was at least some reaction from him. And she needed that, dammit, she needed it! She let the strength drain from her as he kissed her.
He smiled at her with something like regret. She thought he was going to apologize for snatching away the scarf, but he didn’t. “Nothing needs spicing up where you’re concerned, Mol. I’m just not into that kind of stuff anymore.”
She kissed his forehead, then his lips. “You used to be adventuresome in sex. Used to get a little kinky from time to time. I never minded that. I liked it.”
“So did I, but I don’t feel adventuresome tonight.”
She settled back down beside him in the bed.
Within a few minutes, his hand brushed her nipple, then moved lower. As his finger found its familiar spot and began its subtle rotation, he rolled toward her, craning his neck, and his lips warmly encircled the nipple that still tingled from his touch.
“Plain vanilla, David,” she said, half-jokingly.
Only half-jokingly.
34
A light rain was falling the next morning as Molly delivered Michael to Julia beneath the canopy in front of Small Business.
“Going to rain all day, Michael,” Julia said, lifting him from his stroller and hugging him. “But not on us.” He seemed to enjoy the irony of that and grinned.
Molly turned up the collar of her yellow raincoat and adjusted Michael’s waterproof miniature windbreaker when Julia set him down. She kissed him. “Be a good boy for Julia.”
“Michael’s always good,” Julia said. Her gaze went beyond Molly to a black minivan that had pulled to the curb. A woman climbed out and opened a sliding door in the side of the van to reveal three preschoolers strapped into their seats.
“Two of them are mine,” Julia said, possessive about her young charges. “I’ll get the littlest one next year.”
For a moment Molly and Julia watched the woman lean into the van and begin struggling with safety belts, rattles, and galoshes.
“Family must be a wonderful thing,” Julia said, watching the woman and her children.
At first Molly thought she might be kidding, but when she saw the longing on Julia’s face, she knew better. Julia actually envied the woman.
“It is wonderful,” Molly said. “Someday you’ll know, Julia.”
“That’s what my husband and the doctor tell us. I guess I might as well believe them. And you.”
“You’ll see that we’re right.”
“We keep hoping. That’s what there is to life—hope and family.”
“That sounds about right,” Molly said.
She kissed Michael again and went down the steps to where she’d left the stroller.
As she pushed the stroller along the sidewalk, away from Small Business, she felt the light rain work its way beneath her collar. She paused and opened her umbrella, then continued on her way, not looking back.
Behind her, Deirdre, in a yellow raincoat, had approached Small Business from the opposite direction. She patted Michael on the head and chatted for a few minutes with Julia and the woman from the van. Then she lifted Michael, kissed him, and handed him back to Julia.
Later that morning, in Midnight Espresso on Broadway, Molly sat across from Traci at one of the small, round marble tables. The coffee shop was crowded, especially around the counter and displays of gourmet brands, but Traci had managed to get a table in a corner, away from the press of other patrons, where there was elbow room and it was relatively quiet.
Both women had ordered espressos. Molly took a sip of hers and glanced out the window. The rain had stopped and the hot summer street was steaming. Pedestrians streamed past, many of them with folded umbrellas, their raincoats open and flapping, or draped over an arm. Traffic lurched forward a few feet at a time, with intermittent bursts of horn honking. Though it was crowded, the coffee shop was cool and pleasantly filled with the aroma of its product.
Traci rested a hand on the final portion of the Architects of Desire manuscript on the table. Its pages were bristling with yellow Post-it flags, revisions of revisions.
After a few minutes, Molly and Traci had forgotten about the manuscript as Molly filled Traci in on some of the agonies of the last few weeks.
Now Traci slipped the manuscript into her attaché case, then placed the case on the floor and said, “So, it turns out you’re not all happy under one roof.”
“We’re not going to be under one roof much longer,” Molly said. “David and I are searching around for another apartment. In fact, the management company gave me the keys to two that I’m going to look at when I leave here. Want to come along? Help me figure where the furniture’s going to go?”
Traci laughed. “No, thanks. I’m not very domestic and wouldn’t be much help. My idea of good furniture is something you can hose down.”
Molly rotated her clear glass cup on its coaster. “How’s it going with the novel?”
“Novel? Oh, the one where the ex-wife enters the picture and the wife becomes dog food or compacted trash.” She smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it ends the same way, Mol. Bad news for the wife. But like you said, life doesn’t always imitate art. Or vice versa. In fact, I think I can guarantee you that certain reviewers probably won’t even regard this novel as art.”
“But you do?”
“Yes, it’s very good. It just happens to be about a subject that’s sticky with a lot of people.”
“Do you know much about the author?”
“Sure. He’s a kind and simple man who’s been married to the same woman for thirty-five years.” She finished her espresso and smiled. “Case in point. This guy doesn’t even have an ex-wife to conspire with, and probably the thought of murdering his own wife never seriously entered his mind.” She reached for her attaché case and grinned. “‘Probably,’ I said.”
Molly laughed and shook her head. “I always feel better after talking with you. Once I get over my terror.”
Traci gripped her atta
ché case and stood up. “We all know life’s a dangerous road,” she said. “And if it weren’t, the safe, smooth stretches wouldn’t be nearly so enjoyable.”
“Well, that’s a comforting thought to hold on to while the potholes are jarring the fillings out of my teeth.”
“Anyway,” Traci said, “I’ve gotta get back to the office and meet one of my ego-inflated writers.” She shifted her attaché case, heavy now with the manuscript pages, to her other hand. “By the way, were you at Link looking for me yesterday?”
“No, why?”
“I thought I might have seen you down in the lobby a little before noon.”
“Not me,” Molly said.
Traci reached into her purse with her free hand, fished out some bills, and dropped them on the table.
“This one’s on the publisher, Mol. You look like you need a break.”
Molly smiled. “Thanks, I do.”
She watched Traci push through the crowd near the door, leave the coffee shop, and join the throng of pedestrians on the other side of the window. Within seconds she’d passed out of sight.
Molly drew a slip of paper from her purse, unfolded it, and reread the addresses of the two apartments she was going to inspect in the West Eighties.
They were a short cab ride away, but since the rain had stopped, she decided to walk life’s dangerous road and save the fare.
35
Molly stood across the street and stared at the six-story prewar brick building that was the first address on the slip of paper she carried. It wasn’t unlike the building she and David lived in now, or most of the others that lined the avenue, stone or brick structures with ironwork at the windows and balconies, many of them with stone steps leading to stoops and tall doors. Here and there were canvas awnings, and flower boxes dotted with colorful and fresh-looking blossoms thriving after the recent rain.
She crossed the street and entered the building, finding the vestibule small but clean, with blue-tiled walls free of graffiti. She rode the elevator, also small, with wood paneling that seemed to be closing in on her, to the third floor, then walked down a narrow corridor to 3E and used the management company’s keys to unlock the paint-checked door. There was a lock near the doorknob, and above that a heavy deadbolt lock.
She pushed the door open, then tentatively stepped inside and looked around. It made her uneasy, examining these apartments by herself. She wished David were there, in case…Well, she didn’t know spectfically in case of what, but in this city there were plenty of dreadful possibilities.
But she soon forgot her fear as she concentrated on the apartment. The living room was freshly painted an off-white except for one wall, which the painters hadn’t gotten to with a main coat but had prepared with plaster-patch and primer. A white plastic paint bucket and a paint-speckled, folded drop cloth sat in a corner. The smell of fresh paint made the place seem clean and acceptable.
From overhead came the rapid, muted thuds of a child’s footfalls. Molly smiled. That kind of noise wouldn’t bother her. Besides, the apartment above was apparently carpeted.
She examined the bathroom and found it old but in good repair, with adequate water pressure. The kitchen was in the same condition, but it had a new dishwasher and plenty of cabinet space. It was smaller than the kitchen Molly had now, and the cabinets had multiple coats of white enamel on them, but there was room for a table and chairs. She went to the sink, turned the spigot handles on and off, and nodded with approval.
“This will do,” she said under her breath. “This will definitely do so far.”
The bedrooms hadn’t yet been painted, but they were both slightly larger than those in the present Jones apartment, and there was enough closet space. A large air conditioner with a round plastic grill was mounted in one of the master bedroom’s windows. It looked powerful enough to cope with summer, but it wasn’t running, and Molly suddenly realized the apartment was uncomfortably warm.
Satisfied, she took a last look around and then left, locking the door behind her.
In the elevator she paused, then decided to check the laundry facilities in the basement. She pressed the button marked B, and the stifling little elevator descended with a speed that made her stomach queasy.
When the door glided open, she stepped out into a gloomy, stone-foundation basement. Faint light was making its way through dirty, iron-grilled windows, revealing a rats’ maze of wooden partitions for tenants’ storage.
Something brushed Molly’s forehead and she jumped. Then she saw that it was a pull cord for an overhead light fixture. She gave the cord a firm yank, but the light didn’t come on. Then her eyes adjusted and she noticed a sign: LAUNDRY ROOM—SUBBASEMENT. An arrow pointed through the dim, partitioned basement to a door with what looked like a hand-made sign nailed to it.
Molly walked across the hard concrete floor and saw that the sign on the door indeed marked the entrance to the subbasement and laundry room. She opened the door and found herself at the top of a flight of stairs leading down into blackness. Leaning slightly forward, she ran her hand over the rough wall, feeling for a light switch.
A slight scuffing sound alarmed her, and she started to turn around. But she’d barely moved when something smashed into the small of her back and butted her out over the stairs into darkness.
She came down on the wooden steps on her side and slid to the bottom, bruising her hip and ribs and banging her right elbow.
Only when she was sprawled on the floor at the base of the stairs did she comprehend what had happened. Someone had shoved her! Tried to injure or kill her!
Even as she painfully scrambled to her feet in the darkness, she heard the shufffle and creak of someone coming down the stairs.
She panicked.
Her heart racing with terror, she saw a dim light at the far end of the basement and ran toward it. She struck an ankle on something in the dark and almost tripped, but somehow remained on her feet and lurched forward, her hands outstretched to feel for unseen obstacles.
When she reached the source of the light, she saw that it was a high, narrow window that had been filled in with opaque glass blocks.
No escape that way!
She could hear the unmistakable sound of leather soles scuffing on the gritty concrete floor, closing in on her!
She fled at an angle and made out the outline of a half-opened door. As she bumped her aching hip on something—a wheelbarrow hanging on a wall—she almost cried out in pain. But she swallowed the sound. If whoever was pursuing her in the dim basement didn’t know exactly where she was, she didn’t want to make her location known.
When she reached the door and opened it wider, she saw that it led to a short flight of wooden stairs leading back up to the basement. She climbed the creaking steps, briefly on all fours like an animal, then straightened up and closed the door at the top of the stairs behind her and leaned with her back against it.
There was more light here, revealing the maze of partitions from another perspective. She was totally disoriented. The only sounds were her rasping struggle for breath, her hammering heart.
She felt the doorknob rotate like a drill bit against her back and gasped.
In a panic, she fled through the labyrinth of wooden partitions, bouncing off them. She couldn’t help it—she screamed. Though the sound was deadened in the thick-walled and cluttered basement, she knew she’d revealed her position to whoever was after her.
Finally she reached a crude, unpainted wooden door, another barrier between herself and her stalker. She yanked the door open, stepped to the other side of it, then slammed it behind her and fumbled for a lock.
There was none.
She looked around and found herself trapped in a small storage room. There was somewhat more light there, filtering in through a narrow, iron-grilled window and illuminating a swirl of dust motes.
Frantically she threw herself against a wooden storage crate and shoved it against the wall beneath the window. When she climbed up on the
box and peered through the dirty glass, she was looking at a narrow alley littered with trash. There was no one to signal or call to for help.
She was trapped and alone.
Think! she urged herself. Stay calm and goddamn think!
She scampered down from the box, found a thick wooden plank, and wedged it between the door and a support post so tightly that the board had a slight bow in it.
Within seconds something or someone crashed loudly against the door, making the bend in the board even more pronounced.
Another crash!
Another!
The board bowed even more, the door shivered, and Molly saw one of its upper panels crack.
The crack widened with the next crash, and the dry old wood splintered and sagged inward. But brittle as it was, the door had just enough flexibility to hold and spring back.
Molly knew it wouldn’t hold indefinitely. She climbed back onto the crate and tried to work the lever that unlocked the window. It was ancient and rust-fused and broke off in her hand.
Something crashed against the door again, causing the plank wedged against it to jump a fraction of an inch to the side.
Molly struggled with the jagged metal stump of remaining lever and managed to force it sideways, slicing her palm in the process. The old wood-framed window was the sort that opened inward, with hinges at the top. She gripped the tarnished brass handle and yanked the window in and up, ducking her head so it wouldn’t brain her.
She got a mouth full of cobwebs for her effort, but the window rose.
Coughing, spitting, she clasped her hands over the iron grill and pulled and pushed. There wasn’t the slightest give in the ancient grill.
Then she placed both hands on an end bar, bringing to bear more strength than she would have thought possible, and a corner of the grill gave slightly where it was anchored to stone. She began frantically working the old iron structure back and forth against its mooring, each time causing a raucous squeak she only hoped someone outside might hear. She didn’t think there was enough play in the grill to allow her to weaken it enough so she could escape, but there seemed nothing else to try.
