“Strange. Maybe their humor is a reflection of their somewhat off-kilter world view.”
“More than likely.” Lane climbed down from the stool, moved it closer to Mr. Kramer, and mounted it again. As she rose, she lifted a picture of Faulkner from the chalk tray. She pressed it against the corkboard and tacked it into place. Hearing a squeak, she glanced back. Mr. Kramer had turned his swivel chair around. He was looking up at her.
He didn’t say anything.
Lane crouched for another picture. As she raised it, she said, “You know how we were talking about dead writers and fame?”
“The myth.”
“Right. Well, you want to know something odd? The reverse is actually true. At least nowadays.” She tacked the picture of Frost to the cork. “When a writer kicks the bucket, he’s screwed.”
She heard her teacher laugh. Turning around, she smiled down at him. “Publishers want to builda writer. Once he’s dead, they don’t want to touch him.”
More laughter.
“It’s true. Unless he’s a real biggy. With most guys, they just lose interest. I know about an agent, and one of his best writers died, and he kept it a secret. She was a big writer of romances, you know? He stood to lose a fortune. So what he did, he actually got some hack to start writing imitations, and he sold them using the dead writer’s name. Do you believe it?”
“Gives a new meaning to ‘literary immortality.’ ”
“Yeah, I’ll say.”
Lane turned away and took a picture of Sandburg off the tray. Rising, she realized she should have moved the stool. Frost was already some distance to her left. Sandburg would mean a stretch. She supposed she could manage it, though.
Easing herself forward, she braced her right forearm against the chalkboard. She leaned to the left. She reached way out with the picture of Sandburg and pressed it to the wall and the stool flipped.
Lane heard herself gasp, “Oh shit!”
Part of her mind seemed to disconnect, to step back and observe this ridiculous and embarrassing event. She saw herself dropping sideways, arms waving in the air beyond her head, her right leg high as if the overturning stool had thrown it toward the ceiling. Her skirt was up around her hips. Her blouse was halfway up her chest.
Wunnerful wunnerful.
She heard a crash, but it wasn’t her. Not yet. Maybe Kramer’s chair slamming against his desk.
He coming to the rescue? she wondered. Or just trying to get out of the way.
Coming to the rescue, she realized as one of his hands jammed under her armpit and another clapped the bare skin of her upraised leg, high against her inner thigh. She felt the hands thrust upward. Then she slammed the floor, grunting at the impact.
The hands went away.
“My God, are you okay?”
Nodding, gasping, Lane rolled onto her back. Mr. Kramer was kneeling over her. His face was red, his eyes wide, his lips twisted in a grimace.
“Guess I’ll live,” she muttered. She started to sit up.
“Don’t.” He gently pushed her shoulder. She eased back down. “Don’t try to get up. Just rest a minute.” He kneaded her shoulder. “That was a nasty fall.”
“Thanks for catching me.”
“Well, I tried. It happened so fast.”
“You broke my fall some.”
“Not much.”
“I feel like such a dork.”
“These things happen.” His other hand patted her belly. “I just hope you’re all right. You really gave me a scare.” His hand settled there, big and warm against her bare skin just above her belt. “Where do you hurt?” he asked.
“My side, I guess.”
He leaned farther over her. His hand slid across her belly to her hip. “Here?”
She nodded. “And my ribs.”
“Hope nothing’s broken.”
“I don’t think so.”
Lane closed her eyes. Gently, Mr. Kramer rubbed her hip bone and the side of her rump. His other hand brushed her blouse upward. “Pretty red,” he murmured. “You’ll probably have a whale of a bruise.”
“Moby bruise,” she said, then sighed as he began to massage the side of her ribcage.
“Tender?” he asked.
“Yeah. A little.”
His hand roamed higher, fingers kneading, soothing the soreness.
“Any sharp pain?” he asked.
“No.” She moaned when his wrist brushed against the underside of her breast.
“It hurts here?” he asked, pressing her ribs. The wrist moved slightly, rubbing her.
“Just kind of an ache,” she murmured.
He massaged her side, his wrist staying against her breast, caressing Lane through the thin fabric of her bra.
Doesn’t he realize it’s there? she wondered.
She hoped not.
If he realized, he would stop.
His other hand eased lower. Lane’s skirt was no longer in its way. She felt him stroking and squeezing the side of her leg, high up.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He continued to rub her.
Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to me? she wondered.
Lightly, he patted her leg. “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t we get you to your feet now?”
Lane considered telling him she wasn’t ready. Any more of this, though, and it might become all too obvious that his touch was doing more than just soothing her injuries.
He took a firm hold on her upper arm, placed his other hand at the base of her neck, and helped her sit up.
Her blouse unrumpled and drifted toward her waist. Her skirt was as high as she had suspected. She glimpsed glossy blue between her legs, and dropped a hand to conceal it.
A little late for modesty, she thought.
Mr. Kramer held onto her arm until she was standing.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
When he let go, she looked down and straightened her skirt.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I think so.” She raised her eyes. “At least I was wearing clean undies,” she added, and smirked, and couldn’t believe she’d said that.
“Always should,” Mr. Kramer said, a smile spreading across his face. “You never know when you might be in an accident.”
“As Mother says.”
“As all mothers say.”
“Shit,” she muttered, and lowered her head.
He put his hands on her shoulders, rubbed them. “I’m just glad you’re all right. I feel responsible, you know.”
“I’m such a klutz.”
“You’re a terrific young lady. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
Lane looked into his eyes. They were clear blue, gentle, knowing. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Now, you’d better run along.”
“But I haven’t finished putting up the...”
“I’ll take care of the rest. If I were you, I’d take a long, hot bath. Really soak. That’ll help the soreness.”
“I will.”
* * *
Lane waited until after dinner that night, then went into the bathroom. She still wore her school clothes. She lay down on the floor. There, she hitched up her skirt and blouse so they were just as they’d been after the fall. She arranged her legs to match her earlier position: left leg straight and flat against the carpet; right leg raised a little, bent at the knee, angled outward. Bracing herself up with her elbows, she stared down at herself.
This is how I looked to Mr. Kramer.
Holy cow.
Then she noticed that her right leg had a faint purple hue. The imprint of Mr. Kramer’s hand? That must be where he grabbed me to break my fall, she realized. It was just below her groin.
“Man,” she whispered.
She thought she could still feel his hand there, as if it had left a ghost of itself.
If Jim had grabbed me there...
Forget Jim, she told herself.
She got to her feet, stepped in front
of the mirror and again lifted her skirt. Her panties were tight and clinging, the blue fabric nearly transparent.
She grimaced at her reflection. Her face was very red.
“He sure got an eyeful,” she whispered.
But he never got funny. He acted like a perfect gentleman. That’s the difference between a mature, sensitive man like Mr. Kramer and a horny teenager like Jim.
Lane stoppered the tub and ran water for her bath. While the tub filled, she took off her clothes. She returned to the mirror. There were bruises over the jut of her left hipbone and low along the side of her rib cage.
She stared at her left breast. Leaning backward, she studied its underside where Mr. Kramer’s wrist had rubbed it through the bra. The skin looked smooth and white.
What did you expect? she asked herself.
But it didn’t seem right for there to be no visible evidence of his touch.
Shaking her head, Lane turned to the tub. She crouched and shut off the faucet. Then she climbed over the side.
She settled down into the hot water. She sprawled beneath it, squirming under the fluid caress, and once again arranged her body to match its position on the classroom floor. She closed her eyes.
She remembered the feel of Mr. Kramer’s touch. In her mind the teacher stopped massaging her ribs. His hand closed gently over her breast and he sank down onto her and covered her mouth with his. She wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him hard and sank into the moist heat of his kiss.
Twenty-five
Jessica woke up. Keeping one eye shut, she squinted at her bedside lamp. Then at her alarm clock. Almost three. In the morning?
What is this? she wondered. What’s the lamp doing on? She rolled onto her back and sat up.
Kramer, naked, stood with his back to the closed door of her bedroom. His left hand rested against the switch plate. His right hand, down at his side, held a straight razor.
Jessica felt as if her heart had been stomped.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Kramer asked. He spoke in a normal voice, not a whisper. It was very loud in the stillness.
Jessica struggled for a breath, then whispered, “My folks’ll hear you.”
“Think so?” he said, speaking even louder than before.
Maybe not, she told herself. Her door was shut. Her parents’ room was at the other end of the hallway, and they were sound sleepers.
Kramer let his hand fall away from the light switch. He stepped slowly toward the end of the bed.
Jessica gazed at the razor swinging near his side.
Why did he have that?
He’d warned her that he might come back with a razor.
She panted. She couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. “I didn’t tell,” she said. “I didn’t... tell on you. What do you want?”
He said nothing. A corner of his mouth curled up. He stopped at the foot of the bed. Eyes on Jessica, he reached down with his left hand and dragged the covers toward him.
She didn’t move.
The blanket and top sheet slid off her lap, down her legs, and dropped off the end of the mattress. Her short nightgown, rucked up and twisted while she slept, left her bare below the waist.
“Nice,” Kramer said. “Now, lie back and relax.”
She shook her head. She lifted her left arm and rested its cast against her thigh, her hand blocking the teacher’s view.
“That’s no way to behave. You’ll get low marks for cooperation.” He lifted the razor close to his face and shook it in a scolding gesture.
Jessica moved her arm aside. She lay down.
The mattress shook as Kramer crawled onto it. He knelt between her legs. He lifted her nightgown and slit it up the middle until it parted between her breasts. With the end of the blade, he flicked the fabric aside.
“Don’t cut me,” she whispered. “Please.”
“I’m not happy with you, Jessica.”
“I didn’t tell.”
“I know.”
She whimpered as cold steel slid down her belly. Raising her head, she saw that it was the blunt side of the blade.
“But you might,” Kramer said.
“I won’t. Never.”
“I saw how you looked at Lane this afternoon. You were thinking about it, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“Thinking about warning her.”
“No. I wouldn’t. Why should I care what you do to her? I don’t even like the bitch.”
He flipped the blade and cut her. A quick, curling slash. It didn’t hurt much, but she flinched rigid and sucked in her belly. A red S appeared above her navel. Its curving line thickened. Dribbles spread out from it like tendrils. They blurred as tears filled Jessica’s eyes. Her sobbing made them shimmer and wiggle.
“Please!” she gasped.
“Shouldn’t have called Lane a bitch.”
“I’m sorry!”
Kramer hunched down. Braced on his elbows, rump high, he lapped up the spreading blood. With the tip of his tongue he probed the shallow cut. Jessica shuddered as his tongue spread the raw edges.
She crashed her cast against the side of his head, crying out as pain lanced up her arm.
The blow knocked his head sideways.
Twisting, she rammed a knee into his hip.
He toppled, and the edge of the bed wasn’t there to catch him. He dropped out of sight, slammed the floor.
Jessica rolled, grabbed the side of the mattress and looked down at him. He was flat on his back, an upraised knee resting against the box springs, his other leg straight out, one arm against his side, the other flung out limp against the carpet, its hand open, the razor a few inches beyond his fingertips. His jaw drooped. His open eyes were rolled upward as if gazing at something beneath his upper lids.
He’s out, she thought.
She knew out when she saw it; she’d seen enough boxing matches with Riley.
Gasping for air, trembling and nauseous, she swung her legs down. She rose from the bed and stepped over him. With one foot she pinned his right wrist to the carpet. She crouched and picked up the razor. Once she had it, she ground her heel against his wrist.
He groaned.
Coming to! Jessica’s heart lurched. Her stomach seemed to shrink and go cold.
She stepped off his wrist, turned around and looked down at him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth bared.
She had to do something fast!
She took a deep breath, about to cry out “Dad!” But she stopped herself.
Kramer would talk. If he lived, he’d talk. Everyone would find out she’d been sleeping with him. Everyone. Her folks, all the kids at school, Riley.
Can’t let him talk.
A chill swept up Jessica’s body. Her skin prickled with goose bumps.
Nobody’ll blame me. It’s self-defense. He broke into the house and attacked me.
She looked down at her wound. Blood still spilled from the S-shaped slice. The skin below it was slicked with shiny red. Her pubic hair was matted and drops trickled down her thighs.
That’s my proof, she thought. He cut me. He came to rape and murder me. I had to defend myself.
Kramer opened his eyes.
Jessica rushed to his side and rammed her foot down, driving her heel into his belly. Breath whooshed out of him. His eyes bugged. He half sat up. She dropped onto him, knees landing on his chest and stomach. As his back struck the floor, she swept the razor down at his throat.
His left arm shot up faster than she could imagine. It met her descending forearm just above the wrist. Pain streaked to her shoulder. The razor flew from her tingling fingers.
Kramer’s other hand punched her in the spine. As she jerked rigid, he grabbed her hair. He yanked it and bucked beneath her knees, hurling Jessica backward. She crashed against the floor. The impact jolted her, knocked her breathless.
Kramer had one of her legs. He raised it, dragged her by it, propped it high.
Jessica lifted her head and s
aw her right leg stretched upward, heel on the edge of her mattress. Before she could move, Kramer stomped her knee. As if her leg were a branch. She heard the sharp crack, watched her leg cave in beneath his foot, felt an explosion of agony that turned her vision bright red, then black.
* * *
When she woke up, she was on her bed. Kramer was on top of her, in her, grunting and thrusting. Her right leg felt as if it were burning from the inside, as if her bones were ablaze. The pain was so fierce that Kramer’s ramming penis seemed incidental. She just wished he would get it over with and stop bouncing on her leg.
When she tried to move her outstretched arms, she realized they were tied at the wrists. Probably to her bed posts.
No chance of fighting him.
At last Kramer finished.
But she knew he wasn’t done.
It didn’t seem to matter much. She knew it ought to matter, she ought to care. But her mind was fuzzy, couldn’t seem to focus on anything except the pain.
The pain couldn’t get any worse.
But it did.
It got a lot worse when he started with the razor. So bad that she screamed, and wondered why she hadn’t screamed earlier. Dad would hear it. Dad would save her.
Kramer stuffed a rag into her mouth.
He kept on cutting.
Where’s Dad?
She passed out.
When she came to, Kramer was hunched over her, licking and sucking on her wounds. He raised his face and gazed at her. Except for his eyes, his face was smeared with blood. Even his teeth were red.
He pulled the rag from Jessica’s mouth. He tossed it aside, dropped flat and squirmed up her body. His penis pushed into her. His tongue filled her mouth. He rode her hard as if trying to pound her through the mattress.
Later she saw him standing beside the bed. He was clean. He was dressed. He had a bundle of newspapers under one arm. He crouched out of sight.
She heard the crackle of papers being crumpled.
She heard the snick of a match.
Kramer stood over her.
“Sleep tight,” he said. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
On his way out, he turned off the light.
But the room wasn’t dark for long.
Twenty-six
The Stake Page 22
