I could feel nothing.
In the stall, the burbling became violently frantic. I managed to lift my head away from the wall. The magic-marker scrawlings hovered inches from my eyes.
Then they began to shift. To change.
And He began to speak.
YOU’RE JUST A LITTLE FUCKING FAGGOT, He said. OH YES YOU ARE.
My eyes were glued to the words as they synced with the voice booming inside my head.
JUST A LITTLE FUCKING CREAMPUFF FAGGOT WHO DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS.
I thought about the blonde at the bar, her groveling eyes. I thought about LeeAnn. I wanted to scream.
He sensed it. It made Him happy.
LIKE HER, He said, immensely pleased. OH, YES. EXACTLY.
Something slithered out of the toilet bowl and landed on the floor with a thick wet splutting sound. LeeAnn appeared in grotesquely animated caricature on the wall before me, silently screaming as a monstrously bloated penis plunged in and out and in and
YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO BE A MAN. YOU’RE AFRAID TO BE A MAN.
I tried to scream. I couldn’t.
YOU’RE AFRAID TO GO OUT THERE AND TAKE WHAT YOU WANT.
Sliding up my larynx, out over my tongue. Pouring into the hollows behind my eyes. Oozing into the billion soft folds of my brain. Black static, eating inward from the periphery of my vision. Blocking out everything.
But the realization.
Forever and ever.
It was crawling toward me. I couldn’t see it, couldn’t turn my head, but I could hear the horror revisited in the breath of the man beside me.
And I could hear it, slithering. I could feel its hunger. I could taste its boundless greed. A tiny voice in my head shrieked it’s only the drugs: but the voice was tiny, and hollow, and fading.
Something small and moist grabbed onto my pants leg.
NOW YOU’RE GOING TO KNOW WHAT IT IS
Crawling up.
TO BE A MAN
Coming closer.
Struggling toward form.
TO BE A MAN
Tiny fingers clawed the base of my skull. My jaws pried open. A caricature appeared on the wall, mocking me.
OH, YES.
And there was nothing I could do.
But let Him in.
■
When I came to, some ten minutes later, the Mighty Asshole was gone. I knew that I’d have no more trouble from him that night, or ever after. In fact, I could come back as much as I wished. Again. And again.
I belonged now. Completely.
He had not let us fall, cunning fuck that He was. When I came to, we were in front of the sole surviving mirror, and He was splashing freezing water in our face.
He cleaned us up: meticulously washing away the blood, smoothing back the disheveled hair. Tomorrow we’d get it cut, He informed me. Nice and short, maybe a flattop. And we’d start working out, put some meat on these bones.
A real man, He said, always takes care of business.
When we were nice and clean, He turned and bought us a big-ribbed condom. For later. He smiled at our face in the grimy mirror. It was a cruel smile, and infinitely calculated. His smile. The mirror grinned coldly back.
And He smashed it.
With my fist.
When he finally came up the stairs, twenty minutes had passed. LeeAnn was waiting anxiously at the table. “David!” she demanded. “What happened to you? I was really getting worried.”
He lifted one finger, and told her to shush.
She obeyed.
“You’re a sweetheart,” He said, moving close.
Then He kissed her.
Passionately.
With my lips.
There is a book on the history of photojournalism on the endtable beside me. It was one of LeeAnn’s favorite’s, but that’s not why He keeps it around. He likes the pretty pictures.
And He likes to torture me.
Right now, it’s open to the page on the liberation of the concentration camps, at the end of World War II. One photo in particular stands out, flickering in the dim light of the TV’s hissing screen like footage from some long-forgotten newsreel. It’s a black and white picture of the gate to Auschwitz. Perhaps it’s even one of Margaret Bourke-White’s; that would be nice, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. So what if I can’t make out the credit? I can make out the inscription clear enough: ARBEIT MACHT FREI, in huge iron letters. That’s what’s important.
ARBEIT MACHT FREI.
Work Makes Freedom.
I’ve thought about that alot. One of the many thoughts that help me in the night, long after He’s passed out in His favorite easy chair, drunken and still dressed. Tonight, He didn’t even get the damned field jacket off.
I’m so glad.
I’m sure that LeeAnn would be, too.
It took her over a year to tear away: thirteen months of steadily escalating madness. Oh, He was great, for the first month or so: strong and sensitive and very, very sincere. He made all the right moves, said all the right things. And she welcomed my newfound assertiveness, with an ardor that both amazed and destroyed me.
He waited with the patience of the ages, until the hooks were planted nice and deep. Until she fell for Him. Until she trusted Him. Until He could destroy her. It was amazing, how much groundwork I’d already lain. It made it inifinitely easier for Him. And infinitely worse, for me.
And then, when the moment was right, He showed her His true self. Repeatedly.
I’ll never forget the look of betrayal on her face.
It took her over six months to escape; we were living together by then. He tried to break her, and she fought Him. Escape cost her dearly: emotionally, mentally.
Physically.
But escape she did, and I love her for it. I’ve thought of her often, God knows. I’ve wondered how she’s doing, wondered where she is.
But I don’t really want to know.
And, besides, I never will.
Because every night after that, He dragged me downtown and back to the bar. The guys were all there, of course. The guys were always there. We got along famously, round after round, while the Hooter Girl sadly presided.
And every night after that, we went out in search of fresh meat. There were always women out there, waiting to be punished for something. He was always eager to oblige. He wanted me to watch. He needed me to forget. His failure. Her victory.
But I didn’t, dammit.
I remembered.
Within the month, he’d found a suitable distraction: Lisa. She wasn’t as sharp as LeeAnn, or as strong. But her blue eyes were bright, and her curvature dazzled, and her smile could have sold you the moon. We’ve been married now, the three of us, going on four years. We have kids, to my unending sorrow: Patricia, little David, Jr., and another damned soul on the way. Lisa’s eyes no longer sparkle, and she hardly ever smiles. Thirty pounds of purpled padding grace the skeleton of her beauty like a shroud.
But tonight, that’s all behind her.
It’s taken four years. Four years of practice: at night, while He slept drunkenly on. Cell by cell. Inch by inch. Four very long years. LeeAnn would be proud.
I can move my right arm, you see.
Only when He sleeps, true, and not very much. It’s not very strong, either. Yes, life is a bitch.
But it was strong enough to open the book tonight. And with a little strength to spare…
It’ll be enough to reach the knife.
And so what if it takes me all night. ARBEIT MACHT FREI, right? Sometimes, that’s just what it takes.
To be a man.
13
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT
And this is how Meryl’s Halloween went:
She awoke at 8:45 a.m. to the distant sound of her bedroom alarm. A clanging hangover was there to greet her, but nothing and nobody else. She was a bit surprised to find herself on the couch, until pieces of the previous night came crawling back to remind her. From there, her bigge
st surprise was that Katie was no longer with her.
By 9:00, she had remembered how to walk and swallow aspirin: the morning was off to a roaring start. She stripped off the little she was wearing and hit the shower, turned the hot water up high until the steam-level of the room matched the fog inside her head, then cut it with a seering blast of cold water. The effect was stunning; her nerves had never seemed quite so acute as they did while she dressed, in regular Meryl-clothes this time, and hobbled off to class.
At 10:20, her day’s dosage of higher education kicked off with a one-two punch of stultifying proportions: “Lost Gods and Legends: Myths of the Ancient Mediterranean,” and “Hey Diddle Diddle: The Secret Messages of Mother Goose.” It was all she could do to keep her eyelids hoisted. Had modern-day psychologists unlocked the real secrets of Pandora’s Box? Was there really a wealth of evidence to support the contention that nursery rhymes originally carried cryptic encodations vital to the outcome of the War of The Roses? Did anyone honestly give a shit? She could answer only for herself.
Which brought her up to 1:45, where an hour-plus of breathing time took her out in search of fresh city air. Washington Square Park, just across the street, seemed just the place to do it. Already, the preparade production crews were setting up for the long night ahead; their excitement required no exchange of bodily fluids to prove infectious. Tonight is gonna be quite the experience, she told herself. Now, if I can just survive today…
It wasn’t more than a minute later that the day began its downward spiral.
Halfway past the fountain at the center of the park, she was accosted by a gap-toothed punk: naked stubbled scalp, cracked leather jacket, T-shirt emblazoned with the surreal and anomalous legend SKINHEADS FOR JESUS. He graced her with a brain-damaged smile that made her think ye gods, Nancy Reagan was right, and then shoved a pamphlet into her hand.
“Only Jesus can save you!” exclaimed God’s Uncle Fester.
Looks like he did a bang-up job with you, she thought, but kept it to herself, moseying onward and away.
Ten feet past, she finally peeked at the thing. It featured a dumb-looking Reaper and scythe and the words “Death: YOU could be the next!” She could scarcely contain her excitement.
“Even while reading this tract,” she was informed, “you could be having a slight pain in your chest or head, but WITHIN A FEW HOURS, YOU WILL BE DEAD of a heart attack or brain hemorrhage…”
“Oh, jesus!” Meryl grimaced, wadding the offending paper up and tossing it. She already had a major pain in her head, thank you very fucking much. It brought her hand up to rub her scalp, in the hope of easing the thrum somewhat.
In the process, she seemed to dislodge a snippet of drivel from her previous class: a synaptic tape-loop of one of the nursery rhymes, spliced into her subconscious and humming, mantra-like, over and over…
“… this is the priest, all shaven and shorn,
who married the man all tattered and torn,”
Meryl crossed the park, struggling to think about things that mattered, like maybe getting some lunch in her stomach and heading up Broadway to the Strand Book Store to score the prep material for her last class of the day…
“.. . who kissed the maiden all forlorn …”
.. . the amazing “The American Short Story,” in which she was informed that its golden age had already come and gone: an annoying thought, when one considered that she’d personally rather be reading the next J. P Rowan than be dragged through the literary pretensions of one more insipid E Scott Fitzgerald upper-crust pity-party…
“… who milked the cow with the crumpled horn…”
… despite the frightening downward turn the stories seemed to be taking, or the fact that the book was almost over, which meant two things, only one of them good…
“.. . that tossed the dog that worried the cat…”
… no more stories, but also no more excuses: she would have to bag her fantasies, or nail her tail to the grindstone and track that mystery man down…
“.. . that killed the rat that ate the malt…”
… and she knew that there really wasn’t any choice at all, even if it did mean seeking the help of dear old Dad, to check out the realtor who rented the pad, to track down the writer she wanted so bad…
“… that lived in the house that Jack built.”
“Gah,” Meryl groaned. “Enough, already.” Pain wanged in her head. She rubbed her temple. The rhyme went back to whatever gray-matter hell had disgorged it.
She looked at her watch: almost two o’clock. She was already well past the park, on a collision course with the corner of Broadway and Eighth Street. She knew she should be buckling down a little here, playing the good little studious type, maybe trying to salvage her academic career before mid-terms reared their ugly heads. She checked her notes for today’s class: Eudora Welty. Oboy.
And that, as much as anything, decided her.
It was a short jaunt from there to her building. She managed it much better, relieved of the burden of good little literary studentdom. Her path took her past a spate of Greenwich Village fashion-risk emporiums—Unique Clothing, The Antique Boutique, One of A Kind, and a host of others—where the slumming hordes were busily plunking down cash to score that elusive and pricey Halloween accessory: Day-Glo studded underwear, earrings that looked like aborted launch wreckage from the Star Wars defense initiative, the basic necessities of life on lower Broadway. Meryl ran a mental checklist of her own outfit, did not find it lacking, and so wished them well and went on her way.
But the whole thing made her think of Katie, so she stopped by Bayamo on her way upstairs, to see how her partner in crime was holding up. If she’s not at least half as hungover as I am, she’s a dead woman. She stepped inside.
It was then that she got the next piece of weird news.
At 2:15, Meryl discovered that Katie hadn’t shown up for work today. Nor had she left any word as to why. Her boss was profoundly displeased by this development; so much so, in fact, that he was talking termination. The hostess confided in Meryl her doubts with regard to her boss’s sincerity, but the ugly truth remained: it didn’t sound like Katie, and it didn’t sound good.
Alarmed, Meryl hightailed it up to the loft, checking for clues that she might have missed in her early-morning stupor. There were none. At least none visible. No notes, no microfilm, no lipsick messages on the mirror. That left nothing to do but fret and stew and chide herself for her mother-hen-ism and wait around, fretting and stewing some more.
By three o’clock, she had gotten the shits. There were four stories left. She settled back on the couch and dug into the first of them.
Shells.
Depressing was too mild a word.
She sat there, thinking about it, thinking about what it could possibly mean. Structurally, it was a very odd piece; beyond that, it was dark as dark could be. She could literally see the hope trickling out of him, like a slow leak in an inner tube, hissing away one micromillimeter at a time.
And it frightened her.
Because she knew what lay at the end of hope. Her mother had shown her that. The tiny scar at the thin of her wrist was a road map of that place.
But she didn’t want to think about that…
“Nuh-uh,” she muttered, and got to her feet. No time to waste on that bleak thought terrain. It made more sense to worry about Katie, the more mundane unpleasantries of everyday life. Whatever reason the girl had for blowing off work, it must have been a good one. Probably some festive jumbo surprise. Chocolate-covered vibrators, perchance.
The humor in that vastly eased her mind, for almost fifteen seconds.
Then it was back to the fret and the stew, coupled with a gradually mounting annoyance. Since when, she inquired of herself, have you taken to letting the comings and goings of other people get so far under your skin?
A darn good question, she had to admit. Too bad the answer was so fucking uncomfortable. It was ridiculous, for example, that she
should be antsy: in her own apartment, in the privacy of her own selfhood. It was preposterous to whip herself into a tizzy just because someone (surprise!) gave every appearance of having gone back on their word. It was utterly absurd, after all these years, to have her sense of well-being suddenly hinge on the presence of another.
But there it was: and much as she hated it, she couldn’t seem to rationalize it away. Without Katie here to warm things up, the place felt cold and strange. The fact that she was certainly manufacturing those weird vibes herself only made it worse.
Because, alone here, there was nothing to do but read the book.
And reading the book was starting to freak her out.
At four, she noted the absence of spirits in the apartment with some dismay. Her hangover malaise had not dispersed, had only changed in shape; perhaps a little hair of the dog was in order. She threw her coat on and headed back down to Broadway, hit the nearest liquor store. Got what she needed. Headed back up.
Still no sign of Katie.
Three stories left to go.
By 4:30, Meryl had cracked open the brandy, poured herself three fingers’ worth, and sipped half of it down. The fact that she had neglected to eat made her cautious; she didn’t want to get crocked. At least not yet. She would wait for the party to begin.
The brandy helped a little: taking the edge off, putting the nice warm glow in her belly, restoring a bit of her former enthusiasm. She hadn’t really expected Katie until 5:30, anyway, so what was there to get anxious about? She gave herself a halfhearted kick in the tush and started thinking about getting ready.
Her costume was right on the bed, where she’d left it. Thank God it required next to no maintenance. She’d considered the possibility that she might have to handwash the blouse and stockings in the sink; but no. All was hunky-dory.
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