The Female of the Species

by Lionel Shriver

  “Round the corner. At the sto’.”

  Errol ran. They weren’t sober enough to chase him. The phone by the liquor store did have a dial tone.

  Yet just as he picked it up, Errol heard a long scream from a couple of blocks away. He dropped the receiver and ran. Gray had a deep voice, but not that deep. The scream hadn’t been a woman’s, but a man’s.

  This was the block. Errol jogged down, scanning into gaping doorways. At last, just as he passed by one more, he caught a flash of motion in the corner of his eye. Quietly Errol picked his way inside. He didn’t know what he would do. On the way through the door he picked up a charred two-by-four and, gripping it, felt better.

  When Errol reached the main interior of the building he froze. He was standing at the entrance to what had once been a first-floor apartment. A few beams of the living-room walls remained. The floor was a sooty rubble. Gray light from the airshaft filtered into the room. The only thing that moved in this picture was black dust, shifting through the air in slow, eddying swirls.

  Gray was standing to Errol’s left, in profile. She was erect, but slack, as if hung from the roofbeams like a marionette. Her blouse was lying at her stocking feet; the exposed bodice of her slip was torn, and the belt of her skirt was missing. Her hair was poised wildly as if blown by the wind, though not a strand shifted in the slowly curling air.

  Errol stared at her face. It was ashen, streaked with soot; her eyes were dead. Her brows had lost their peak. He’d never seen her face so washed of expression, for its muscles never collapsed that way even when she was asleep. The only bright thing about her, starting just under her chin and running down her neck to her breasts as Errol was used to seeing sweat seek the folds of her tennis dress, was a thin trickle of blood.

  Errol turned his head a few degrees to the right. A man crouched there; taut as bronze, he might have made a fine war memorial for any state park. The switchblade in his hand glistened red, but didn’t drip.

  There was another man on the other side of the knife. He held his hands out from his sides with the fingers extended, as if keeping his balance. Only the sound of his breathing marked the passing of time.

  Yet there was another figure in this tableau, more still than the others. He lay draped over the stone and burned wood and broken bottles, the tips of his fingers pointed toward Gray; they almost reached her toes.

  Errol looked down at his two-by-four and felt dizzy. When he looked up again the tableau unfroze. The man with the knife turned toward him, and Errol breathed deeply. The man at Gray’s feet was a stranger. The man with the switchblade was Raphael.

  “I thought that scream, that it was you,” said Errol.

  “Are you disappointed?”

  Errol smiled wanly. “No, Ralph. You and I—it’s not like that.”

  “No,” said Raphael, his eyebrows raised, “I suppose it’s not.”

  “Gray, are you okay?” asked Errol.

  She nodded dully.

  Errol stooped to the man in the rubble and felt his pulse; there were hard scabs on his wrist. Errol superstitiously wiped his hand on his shirt when he stood back up. “He’s out, but he’s alive. What are you going to do with that one?” Errol gestured to the man at knife point, a Hispanic in his mid-twenties, and a strikingly good-looking boy—in fact, he and Raphael eerily resembled each other.

  “What do you suggest?” asked Raphael.

  “We could call the police—”

  “McEchern, you have no imagination.”

  “Hey, man,” said the Hispanic. “We didn’t touch her—”

  “You obviously touched her, Paco,” said Raphael. “Dr. Kaiser doesn’t undress in public routinely.”

  “We was just messin’ around. Nothin’ serious, Joe.”

  “Don’t call me Joe.”

  The Hispanic must have been tempted to say, “Don’t call me Paco,” but instead told Raphael, “I call you Jesus, you put that blade in your pocket. Why don’t we call it, mister? Just fun an’ games, you know? No big deal. You know how some ladies, they walk down the street like they so hot, like they somebody—”

  “She is somebody. That’s why she walks that way.”

  “She got some mouth,” said Paco, changing his tack and presumably trying to pay her a compliment. “Man, she ’most get us to take her out and buy her a big steak and, like, send her home in a limo—”

  “I don’t see any limousine, Paco.”

  “I mean, like, she broke our hearts, you know? Like, we was gettin’ to be friends—”

  “Is this a friend of yours, Gray K.?”

  Gray said nothing.

  “Your friend isn’t sticking behind you, Paco.”

  “Ralph, why don’t you let me call the police. It’s clear-cut self-defense—”

  “No, this is clear-cut. Right now.”

  “Hey, mister,” braved Paco. “Is it true? Is she really a virgin?”

  “Cut him up.” The voice was quiet and dry. Errol turned to Gray and wondered if he’d heard right. Even Raphael looked at her quizzically. “Don’t kill him,” she explained. “Cut him.”

  “Gray, think about it,” said Errol. “Are you going to regret this later?”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “Gray—”

  “Later, Errol.”

  Raphael didn’t stalk his victim. He took his time. Backing up, the Hispanic tripped over fallen beams as he was angled up against a wall of brick. Raphael took slow, peaceful steps, holding the knife close to his body. His eyes were clear and without anger. The man seemed disconcerted. For a moment the fear in his face fell away to a peculiar admiration.

  Then he bolted for the door. Raphael’s hand shot out, the knife flashed in the sun and came down—though Errol knew the boy was running and that Raphael’s motion must have been quick, still the moment seemed extended, languorous; later Errol would be able to play it back to himself in exquisite detail. The slash seemed so studied, as if Raphael had had the leisure to calculate exactly where to start—at the corner of the boy’s eye; how deeply to cut; and where to stop—just below the corner of his mouth. Perfect.

  Raphael understood pretty faces. With queer clarity Errol could imagine how even years from now the hardened scar tissue would draw the boy’s eye into a permanently leering wink and pucker his mouth into an old man’s scowl. That face, minutes before fresh, open, and smooth, was forever more surly and cynical. In a stroke Raphael had made Paco into a very ugly boy. The resemblance between the two was over.

  The Hispanic wheeled around and whipped his hand to his face. Blood leaking between his fingers, he lurched out of the building, and no one stopped him now. Gray watched him stumble past her with a mechanical lack of sympathy.

  Once he was gone, she told Errol quietly, “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m not the liberal altruist you always wish I were. I’ve spent a lot of time in Africa. I’ve evolved a tribal mind. Justice and power aren’t abstractions to me but matters of great practicality.”

  At last, heavily, she picked up her blouse and put it back on. She found her shoes. She held out both her hands and took Raphael’s in one, Errol’s in the other. Errol felt her palm cold and dry as she gripped his tightly. They walked to the Porsche. Only when she had to in order to duck into the car did she let go of either hand.

  Raphael handed their watchman his ten and said quietly, “It seems I hired you to guard the wrong thing.”

  Once in the car, Errol was relieved to be back in his regular life, though he couldn’t help but feel that it would never be the same again. No doubt untrue, this was a feeling he sometimes had.

  “It’s a long drive back,” said Raphael. “Do you want to stay in New York?”

  “I want to go home,” said Gray, like a child.

  Raphael pulled over to the liquor store; Errol called an ambulance for the man in the airshaft and canceled the other interviews for the day.

  The ride back was long and quiet. Raphael drove carefully at fifty-five. He kept hi
s right hand gently joined with Gray’s left, and didn’t let go to shift gears.

  At last Errol inquired discreetly about the incident. Raphael answered his questions. It seems the cut on Gray’s throat was shallow, from being rustled off the street with a knife at her throat.

  “Did they…” Errol approached, “succeed in…”

  “No. Not quite.”

  “How did you get their knife?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So where did the switchblade come from?”

  “I always carry a knife. I have since I was thirteen.”

  “You’re such a sweetheart, Ralph.”

  “No, I’m not.” With that he closed the subject.

  After an hour on the road Raphael pulled over to a restaurant. Gray ordered soup. She took a wide spoon and filled it carefully with broth, avoiding the vegetables. She looked at the steam rising from the stainless steel and finally slipped the spoon into her mouth. She did this five times, each time with no solid food, then put the spoon down. Raphael watched her, then nodded to Errol, and they stood to go.

  They rode most of the way in silence. Though it was warm, they kept the windows closed. When Raphael put on the air conditioning, Gray shook her head. The car was hot but quiet and enclosed. The sun was steady. The leaves by the road didn’t stir.

  Errol could have ridden like this for days, held in a state of transport. He’d never had less of a desire to arrive anywhere. It was fine to feel the gentle glide of the sports car as it took rare bumps with good shocks, to hear the thrum of the motor and the chock of gears.

  Regretfully Errol noted that they were drawing close to home. The sun was low and cast warm, even shafts of amber into the car. Wistfully Errol watched Raphael ease the wheel around each increasingly familiar corner. The shade fluttered as they passed under the mottled shadow of leafy hardwoods. The colors of the neighborhood he knew so well were unusually brilliant. It was August, but there’d been plenty of rain—lawns were thick and a deep tropical green. Red flags on mailboxes looked newly painted. Clothes on playing children were the fantastic blues and flaming yellows of detergent advertisements. Each brick on passing Tudors flushed as if just fired; shutters and doors and window trim flashed so brightly in the setting sun that they seemed to loom forward from their houses, floating above the smooth slate walkways and gardens in full flower.

  When Raphael pulled up in front of the manse, Gray waited, uncharacteristically, for Raphael to open the door for her and lift her out by three fingers. Errol stretched. No one spoke. The air was cooler now, moist, and smelled of cut grass. Oxygen wafted from overhanging branches.

  In single file they padded to the front door. Inside the foyer, squares of saffron sunlight angled toward the stairs. The rows of small panes on either side of the door were thick glass, and their beveled edges bent the light and sent prismatic shimmers over the banister and onto the polished wooden floor. In one such shaft Raphael stood facing Gray Kaiser. Errol hung back by the door. Her color had returned, and in this light she looked young, perhaps twenty, tan and blond at the end of summer. The expression on her face was young, too—open, her eyes bright but not clever, her lips parted with naïve expectation, her face suffused with shy joy. She looked as if she’d just returned, not from being accosted in the South Bronx, but from an afternoon at the beach, where she’d finally held hands with this boy in front of her. Maybe he’d lent her his towel when hers got wet, his jacket when the beach got chilly.

  Raphael stroked her cheek with the back of his forefinger. He himself looked older and darker and more tired than Errol had ever seen him. His clothes were sooty, rumpled, and damp with sweat; his shirt was spattered with blood; his hair tangled back from his forehead. His beard was beginning to rise, and darkened his chin. The man still looked handsome, though for once without style.

  Simply, Raphael picked Gray up in his arms and carried her through the rippled rainbow of the beveled glass into the soft shadow of the stairwell. Slowly he rose stair by stair, while Errol stood at the bottom looking up. Gray seemed small and light, with her head leaning on his shoulder. She shot Errol a single look as they turned on the landing, a look of terrific complexity—a mixture of fear and trust and the most peculiar request that Errol stay with her.

  Errol did so as best he could. Raphael rounded the bend and started the next flight, disappearing from sight, but Errol still saw him. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, gripping a banister in each hand, Errol stared up at the ceiling. Raphael was gliding down the hall with his charge. Errol could hear the footsteps stop at the entrance to Gray’s bedroom. The door creaked overhead and closed with a soft click.

  He closed the door by leaning against it with his back. He has not yet put you down. He will wait as long as possible before he puts you down, who knows when he will carry you again. Yes, he is standing by the bed, but he is still holding you.

  That room has a western exposure. The sun is more orange than before. That is clear to me from the squares at my feet, the color of marigolds. The curtains are gauze; they let light in untampered. The room is fully flushed. I’ve seen it this time of day. I don’t go in there often, though I don’t suppose you’d mind—there isn’t much to find. Still, I always feel I’m intruding. I walk inside only when you’re not home. I’ve stood there now, about six-thirty. There are a lot of mementos around this house, gifts—animal heads, walking sticks, and all those weapons—they aren’t the kind of thing you throw away or toss down the basement stairs, but I know from your room what you really love. There are no mementos there, no detritus from the past, no clutter. It’s a clean room, the floor is bare. I like to stand there when you’re out and breathe, get my bearings. I like the straight-backed chair by your bed. I’ve sat there and thought of being you sitting there, taking the pins out of your hair, the stockings off your feet, closing your eyes and feeling your spine fully erect against its back, the ridges of the dowel massaging the muscles that have surely tightened during such a long day. I like to scan the dark, steady mahogany bureau and notice, as he is doing now, that there are no age-spot-fading salves or hair-coloring preparations; no foundations or blushes or eyelash boxes; only one square of white cloth, and a tiny white porcelain saucer for those hairpins. He’s pleased; I always have been. Finally he puts you down on the bed. It’s a small bed; it’s never needed to be large. Four tall posts rise at each corner, like spears to defend you. They will do you no good this evening.

  He takes off your shoes. He places them side by side on the floor, neatly, with the fringe of the spread grazing their toes. Your arms are lying straight at your sides. You are insanely relaxed; you can’t explain why. He opens your thin white blouse. The slip underneath is torn, I remember. He slides the silk over your shoulders. You have to turn to the side for him to slip your arm out of the sleeve. He’s very patient. You know you have plenty of time. His fingers work deftly, like a man who is used to dressing and undressing small children. His gaze is steady. He doesn’t smile; his eyes are live, though. He sees you. He’s aware of what he’s doing. There, the other sleeve. You’ve had to turn on the other side. Any motion you make now seems large. He takes your blouse and drapes it over that straight-backed chair; though it’s sooty and crumpled, he still takes care that the corners of the back poke perfectly into the padded shoulders. It hangs there on the chair and makes a pretty picture. All the clothes you own hang in handsome folds, have you noticed? You always choose fabrics that drape well.

  From now on, he will proceed even more slowly. His own shirt is half unbuttoned. You take a look at his chest. It is dark and strong; shadows well in his collarbone. You shake your head slightly in amazement. He pretends not to notice, but at the corners of his mouth there is the suggestion, just barely, of a smile. He pulls down the short zipper on the side of your skirt. Gradually he slides his hands on either side of your narrow hips, and as he pulls your skirt down his fingers trace the edge of your legs. He notes that your toes are long; your feet are narrow, double
A.

  He shakes out the skirt. He drapes it flat over the seat of the wooden chair.

  You are beginning to get anxious. There is only the slip, and…You don’t like “lingerie,” even the word. All you are able to buy has lace, ribbons, flowers. None of this is your style. The hose, too: you like the way they feel, you admit that. You like the slightly rough, regular mat of their surface, and the way they darken at the edges and show the shape of your calves. But having them taken off seems vulgar to you. You wish fleetingly that this were over, that you could lie under the sheet.

  He sees your impatience. He stands up straight. He looks down at you, his face stern. You turn your head to the side; your cheek nestles into the pillow. He doesn’t move. Finally you look back. He will wait. You’re not sure exactly for what. Your forehead gathers. He looks at you long and hard. You take a deep breath, and when you exhale you discover that many of the muscles in your arms and shoulders had tightened. You release them. You feel your face soften. You bow your head. You are now willing to rest here for hours, if need be. That would not be so bad. Now that you feel this way, though, that will not be necessary.

  You have imagined that getting your slip over your head will be awkward, but you have been told clearly that is not your problem. Actually, it comes off easily enough. The secret is time, and pleasure. Working it by the inch up your thighs, he feels the material between his fingers as it gathers together in his hands. It is smooth and slippery and, as it folds up your body, compact. Now it drapes between your hipbones—you’ve lost weight. You arch your back to make it easier, but the stretch feels good; you raise your hands over your head and draw yourself long. Your hips and shoulders pull at their sockets; your rib cage fills high; your chin reaches for the ceiling and pulls each tendon in your neck taut. Now he draws the slip over your head, and you feel the slick material glide over your arms and the wisps of the straps trail over your fingertips.

  You know that what you want is not to be wearing what remains. This is no longer embarrassment or impatience. You simply want to feel your full body without division. He understands this, and works more quickly. You sit up now; he unhooks the bra behind your back, lingering a moment as his arms draw a circle about you. When he pulls them away he has the hooks in one hand, the eyes in the other; even this garment you have no love for gets folded on the chair. He turns back to you. Your breasts are small. You’ve had no children, so the nipples are round but not long. You’re surprised not to be shy, but then you’ve always liked them. They are tight to your chest, with a single burst of fullness near the armpits, but never with enough weight to pull them down. They go well with your body. They belong to your body. They aren’t separate, to be revealed in a special way. They make you no more shy than your upper arms or your rib cage. They are your body.