The Need

by Andrew Neiderman

  Everything had been kept immaculate and neat, so I knew it would enrage him even more to see the room as it now was—garbage bags filled and strewn about, drawers upside down on the beige carpet, cabinets left opened, hangers dangling and on the floor of the closets. I thought that once I got rid of all of his belongings, I would close the door of the bedroom and keep it closed. Since Sylvia never entered it anyway, she would never become suspicious.

  Suddenly, I was very tired. The emotional strain of going to see the detective and confessing, the trip back and the frantic pace at which I had attacked Richard’s personal effects had exhausted me. I decided I would take a little nap before doing much more. Right now, lying down on my soft mattress and silk sheets and covering myself with my downy quilt was too inviting a temptation to resist.

  The final step in excising Richard from my life, I thought. The hardest part was behind me. The rest would be easy in comparison.

  I needed a hot shower and a nap.

  I went through the house to the other wing, to my suite of rooms. Our house was a large hacienda with stucco walls and Spanish tiled floors punctuated here and there by beige Berber rugs. Almost every room had a Casablanca fan and windows looking out over the magnificent views of the ocean and mountains. Our furniture was an elegant Southwestern style; wood and glass, Aztec designs and Indian prints of mauve, blues and whites. There was an airy, open feeling in every room between all the windows and skylights.

  Other members of the androgynous community loved visiting and sleeping over. From time to time, we had wonderful pool parties, inviting only our own kind. Depending on our mood, either Richard or I would be on hand to play host. One time, while a party was still in progress, we metamorphosed. I felt he should be there to enjoy it too.

  When we were younger, we were always like that—thoughtful of each other. What had happened to change it? Was it only love, jealousy and fear? Or were we suffering from something that would eventually attack all Androgyny, a disease involving the conflict of identities, a disease as deadly as anything that could attack the inferiors?

  I was almost across the house when the phone rang. I stopped in the living room and lifted the receiver of the brass phone that was on the table by the patio door. It was Alison. She was at the gate.

  “Buzz me in. I’ve brought someone to see you,” she said in her usual demanding fashion. Ever since her first conversion, she had been developing more and more of an arrogance. And then, after my conversion, she became jealous of me. But she was confused by her own conflicting emotions. She loved and envied me at the same time. Janice had told me androgynous females don’t compete with each other the way the inferior females do.

  “We’re not petty or vicious. We don’t gossip and turn our feminine cunning on each other out of envy. That’s because we have a distinct sense of confidence. We don’t ever feel insecure about ourselves, no matter how many other beautiful women are in the same room. We know we are beautiful.”

  “Oh, Alison, why didn’t you phone first? I was just getting ready to take a shower and a nap.”

  “I did phone, but all I could get was your stupid answering service so I decided we would simply chance it and drive up. We were nearby anyway.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Am I going to have to carry on a conversation at the gate through this dumb speaker phone?” she asked petulantly. I sighed. Like me, Alison had become an actress, a wonderful actress, only everyone in the business complained about her temperament. Fortunately, for both of us, we had yet to perform in a film together.

  “All right. You can come in, but just for a little while. Okay?”

  “After your fifth or sixth yawn, we’ll leave,” she said. Few of the Androgyne I knew had a skin as thick as Alison’s. Almost everyone else would have seen I wasn’t in the mood for company and left. But not Alison. And contrary to what we all expected, Nicholas was very much the opposite—sensitive, polite and never sarcastic. In fact, he occasionally complained about Alison, wishing she would try to work on some of her negative traits.

  I pressed the number six which opened the gate and then went to the kitchen to get something cool to drink, anticipating that Alison only would demand it anyway.

  She came bursting in, sweeping the air before her as if she were making an entrance to a grand ballroom in the midst of an expensive and impressive affair. She wore a light blue bandanna over her peach-tinted hair, a frilly white blouse and pink pleated peasant skirt with pink leather sandals. Her cerulean eyes were bright with energy. Alison could drive depression out of a room, literally blow away gloom with a peal of her laughter, the light of her smile, the music of her voice; and if anyone around her dared remain despondent, she would abuse them as though they were deliberately spoiling her happiness. As far as she was concerned, no one had a right to be unhappy in her presence.

  Entering behind her was a young girl, perhaps no more than twelve, with a look of curiosity and wonder that reminded me of myself. It took only one glance for me to realize she was an androgynous child, perhaps only months, if not only weeks away from her first conversion. I could see she would be a very beautiful woman and an extraordinarily handsome man with big dark, piercing eyes, firm lips and an almost Oriental bone structure to his cheeks and chin. It would be the kind of face that would drive an inferior female mad with longing, a face of mystery, yet full of erotic promise.

  As a woman her face would have that metamorphic quality even some beautiful inferior females had, a face that changed in little ways from time to time: blue eyes becoming green, a mouth that tightened and relaxed, a smile that sometimes appeared inscrutably beautiful, as innocent as a child’s, and then suddenly curled into a licentious leer.

  Being forced to confront an androgynous child on the verge of becoming fulfilled took my breath away. It stirred me deeply, forcing me to recall my own exuberance when I stepped up to the threshold of my dual existence. Immediately I began to reconsider my recent actions. I pressed my face toward the fire. My cheeks glowed; I felt as if I had a fever.

  “You don’t look so good, Clea,” Alison said, a mixture of surprise and glee in her voice. “I don’t understand how you could have lost your heart to that ridiculous boyfriend.”

  “You have to have a heart to understand,” I replied quickly.

  That struck the girl as funny, but as she laughed, her eyes swung around the room. She had the sensitivity of an Androgyne and knew something was terribly wrong.

  “Isn’t she the sensitive one?” Alison said to the young girl. The young girl nodded and gazed reverently at me. If there was anything I didn’t need right now, I thought, it was being forced to entertain another admirer, even one of our own kind. “Clea, I brought Denise to meet you. She’s not only one of your greatest fans, she’s a worshipper,” Alison added, her voice dripping with envy. “Her mother says that the walls of her room are covered with your photographs and movie posters.”

  “Oh?” I smiled at the young girl, who smiled back but who also looked at me with confusion in her eyes. It made my heart beat faster. She saw something in me that Alison was not yet aware of. This young girl had some extra power, some superior insights, I thought. “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Denise. Do you live nearby?”

  “Venice Beach,” she said. There was a note of compassion in her voice. She knew I was suffering.

  “You know of her mother,” Alison said. “Diana, the psychic. Anyone who’s anyone consults her. She tells me even Donald Trump makes it a point to stop to see her whenever he’s on the West Coast.”

  “Anyway,” Alison continued, “I was having a session with her when Denise appeared and we started to talk. When I realized our conversation was entirely about you, I thought it would be nice if I brought her to see you. I thought you might need a bit of cheering up,” she added, pointedly.

  “That’s considerate, but…”

  “Well, Denise,” Alison said quickly, “here she is in the flesh, Clea Cave, one-time A
cademy Award nominee.” Alison would never forgive me for receiving that honor, I thought. She flopped back into a papasan chair, throwing her body loosely over the big circular cushion. “Ask her anything you want.”

  Denise and I stared at each other.

  “I think you’re embarrassing the girl, Alison,” I said quickly. “Would anyone care for some lemonade?” I started to pour a glass.

  “Of course,” Alison said.

  “Thank you,” Denise said.

  Alison’s eyes began to narrow. I saw the way she was studying me.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked softly when I handed her the glass of lemonade.

  “I’m fine.”

  “And Richard?”

  “Sleeping,” I said pointedly.

  I handed Denise her glass of lemonade.

  “Thank you.”

  “Please, sit down,” I said indicating the settee. I sat across from her and Alison. “Do you intend to be an actress, too?”

  “I was thinking of becoming a television journalist,” she said.

  “Someday, Denise Byron will anchor the national network news,” Alison declared. “Her mother told me and her mother ought to know.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said smiling at Denise. “I can see she already has the poise, and she looks like a very bright girl.”

  Alison looked from me to Denise, her eyes growing sharper.

  “Thank you,” Denise said.

  “Well, you said you had questions you would love to ask Clea if you had the opportunity to do so,” Alison said. “Now you have the opportunity, so ask away.”

  “Perhaps Clea is not in the mood to be pestered by a fan,” Denise replied, her eyes on me. “Maybe I can come back another time.”

  “By all means,” I said quickly.

  “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous. I drove all the way up here, came up that ridiculous road … why anyone would choose to live like an eagle … I insist you ask her at least one question, Denise,” Alison said firmly. “To tell you the truth,” she added turning back to me, “I was curious as to what she would ask myself.”

  “You had better ask the question, Denise,” I told her. “Otherwise Alison will nag you to death all the way back down the mountain.” Denise smiled.

  “All right. What is the most disadvantageous thing about fame?”

  “What a good question,” Alison remarked. “Only, she could have asked me the same one.”

  “I don’t think we would have the same answer, Alison. You feed on fame. To me, it has been a burden.”

  “Oh, poor thing. Look around, Denise. See how she suffers in this slum with only three expensive cars in her garage and only two or three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of clothing, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars in jewelry, gifts from rich admirers.”

  “Fame,” I said turning more to Alison than to Denise, “robs you of your opportunities to be yourself.” My words struck like arrows. Alison held her smile, but it turned cold.

  “You are tired, aren’t you, darling?” she said. She put down the glass of lemonade and stood up. “The police haven’t bothered you about Michael, have they?”

  “People knew we had seen each other often.”

  “More and more often lately.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were they just here?”

  “No. I was there,” I said. I looked away.

  “And?”

  “And what?” I replied swinging my eyes back at her.

  “What did you tell them?”

  I looked at Denise, who was now studying me so intently that I felt I was being examined by a doctor. When I gazed at Alison again, I realized what she had done. She couldn’t have brought Diana up without making me realize what she was trying to do, so she brought the psychic’s daughter, who, I now realized, had inherited whatever gifts of prophecy and analysis her mother possessed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I am exhausted from the ordeal. Perhaps you should come back some other time.”

  “What did you tell them?” Alison demanded. “Did you tell them about Richard?”

  “They already know about Richard. You know as well as I do that he’s been under investigation.”

  “That detective—Mayer—he questioned you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they intend to arrest Richard and charge him with Michael’s murder?”

  “I don’t think they have enough evidence,” I said. All through this exchange, Denise eyed me intently. “I’m sorry,” I said, rising, “I really must take a hot shower and rest. I’m sure you understand, Denise.”

  She nodded, knowingly.

  “You shouldn’t try to handle this all by yourself,” Alison advised. “It’s times like this that your friends serve you best.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll call you soon. I promise.”

  She smirked and then stood up.

  “All right, we’ll leave.” Denise rose from the settee. Alison looked around again. “Sylvia’s day off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure you want to be left alone?”

  “For a while.”

  “Is Richard going to wake up soon?” she asked quickly, almost as if she had intended to catch me in a lie.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”

  “Have him call me when he does wake up. I’m eager to speak with him. Will you write a note now so you don’t forget?”

  “Yes.”

  Alison smiled.

  “Okay, Denise. Let’s go flying down this stupid hill, risking our lives at every turn.”

  “Good-bye,” Denise said. “I’m sorry we burst in on you at the wrong time.”

  “That’s okay. Please do come back soon.” I followed them to the door.

  “Oh, let me just run to the bathroom,” Alison said. “I’ll be only a minute, Denise.”

  I turned to tell her to go to mine, but she headed quickly down the corridor, back toward Richard’s room. Had I left the door open?

  “This is a beautiful house and I love the views,” Denise said. “Have you and Richard lived here long?”

  “Nearly ten years.” I gazed nervously toward the corridor.

  “What’s your next movie?”

  “What? Oh, I’ve just received a script entitled ‘Winter of the Virgin Dead.’ It’s rather a good love story involving vampires.”

  Denise laughed.

  “What an invention, vampires,” she said. “Silly, but fascinating, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Please give your mother my regards. I meant to see her myself lately. Now I’m sorry I put it off.”

  She nodded. “I’ll tell her. She’s a big fan of yours too.”

  Alison returned and I saw from the look on her face that I had left Richard’s door open. She had looked in and seen what I had done.

  “Okay,” she said not revealing what she knew. “We’ll leave you. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she added, disguising a threat with a jest. She embraced me. “Please, call me. I want to help you,” she whispered. We kissed each other on the lips.

  “Good-bye, Denise,” I said.

  “Good-bye,” she replied and they were gone.

  I turned away from the door, trembling. Somehow, Richard had snuck past me and called out for help and now that Alison knew, she would return with the others. They wouldn’t let me betray Richard, for I would be betraying them.

  If Richard didn’t greet them when they returned, they would kill me.

  And if Richard did greet them when they returned, I would already be dead.

  I took my shower and had my nap. When I awoke, I was confused for a few moments. Every so often reality and illusion would become indistinguishable. Memories seemed more like dreams and dreams seemed like memories. Michael’s death had been the subject of my nightmares so often, it was hard to believe it had really happened. And just as horribly as I had envisioned it!

  I had no problem imagining the details.
Richard had written them in many different ways in his diary and of course had described it to me in his last letter. It was clear how he would be, how he would act, and what he would do. I knew and I didn’t stop it. Why didn’t I? Was I incapable of it? Perhaps Richard was always in control. Perhaps he was still in control and now was simply toying with me, letting me think I could destroy him.

  As if to prove his power, I felt the urge to go to that garbage bag and draw out the packet of letters I had been too terrified to peruse. I rose from my bed, still reluctant, but taking the steps anyway, the steps that led me back to Richard’s room. I stood in the doorway and looked over at the sack lying limply by the dresser.

  “No,” I cried weakly, my tears escaping freely now. I shook my head. “Please, no. Don’t let it be so.”

  I tried turning away. I would get dressed, I told myself, and go to Antonio’s for dinner. There would be people I knew, people who could distract me and help me to forget. But I had to rid myself of this one bag filled with Richard’s things. I had to take it out and drop it in the garbage can, otherwise, it would call to me all night and I would never sleep.

  Cautiously, I entered Richard’s room. It was almost as if I expected him to step out of the bathroom wearing one of those expensive silk robes I had crushed under his other things in one of the garbage bags. Suddenly, I could imagine him standing there, smiling gleefully, yet so handsome I was helpless to resist.

  Slowly, deliberately tormenting, he would untie the robe and pull it away to reveal his manly body.

  “It would be the ultimate act of love,” he whispered. “Come to me, Clea. We would merge in passion unlike any moment of passion ever experienced by our kind. It would be innovative, entering sexual frontiers not even dreamed of by our people. Touch me, Clea. Touch me,” he pleaded, bringing his hands to his hips and coming forward.

  “No … please.” I had my eyes closed and could see myself starting to back away.

  “Clea, I long to make love to you.”

  “But if you did, you would destroy us both, Richard. It would be a form of suicide,” I cried quickly. He blinked and thought, his passion cooling as he realized what I said was most likely true.