Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 28

When Johnny pulled the Nissan into the driveway, she took a plastic box out of her purse, an electric garage door opener. "Pull in," she told him as the door groaned to raise. Oh, I'll pull in, all right Oh, I'll pull in, all right, Johnny avowed. In and out and in and out In and out and in and out-But the garage was empty, and he hadn't seen a car in front of the house.

"Don't you have a car?" he asked.

"Yeah. I left it in the city."

"What kind do you have?"

"A blue Festiva." Suddenly she seemed impatient. "Don't worry about my car. I thought you wanted to f.u.c.k."

That's calling the kettle black. Johnny clammed up. Behind him the garage door shuddered closed.

"Want some wine?"

"Love some," Johnny answered.

Inside looked like something off a David Lynch set. White walls had faded to a dingy yellow in the living room. An old couch and recliner, old green carpet and curtains that looked motheaten. In the corner stood a Philco television that must've been 30 years old, and there was an equally old steepled radio with a big circular lighted dial. Some sc.r.a.ppy latenight jazz scratched from the dried monaural speaker.

Everything's so old, he observed. He could see her getting the wine in the cramped kitchen. A big white enameled refrigerator with rounded corners; a white stove with black burners. No dishwasher, just a rubber suckermat next to the sink, and a dish rack.

"So what did you say you did?" he asked just to keep some kind of conversation going.

"I work in a hospital," she said, her back to him. "I'm a janitor."

Johnny made a face at the response. Earlier, hadn't she said she was a ma.s.seuse? You little liar, you. You little liar, you. But...a janitor? The job didn't fit with her looks. But...a janitor? The job didn't fit with her looks. Baby, you can mop my floors any time. Baby, you can mop my floors any time. He was staring into the kitchen. His eyes felt plastered to her a.s.s, and those long, long legs. Only now did he realize how tall she was, maybe six foot. He was staring into the kitchen. His eyes felt plastered to her a.s.s, and those long, long legs. Only now did he realize how tall she was, maybe six foot. Tall girls're fine as long as they're sleek, Tall girls're fine as long as they're sleek, he reasoned. He'd f.u.c.ked over a few who weren't so sleek. Nothing worse than a tall one that's fat. Big a.s.s and thighs, big calves, big size 11 feet. he reasoned. He'd f.u.c.ked over a few who weren't so sleek. Nothing worse than a tall one that's fat. Big a.s.s and thighs, big calves, big size 11 feet. f.u.c.k that s.h.i.+t, man. f.u.c.k that s.h.i.+t, man. But this peach? Her height only augmented her contours, her trim long lines and curves. Johnny was getting hard again, just looking... But this peach? Her height only augmented her contours, her trim long lines and curves. Johnny was getting hard again, just looking...

A tacky old card table stood at the other side of the room, with a typewriter, some stacks of papers, and a couple of magazines. '90s Woman, '90s Woman, he noted. he noted. Tonight, Ditzy, you're gonna meet a '90s man. Tonight, Ditzy, you're gonna meet a '90s man. She reemerged, having poured red wine into juice gla.s.ses. "What are you writing?" he inquired, indicating the typewriter. She reemerged, having poured red wine into juice gla.s.ses. "What are you writing?" he inquired, indicating the typewriter.

"What do you care?" She handed him a gla.s.s. "Come on."

He followed her down the drab hall. She closed a door to her right. "Bas.e.m.e.nt," she said. Johnny smelled something minutely funky. Another door to the left stood open; inside he quickly noticed weights, a bench, exercise equipment. "You work out, huh?"

"What do you think?" she said ahead of him.

Johnny was growing a bit weary of this sudden smarta.s.s tone of hers. He'd be f.u.c.king her over soon, sure, but that wasn't the point. Maybe a good smack on the noggin and a few hours of steady a.s.sf.u.c.king'll tone down some of that sa.s.s, huh, Ditzy? Maybe a good smack on the noggin and a few hours of steady a.s.sf.u.c.king'll tone down some of that sa.s.s, huh, Ditzy?

"Here's my room," she said.

Johnny looked past her as she entered. The room didn't jibe either. He'd seen his share of women's bedrooms; they were all the same in ways. There were always frilly pillows on the bed, vanities, makeup boxes, jewelry boxes, shoe racks on the closet door, framed snapshots, prints on the wall. But not here. Weird Weird, Johnny thought very resolutely. f.u.c.kin' weird f.u.c.kin' weird.

Bare wood floors. A bra.s.srail bed, higher than usual. A single old dresser facing the bed with some sort of wood cabinet on top. A tawdry pole lamp lit the corner with hooded bulbs pointing different directions. The lights looked like cones, or wizards' hats. Weirdest of all was some kind of long varnished nightstand on casters, with a tacky flexarm fluorescent lamp on top.

All four walls stood bare. No pictures, prints, no decoration of any kind. The room's only adornment, it seemed, was the lone window to the left, with shutterslats instead of curtains, and a closed closet door.

"This used to be my father's den," she said. "Now I sleep here."

She turned off each cone on the pole lamp. All that lit the room now was the meager fluorescent light on the castered stand. She stepped out of her shoes, and went to look out the window.

Purea.s.s weird, but who cares? Johnny remembered. He'd never see her again after tonight. She could be as weird as she wanted. He took another sip of the cheap burgundy, then set it down. The room smelled funny. Like (She said she worked in a hospital?) a hospital, a faint yet biting antiseptic scent. At least the bra.s.s bed looked promising. He could tie her up good on those big s.h.i.+ny rails and f.u.c.k her over in grand style. Johnny remembered. He'd never see her again after tonight. She could be as weird as she wanted. He took another sip of the cheap burgundy, then set it down. The room smelled funny. Like (She said she worked in a hospital?) a hospital, a faint yet biting antiseptic scent. At least the bra.s.s bed looked promising. He could tie her up good on those big s.h.i.+ny rails and f.u.c.k her over in grand style. Gotta play the game awhile first, Gotta play the game awhile first, he reminded himself. He didn't want to be scaring the s.h.i.+t out of her yet. A little later for that, once I've got her tied down. he reminded himself. He didn't want to be scaring the s.h.i.+t out of her yet. A little later for that, once I've got her tied down.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

She was just standing there, her back to him, staring out the little window. She made no response. The fluorescent light tinseled the room's darkness, which she seemed to be a part of now. Halfblended, halfformed. She slipped out of the black jacket, never turning. Then she squirmed out of the tight gray jeans.

Now we're rocking. Johnny stripped down to his BVDs in less time that it took him to flex his c.o.c.k. "Lie back on the bed," she whispered. Johnny obliged. For a moment he had a strange image as she moved through the dark: that she was just a pair of legs walking around the room. No body. Just legs. That was all he could see 'til his eyes adjusted. Those two bare, beautiful white legs. She opened the closet door to get something; Johnny noticed several wigs hanging inside. Was she wearing a wig? Johnny stripped down to his BVDs in less time that it took him to flex his c.o.c.k. "Lie back on the bed," she whispered. Johnny obliged. For a moment he had a strange image as she moved through the dark: that she was just a pair of legs walking around the room. No body. Just legs. That was all he could see 'til his eyes adjusted. Those two bare, beautiful white legs. She opened the closet door to get something; Johnny noticed several wigs hanging inside. Was she wearing a wig? She can be baldheaded for all I care, She can be baldheaded for all I care, he thought. Then she turned, approached the bed. She still had on the seethrough black blouse, and black panties. He could see her smile. he thought. Then she turned, approached the bed. She still had on the seethrough black blouse, and black panties. He could see her smile.

She was holding something in her hand.

"What's that?" he asked, hands behind his head as he lay back.

"Ma.s.sage oil." She held the plastic bottle up. That's what it said on it: Ma.s.sAGE OIL. "Turn over so I can give you a back rub."

I'm easy, he thought and flipped over. The bed creaked a little when she climbed on. She sat on him, her crotch just behind his a.s.s. Next he felt several spurts of the warm oil land on his back. Her hands deftly ma.s.saged it into his skin. Then a few more squirts 'til he was slick with it. He could hear the slick sound as her fingers worked over his muscles. Then her hands opened flat and pushed up and down as she leaned forward. This ain't bad at all, This ain't bad at all, he thought, closing his eyes. he thought, closing his eyes.

In moments it was like a dream. It was like he was floating. "Is that good?" she kept inquiring. "Yeah," he kept murmuring back. Her fingers were turning him to putty; he could drift off to sleep. This was the best back rub of his life.

He concentrated on the sensation: the nimble hands sliding up and down in the oil, the nimble fingers plying every muscle. Then they opened around the back of his neck and over his shoulders, rubbing, rubbing...

"Is that good?"

"Yeah."

"Let me get these panties off," she said, and climbed off.

Johnny rolled over. He felt stupidly relaxed. She climbed back on, sitting on his thighs. Aw, what a bus.h.!.+ Aw, what a bus.h.!.+ he thought. It splayed between her thrust legs: dark, plush, but not straggly. Her hand tickled over his erection in his shorts, then she leaned forward again, running her hands smoothly over his chest and the tops of his shoulders. Johnny raised his hands- he thought. It splayed between her thrust legs: dark, plush, but not straggly. Her hand tickled over his erection in his shorts, then she leaned forward again, running her hands smoothly over his chest and the tops of his shoulders. Johnny raised his hands- "No," she nearly snapped. "Not yet. You can't touch me yet. I touch you first. That's the deal."

"Sure, babe. Whatever you say." He lowered his hands. What's her hangup? What's her hangup? he wondered. But it was better to let her do what she wanted first, that way she'd be more inclined to trust him. "Anything you want," he droned. "Anyway you like it." he wondered. But it was better to let her do what she wanted first, that way she'd be more inclined to trust him. "Anything you want," he droned. "Anyway you like it."

He watched her lean up a moment, and skim off the sheer black blouse. That about did it for Johnny; he doubted he'd ever seen a rack of t.i.ts so perfect in his life. No implants, either. Large but no sag, firm. Gorged dark nipples sticking out. Johnny wished women had milk in their hooters all the time, not just after they'd dropped a rugrat. Wouldn't that be great? Wouldn't that be great? he thought. he thought. I'd suck this pair bone dry. I'd suck this pair bone dry.

She rubbed his chest a little longer, then sat up. "You can touch me now," she whispered. "Anywhere you want."

The words sounded echoed, hollow. Johnny didn't quite yet realize what was going on. His eyes pasted on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her pubis, diverting him. She looked like something made of smooth marble, and her smile appeared more Buddahlike even than human: gleefully empty. Then he saw her hands- What the h.e.l.l's that on her hands?

The thought beat down.

She was wearing rubber gloves.

Surgical gloves.

And when he went to raise his arms- G.o.d in heaven what the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?

-his arms didn't move at all.

The wine. She musta put something in the w- "Look," she whispered.

She knelt up, thrust her hips forward.

"See?" she whispered. "See?"

Johnny's vision sunk in muck- "See?"

-his eyes closed to slits- "See?"

-through which- "See?"

-he could barely- "See?"

-see.

The madwoman's fingers parted the outer lips of her s.e.x.

"See, Daddy? You can't hurt me anymore."

But he could see enough, before consciousness winked out: the pink minora sewn shut by wide surgical st.i.tches.

And now, awake again, Johnny realized that his own mouth had been similarly sewn shut. Through the chaos, some sliver of his psyche attempted to rea.s.semble order-not an easy task when one awoke to find himself handcuffed to a bra.s.s bed in some interstice of h.e.l.l, with a demon at the bedside.

"Don't worry. You won't die. I have a coagulant salve."

In the halflight, off to the left, he could see her, her sleek back to him as she busied herself in some arcane ch.o.r.e.

"But you won't pa.s.s out, either. I've injected you with about 200 milligrams of Desoxyn. It'll keep your heartrate in high enough numbers to prevent your nervous system from shutting down against the pain."

He heard metal clinking. She seemed to be a.s.sembling something, some object with a crank of some sort. Then she was picking something up, which glinted.

"Because that's the important part. What you feel. What I make you feel."

His heart was ticking like a bomb. Each time his arms and legs fought against their fetters, a loud metallic snap! snap! resulted. resulted.

snap!

"Stop that."

snap!

"It's annoying.

snap!

"Stop it!"

Then she turned. She was still naked. She still wore the hideous, tight rubber surgical gloves, the color of condoms.

Bobby pins held her short, black hair tight to her scalp. She'd been wearing a wig, and he could still see the other wigs hanging on the inside of the closet door.

And what was that thing with the k.n.o.bbed handle? And she was holding something now, wasn't she? In her gloved hand, against the smooth, flawlesswhite abdomen, something glinted.

What is that? he thought, squirming. he thought, squirming. What's that thing in her hand? What's that thing in her hand?

Perhaps she'd deciphered the question. Perhaps, as she gently and so silently approached the bed-perfect in her naked beauty, and even more perfect in her madness-perhaps she'd seen him ask the question through the sinking, melting, coalescing terror in his wideopen eyes. For, next, she held the implement up in the h.e.l.lish white light and answered: "These are Bruns serrated plaster shears."

Chapter 25.

(I).

Kathleen's eyes fluttered open to weird dices of light. It was the television-a cable sports channel-with the volume all the way down. She'd fallen asleep on Maxwell's couch, and here was Maxwell himself, asleep in her lap. One arm curled around the back of her waist, the other under her thigh; he was using her stomach for a pillow. The colors from the TV throbbed in and out of the apartment's cool, airconditioned darkness. She thought back...

Did I dream? she wondered. she wondered.

She couldn't remember, which was just as well. The recurring nightmare was draining all her energy. Even thinking of it made her grow gooseflesh.

Someone was dreaming, though.

She'd never known Maxwell to snore-thank G.o.d-but he did occasionally utter silly noises in his slumber. Sometimes he even talked, nonsensical fragments or errant words. In her lap now, he snuggled her and murmured: "They're coming.'

"What? Maxwell? Are you awake?"

He was not awake. His arm tightened about her thigh. "They're coming to get you, Barbara," he mumbled.

Barbara, huh? Kathleen faintly smirked. Kathleen faintly smirked. So he's dreaming of old girlfriends. So he's dreaming of old girlfriends. She couldn't very well hold that against him, though it irked her just the same. She couldn't very well hold that against him, though it irked her just the same. You could at least be polite enough to dream about me, Maxwell. That or keep your mouth closed when you're off in slumberland. You could at least be polite enough to dream about me, Maxwell. That or keep your mouth closed when you're off in slumberland.

Baseball men were running around the lit TV screen. Kathleen looked around. Highlighted against the slider window, and the moon, the silhouette of Maxwell's typewriter stood out. A sheet of paper wagged from the roller.

The poem, she thought. Earlier he'd said he was writing a poem for her. It would be s.h.i.+tty of her to read it without his permission, but...

She couldn't help it.

Very gently she edged out from under Maxwell, then stood up. When she was sure she hadn't wakened him, she turned and tiptoed toward his desk.

She squinted over the sheet of paper in the machine and began to read: A KEATSIAN- "Don't you dare," sprang Maxwell's voice.

Kathleen turned guiltily back around. "I thought you were asleep. I-"

He was sitting up in the dark. "You're not supposed to read it yet. It's not finished... Did you read it?"

"No," she said.

"But you were going to, right?"