A Self Made Monster (29 page)

Success! One of the women had crashed in his bed!

Edward stood up. Edward fell down.

He crawled to his bedroom and through the open doorway. The curtains were open, and the vapor lamp across the street illuminated the room. Edward saw two bare legs standing before him. At the top of the legs were watermelon bikini briefs.

“I knew you’d be here,” Edward whispered. He gripped Holly’s thigh.

Holly shrieked.

“Finally!” Edward exclaimed. “Finally we’re alone!” He belched up the taste of beer.

“Oh shit,” another voice said. “He woke up.”

Now Edward started. He forced himself to stand and flipped on the overhead light.

Holly laughed.

Not knowing what else to do, Edward laughed too.

Claire was in bed, the sheet drawn lazily over her midriff.

“Don’t you know a conspiracy when you see one?” Claire asked. “I got you drunk so you’d pass out.”

Edward turned to Holly, who was peeling down her bikini briefs with drunken flamboyance.

“I’ll flip a coin,” Edward said. “Heads I fuck Claire first, tails I fuck Holly first.”

“I think you woke Edward up when you were snooping through his refrigerator,” Claire laughed.

Holly stretched out on the bed. Claire rolled atop her and licked her neck.

“Can’t I please join you?”

Claire paused and turned to Edward. “Leave the room, Edward. Give us some privacy. And turn on your camera, too.” She nodded at Edward’s mini-cam, standing on a tripod under the window. “I’m giving Holly the most fab fuck of her life—”

“Oh baby yeah!” Holly drunkenly enthused. She drew deeply on the enormous joint in her hand.

“—and I want her to have a memento.” Claire nibbled at Holly’s collarbone.

Edward obeyed, then crawled back to the couch and tried to ignore the rustle of sheets, the laughter and whispers. When he heard Holly urge Claire to use both thumbs, he went outside. He sat on the lawn, coughed his way through seven cigarettes, and fell asleep.

The sound of a car woke him. Edward lifted his head to see Holly’s car pull out of the driveway. The headlights hurt his eyes and he turned away.

Claire stood before him.

“I’m sorry we took over your place. We just got too drunk and too high and…” She shook her head and smiled. “You’re a dear, Edward. But now you know why you and I can’t—you know.”

“Why?” Edward asked, playing dumb.

“Silly. I thought you might figure it out from that tape I had sent to you.”

Edward remembered: the dyke movie.

“I thought you’d be smart enough to figure it out, you know…” She shrugged. “And I thought maybe you’d dig it too, and we could at least be…”

“Friends,” Edward sighed.

“Yes,” Claire smiled. “Common interests and all.”

“You don’t seem like one of those. You were married, and you seem so, so normal.”

“I am normal, silly,” she laughed. “And besides, what’s wrong with dirty movies and pretty coeds?”

“Nothing at all,” Edward agreed, rolling onto his side. “Then we’re friends at least?”

“What do you mean at least? That’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Edward nodded.

“I put your camera back in the living room.” Claire giggled. “Holly’s so stoned and sweet…she wanted to watch the tape right away, but I said we really had to give you back your apartment.”

“Thanks,” Edward sighed.

“Oh, Holly thanks you for the Dylan Thomas essay—it was on your dresser. She took the original and put the photocopy in your desk.”

“I’m glad she remembered.” Edward frowned: he had dreamed of spooling Holly while she read the essay.

“I read some of it. The part about ‘Tickled By the Rub of Love’ was a turn on. It helped Holly come.”

“Glad I could be a part of it.” Edward dropped his head in his folded arms. He was thinking of asking Claire to bed anyway. Just close your eyes, he imagined telling her, and pretend I’m a homely flat-chested girl.

When he looked up again, she was gone.

Edward lay on the grass for another minute or another hour: he was not sure and did not care. He rolled over. The moon was bright, and the crickets sang to it. He imitated the crickets as he walked slowly back inside.

The apartment was worse than he remembered. The air stank of cigarette smoke, and empty beer bottles were stacked like kindling wood in the middle of the room. An overturned ashtray was on the floor; cigarette butts and ashes had sprayed in all directions. A large wet spot was beside the couch. Edward wondered if Jimmy had pissed on the floor in spite.

Edward urinated, gargled, and washed his face; he saw a new pimple was attempting a coup of his chin. He entered his bedroom. The bed was hastily made. The pillows were on the floor. Dispirited, he fell on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He kept seeing Claire, hunched down, her face between Holly’s thighs. He tried to banish the image, but it grew more vivid. Now Claire was on top of Holly. Holly’s legs were drawn up, her tensing feet on Claire’s shoulders.

Edward was so engrossed in the image that he did not hear Alex enter the room.

Fleetingly, Edward wondered if he were turning queer—what was a man doing in the image? Then he realized that he was not dreaming.

He sat up. “Hi professor. Are you—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just out and about.”

“That’s good. Hope your car’s all right.” Edward felt odd sitting on his bed while a man stood over him. “Want some coffee?” Edward hurried into the kitchen and turned on the range.

“No thanks.” Alex said, following Edward out.

“Excuse me, professor.”

When Edward opened the refrigerator, Alex did not move. Edward had to squeeze his arm through the narrow opening to get some non-dairy creamer. “How about some tea?”

“Not yet.” Alex blinked several times, then motioned with his head toward the living room. “I left something in here. Can you help me look for it?”

“Sure.” Edward wondered why Alex was wearing rubber gloves. “What, did you lose a manuscript page?”

“Yes. That’s right. I wonder if it got pushed under the couch.” He studied Edward, as if expecting an answer.

“Hope not.” Edward went into the living room, got on his hands and knees, and tried to see under the couch. “It’s too dark to see anything. Let’s move it away from the wall.”

“Good idea.”

When Edward rose, his head struck something. Must be the coffee table, Edward thought.

“Sorry old sport.”

“I’m okay.” But he wondered why Alex had not warned him. He rose and again hit his head. Edward groaned—the pain was intense, a white-hot line coursing down his spine. He tried to stand but fell against his mini-cam. The mini-cam teetered on its tripod, then slowly tipped over.

Edward tried to touch his head, but his hand was palsied and an unruly finger poked his eye. “Goddammit my head hurts.”

Edward looked up. He wondered how he had struck the coffee table—it was across the room. Then he wondered why Alex was handing him a beer. A beer was the last thing he wanted.

“No, I’m not up for drinking a beer.”

“I want you to know that I’ve come to like you in a manner of speaking, and to—” Alex tightened his grip on the bottle. “—to appreciate the quality of your mind.”

Jimmy’s right, Edward thought. Resartus is a flake. I wish he’d just bag it.

The bottle struck Edward’s temple, and Edward covered his head with his hands, which were suddenly blood-streaked. The bottle—or was it a second bottle?—struck his hand, and his arm was icy-hot. Again the bottle struck his head. He tried to protect himself, but the bottle was everywhere. It hit his nose, his collarbone, his kneecap.

“You fucking maniac!” The bottle hit his mouth.

“Quiet.”

Edward was enraged: Resartus had betrayed him. “Why are you—” The bottle crushed his nose.

“Sorry,” Alex laughed. He was not sorry—he was gleeful. Each time he struck Edward, his elation grew. Each strike was a vindication of his patience, his persistence, his planning.

Edward’s inner voice kept ranting at Resartus: you stupid bastard, you stupid crazy bastard! What’s wrong with you!

Edward crawled backward but was stopped by the wall. He managed to sit up and cover his head, fearing more blows.

But the blows had stopped.

“Fuck my teeth are broken,” Edward wheezed.

He felt enormous pressure on his head. He tried to resist, but his head seemed to be separating from his body. An amber explosion radiated from the center of his brain. The amber was blinding, and Edward closed his eyes. But the blinding amber was still there, and he wondered how he could see through his eyelids.

Just as Edward felt he could endure no more pressure on his head, the pressure lifted. Warm blackness fell. Startled, Edward opened his eyes, but saw only a blacker black.

Alex was pleased. He had been careful to avoid cutting the body too much. When one bottle broke, he picked up another rather than risk cutting Edward deeply, then quickly twisted Edward’s head full-circle, quickly killing him.

Edward’s corpse slumped against the wall. One bloodshot eye studied the ceiling, the other studied the floor. Alex wanted to bite Edward’s throat, but he had waited too long to get sloppy.

He allowed himself a little taste by licking Edward’s bloody mouth. The blood was fabulous, more robust than he had expected. Alex celebrated his success with a couple Dunhills.

The ceiling had no exposed beams, so Alex had to hold the body upside down and twist it. Normally, the chore would have irritated him, but not this morning. Alex stood happily in the living room, clutching the body’s ankles between his chin and shoulder and twisting Edward’s body like a tourniquet. The blood filled the jugs quickly, and he placed them in a grocery sack.

When the body was twisted dry, Alex dropped it in the middle of the living room. He relaxed for a while with a couple more smokes. Alex then placed the knife inside the now-empty bottle of wine cooler that Jimmy Stubbs had brought to the party.

Grocery sack in his arms, Alex locked the door and silently departed. He hurried across the yard and down the pitch-black alley: last night, he’d used a pistol bb gun to knock out the alley’s few lights. In five minutes he reached his car, which last night he had strategically parked at the unlit end of the apartment complex parking lot.

Alex hid the jugs in the spare tire well and walked across the lot. He crossed Locust, Cherry, then disappeared into the cornfield. He was home in forty-five minutes. Alex stood on his back porch and faced the east. The horizon was filling with a faint rose tinge, and a few morning doves pecked at the lawn.

Inside, Alex pulled a pint bottle of Edward’s blood from his pocket. He drank daintily, one finger extended. Warmth coated his stomach and spread upward to his chest.

He noticed a crack had spread across the ceiling. “February of 1985,” he remarked, as if regaling a guest. He laughed at the memory. Alex had tied a fat guy upside down in the attic, but the ropes around the fat guy’s ankles slipped. Fatso fell to the floor, cracking the plaster. The impact had knocked out Fatso’s front teeth.

“Memory!” Alex marveled. “Wonderful memory.”

After another swig of blood, Alex called a garage for a tow truck and left his message at the beep: “My car, the pale yellow Chevy, license number 2324-12H, small rust hole in the rear left fender and a stain in the passenger front seat—it was coffee from Zip Quick, a sixteen ouncer!—is in the Village parking lot, far northwest corner. My name is Professor Alex Resartus. Please tow it to my address, 1403 W. 86
^th
.” Alex paused. “Please do it quickly. Cabs are expensive. Many thanks.”

Holly Dish stood before her mirror and pulled her wet hair into a ponytail. The water from her fifth shower dripped to the floor and formed a puddle.

“Why,” Holly asked of her reflection, “did you do it?” She crossed her arms across her breasts and closed her eyes. She had cried hard on the way home, cried hard again in the shower. Her tear ducts were dry, and her jaw and face ached.

Holly took a sixth shower. She had reduced a new bar of soap to a sliver, and now the sliver melted against her belly and thighs. She still did not feel cleansed, so she turned off the hot water and shivered under frigid water.

Worse than a woman’s mouth on her mouth, or on her breasts or belly, was the memory of poor, stupid Edward: when Edward flipped on the light, Holly had laughed. The absurdity of the situation inspired Holly further, and soon she began wailing Peel’s “I’m Prettier on the Inside.”

But when the booze wore off and Claire was asleep, Holly began trembling. She dressed in a panic, hopping about on one leg, and ran out of the apartment. She could not fully grasp what she had done, and she could not formulate a consistent emotional response to it: she was simultaneously elated and sickened. The more she thought about it, the more alarmed she grew.

Now Holly stepped out of the shower and faced the mirror again. Her lips were blue from the cold water, but she had gained control of herself. She thought of Edward again, of how she had been a slutty party favor and laughed in his face. Holly remembered what being laughed at felt like, of what betrayal of common decency felt like. And she was ashamed.