SHUDDERVILLE FOUR (4 page)

“What he’s doing here.”

“What’s he doing where?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean—
nothing
? What is it you suddenly ‘
get
?’” she said angrily.

He wiped his hands on his pants and heaved a sweet-and-sour sigh. He tore a slice of whole wheat bread in half, popped it in his mouth and idly thumped his foot against the table leg. “I’m here for the same reason you are, Sophie. I want him to fix what he broke. He ruined my life.”

She rested her hands in her lap. “What did you wish for?”

“Ha. I was young and stupid. Eighteen years old. I wanted to be the world’s greatest lover.” He laughed. “I was already pretty good at it. Women like me. I have no problems in that department. But hey, I was wasted when he asked me—if I could have any wish in the world, what would it be?” He looked at her expectantly. “Right? He asked you that too, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Yeah.” Hector popped the rest of the bread in his mouth. “Anyway, this was years ago. I told him I wanted to be a Lothario, you know what I mean? Don Juan. I wanted to be the world’s greatest lover—but it came out wrong. I was wasted, like I said, and my words got all tangled up. I don’t even know what I asked for. I think I said, ‘I want to be the answer to every woman’s prayers.’ You know? Some shit like that. ‘When I’m fucking a woman, I want to be the vessel for her greatest desires.’ I thought it was cool.” He slowly twirled his beer bottle around in its puddle of condensation, lines in his brow deepening. “So now? When I’m fucking some chick? You know what she’s seeing in her head? She’s seeing her ex-boyfriend who dumped her, the guy she’s still in love with.”

Sophie frowned. “What do you mean she sees him?”

“Like, in real time. Like,
now
. Like what he’s doing now. She sees her greatest desire. Whatever she’s been praying for. For some of them, it’s their ex-husband. For others, it’s an old flame. She’ll see him wherever he is now, what he’s doing, picking his nose and reading
Sports Illustrated
. But the point is, she’ll
see
him.”

Sophie sat a little straighter. “So when you’re making love to someone, she can see her greatest desire?”

He cracked a smile. “This one chick, all she could visualize was Brad Pitt. I think he was having a fight with Angelina. An argument. A marital dispute. She told me about it afterwards verbatim.”

“And by greatest desire—you mean whatever it is she wants the most? The answer to her prayers?”

He darkened. He pushed his plate away and licked his fingers. He stared at her. “Yeah, right? And it’s not just who they’re sexually attracted to. Some women see money, or mansions, or diamonds, or the kids they lost custody of. They’ll see all these
other
things when they’re supposed to be focusing on me. It’s messed up. That’s not what I asked for. Some of them come begging for more—just so they can spy on their exes or whatever, see what he’s up to. Like I’m some kind of private detective or something. Like I give a shit.”

“So it could be
anything
? Her greatest desire?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Why?”

She turned away, ashamed, and burst into tears, the staccato sound of her weeping stabbing at her heart.

He shook his head. He realized how vulnerable she was. “Yeah, I get it,” he said.

Her sobs gradually subsided. “You do?”

He nodded. He had scraggly, greasy hair and coffee-colored cheeks crawling with acne. “You’re thinking about your daughter,” he said. “You want to know where she is and if she’s okay. That’s your greatest desire. Right?”

She experienced a surge of gratitude. “Would you do it?” she asked softly.

He made a face. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a nice lady. I don’t fuck nice ladies.”

“You could,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “I’m not that bad-looking, am I?”

He frowned. “It’s got nothing to do with your looks. You’re hot enough.”

“Then why not?”

“I just told you.” He became a blank space, like a face with no eyes.

She said, “Then I’ll never see her again.”

He sat very still with his hands on the table. She watched his powerful muscles ripple with tension. He stood up and grabbed her. She let him. She let herself drift away. She wanted to see Jayla.

Hector pushed her down onto the kitchen floor and kicked the chair away. He tore at her clothes, tugging down her jeans and ripping off her underwear. He rearranged her body beneath him, pulling her legs toward him, pushing himself inside of her and failing, and then trying again, wetting his fingers and inserting them inside her, and then sliding his penis inside her; pushing, pushing, friction; it hurt a little, and then it hurt a lot, him grunting above her, losing all sense of who she was, this woman lying on the floor beneath him—who was she really? He lost all focus and no longer saw her as a person; he kept working his hips harder and harder, pushing his penis into and out of her, over and over, grunting and groaning, making noises, closing his eyes while she gazed up at him and—what? When do I get to see my daughter? Is this a joke? Were you lying to me? Is this how you get women to fuck you? Her legs were sore, and her back hurt from lying spread-eagled on the floor. Was this rape? Was he raping her?

But then something changed. She began to feel more distant, and soon she was floating away from him. She lingered somewhere above them, looking down from the ceiling like a scientist inspecting two bugs. Hector pounded his hips against her, until three—four—five hard thrusts made him shudder so crazily, his eyes rolled up in their sockets and he made an oh-God face.

Sophie couldn’t breathe. After several long moments of struggling, she gave up. She sank into a deep sleep and thought about Jayla. A small journey began. She was tiptoeing from mushroom to mushroom, thinking at the speed of light. She heard voices. People talking gibberish. She looked into a magic mirror at her endless eyes.

*

A little girl was sitting cross-legged on a bed, smiling curiously at her collection of dolls and teddy bears. She had big blue eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, and embroidered on her fuzzy pink sweater was a sleepy-eyed cat. There was a pair of costume wings attached to her back with an elasticized strap—angel wings made out of fluffy pink feathers. There were rhinestones on her purple tiara, and in her hand was a magic wand with a sparkly star at the tip.

It was Jayla.

Sophie tried to speak to her. “Jayla?” It came out thin and watery.

“What are you doing here?” the little girl said.

Sophie thought she was talking to her, but then Jayla picked up one of her dolls. It was a boy doll. A Ken doll. He wore a blue shirt and khaki pants. On his feet were little plastic shoes. Now she made her Ken doll speak. “Be quiet, or he’ll hear you.”

Jayla nodded with comic exaggeration and put a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

Sophie looked around woozily. The room was unlike any other room she’d ever seen before. The ceiling was ten feet tall and strung with twinkly lights. The floor was painted to look like the ocean, deep blue ripples surrounded by a border of prancing sea horses. There was a clamshell armchair, a plastic dolphin rocking chair and a wooden chest of drawers with seashell handles—the sort of furniture you might find in a mermaid’s castle.

Jayla slid down off of her bed, took a few crudely mechanical steps forward and stood blinking at the large elegant doll seated in the rocking chair. “Have you come to rescue me?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sophie whispered. Only Jayla didn’t hear her. Didn’t see her. Didn’t acknowledge her existence.

I’m not really here. But I can see you, my precious baby. I love you. I’ll find you, and yes, I will rescue you.

Jayla’s eyes went wide. She picked up the large doll dressed in Victorian garb and carried it out of the strange room into an even stranger one. Sophie followed her down a short hallway past a kitchen and bathroom, then stood inside a living room that was decorated to look like the fifties. A pink-and-black sofa and two sleek armchairs, two black lacquer end tables and an old-fashioned television on a swivel pedestal. There was a white vinyl record player next to a stack of scratchy-looking records and lots of antique toys—a pinball machine, a shelf of tiny robots and futuristic-looking cars, a pink poodle clock and a stuffed monkey with a fez. The pink-tiled kitchen was large and well lit. The mint-green bathroom had an old-fashioned bathtub, the kind with clawed porcelain feet.

Now Jayla pretended that her doll was talking to her. “Did you try the door again?” the doll asked.

“It’s locked. I told you already. See?” Jayla walked over to a blue-painted door and jiggled on the handle.

She made the doll try it. She had her pull on the knob and kick the door panel with her slender inadequate ceramic legs.

“See?” Jayla told the doll. “It’s locked.”

Sophie almost wept. Her daughter was so brave and strong.

Now they both heard a noise upstairs. Footsteps.

Jayla shivered and looked at the ceiling. She seemed worried. Her pretty blue eyes glazed over, and she put a finger to her lips. “We should sit down,” she said.

She put the doll on the sofa and sat next to her.

Sophie looked frantically around the room. There were windows, but they weren’t real windows, just pretend windows. Behind the glass, somebody had painted in the woods and the sky. She figured her daughter was being held in a basement, since basements didn’t have real windows, and it felt dank and oppressive down here. She got a bad feeling, as if she’d been sucked into a hole.

Sophie thought she heard something. It sounded like a radio. Then she heard footsteps. First they sounded way far away, but then they shuffled closer. She looked up at the ceiling, and her mind reeled. Who was up there? What sort of monster was holding her daughter hostage?

Now Jayla was watching TV with the doll in her lap. She talked to her doll. “Mommy isn’t here,” she whispered. “Mommy’s not coming back. Daddy’s upstairs making lunch, so you be quiet. You’d better be good. Shh. Be quiet!” she said, suddenly shaking her doll. “That’s enough! Go back to your room.”

A door opened and closed upstairs.

“You be quiet!” Jayla said, little hands on little hips. “Or else Daddy’s going to make you sorry you were ever born!”

It chilled Sophie to the bone.

Now she heard footsteps. Loud footsteps tumbling down a set of stairs. A key jiggled in the lock and the door swung open.

Jayla leapt to her feet and hid her doll behind her back.

“Hello,” a very tall man said.

“Hi,” Jayla said shyly as he entered the basement.

Sophie’s heart was hammering. Her daughter was too young to realize she should be afraid of this man. He wore a charcoal suit and stooped down to talk to her, his face washed with worries. He had a tight smile and thin hair and solemn dark eyes. “What’s all this noise?” he asked her.

“It was the TV,” Jayla said, pointing at the old Zenith.

The tall man nodded. His eyes narrowed critically on the television set, and then softened as they gazed upon Jayla. “What are you hiding behind your back, sweetie-pie?”

She showed him her doll.

“What are you hiding your doll for? I want you to have it, Jayla.”

She seemed a little overwhelmed by recent events, and her mild irritation soon manifested itself as exhaustion. She rubbed her puffy eyes and said, “I want my mommy...”

Sophie shuddered.

The tall man’s skin was blotchy, like the skin of a person who agonized over things. He was old, like an old file folder you kept stuffing things into. His eyes were so bloodshot, red confetti seemed to be falling from his eyelashes. “Don’t you look like a little princess,” he told Jayla.

She blinked. “My shoes hurt.”

“Do you like your new sweater?”

“It itches.”

“Want some Sugar Pops?”

Her face twisted up. “No.”

“Did you look in the mirror and see your pretty wings?”

She shook her head and tugged on her underpants.

“You look like a princess. I think you are a princess.”

She squinted at the ceiling. “Where’s Mommy?”

“I told you what happened to your mommy. She gave you away. She didn’t want you anymore. Remember?”

She pouted.

Sophie flew at him like a crazy person, but he brushed her away casually, as if waving away an insect. He was not aware of her.

“Come on, honey. Don’t pout.” The tall man’s hands dangled by his sides as if he were afraid to touch the little girl. As if he was afraid he might corrupt her with his oldness. “Princesses don’t pout,” he said softly.

Jayla’s expression locked, anger burrowing into her forehead.

Sophie could almost hear the wails before they began.

“Now, now.” The tall man scooped Jayla up in his arms and swept her into the bedroom. Sophie flew in after them. He lay her down on the bed and then quickly left the room, closing the door softly behind him. After a moment, the crying stopped and Jayla fell asleep.

*

Sophie opened her eyes. Her body felt like a cold, wet sock. There was a whiff of something in the air. Something strong but sweet. She frowned hard with concentration. Her head was pounding. Her eyes slowly focused. She was lying on the cold kitchen floor, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

Hector had left a sticky mess between her legs. He rolled onto his back, closed his eyes and sighed. He was gone. So gone, she was afraid to ask any questions. Like when can we do that again? And how long do I have to wait between times? Because she just had to go back there and make sure Jayla was okay. She had to find her daughter. She sat up and felt a wetness between her legs. She felt sore down there.

She glanced over at Hector, who said nothing. His eyes were closed. Maybe he was sleeping. She sat there trying not to hate him. She tried to be grateful. Now, at last, she knew. She knew where her daughter was and who had kidnapped her. Thank God. Thank God, she had found her at last.

*

Tobias Mandelbaum was enjoying a perfectly good cup of espresso in a café, when he felt an unexpected urge to return home. But he couldn’t do that. Not now. Sophie had made a mess of his plans.