Tell Me More (11 page)

“Oh, yeah, Lindy. Pete—he was the guy who wanted to be in charge—sent for a huge pitcher of water and a bunch of glasses and made her pour us all a glass. And then she ran to the can, her hands between her legs.”

Poor Lindy. The episode had been cruel but fascinating and darkly comic. She’d been close to tears but equally close to helpless giggles at her predicament, the pitcher shaking in her hand. At one point I think she had peed in her pants a little, when she slammed the pitcher onto the table, a look of horror on her face, thighs pressed close together, her face reddening. But she’d fought for control and continued to pour, while Pete and the others jeered at her.

When she’d made her run for the bathroom one of the guys had stepped out in front of her, arms outspread, as if to stop her, and she’d screamed and slapped him, quite hard. I didn’t blame her.

“And did you enjoy your evening?” Mr. D. asked.

“I did. But it made me feel…” I searched for the words. “It made me tremendously horny and excited but part of the excitement was from being able to act mean. I loved watching the guys make out. I loved being on display and knowing that I could tease and torment and act like a bitch. But it’s not real life. It’s playing with other mean children. It’s a fantasy existence.” Kimberly’s words came back to me.
You let me know when you’re ready to drop the fantasies for a few hours and come back into the real world, you hear?

“But it’s a safe place to behave that way,” Mr. D. said.

“I guess so. But what’s scary is that I wanted to have an orgasm to see what they’d do.”

“And come in front of everyone. I imagine that held some appeal for you.”

“Yeah, there is that.” I laughed.

“Did anything happen on the way home?”

I knew what he meant. “No, but it was fun being in a limo.”

“You must have wanted to come quite badly.”

“I did. I ached. I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling a sort of flutter in my cunt. Not an orgasm, but more of a buildup.” I pressed my hand to my crotch and things tightened and contracted inside.

“You mean,” he said, “you mean you haven’t come yet? You’ve been in this condition for nearly twenty-four hours? It sounds as though you’re practicing some sort of far Eastern religion.”

“No. I wanted to come for you. I wanted to wait for you to ask me. To tell me what you wanted.” My voice sank to a whisper.

He told me what to do and I obeyed him.

KIMBERLY WOULDN’T ANSWER MY TEXTS OR
reply to emails and her door was closed most of the time at work. I missed her but there was so much I couldn’t or wouldn’t tell her.
Oh, yeah, I’ve been having phone sex—so eighties, right?—at the station with a guy I’ve refused to meet. And I’ve joined a sex club where hot people fool around and act mean and make out so I can tell the guy on the phone about it.

On the other hand, if I wanted company there was someone with whom I’d played phone tag for a few days until we’d both given up, but I’d felt an immediate liking for her: Liz Ferrar, the woman I’d met at the symphony. And I was pretty sure she wouldn’t invite me into the bathroom so she could pull my pants down and do me. I needed some reality, some interaction with adults, not half-dressed sex maniacs (I couldn’t wait to go back).

I emailed her, inviting her to lunch or coffee, whatever her schedule would allow. She called me right away and we compared schedules; she was generally busy at lunchtime and I couldn’t commit to breakfast or dinner with my late weeknights.

“Or there’s this Saturday,” she said. “Do you like kids?”

“Sure. But no one ever says they don’t.”

She laughed. “Sometimes I wish people would. I’m taking a group of kids from the shelter to the park on Saturday afternoon to give their moms a break. It’s fun, and we could talk while the kids play and grab a bite to eat after. Patrick comes to play with the kids sometimes, too.”

“Patrick?” I wasn’t sure why this surprised me so much.

“The kids adore him. They miss their dads, however badly they’ve been treated, and it’s good for them to have contact with a decent guy.”

I accepted her invitation with enthusiasm. I couldn’t think of anything more wholesome and down-to-earth, even though Patrick might be there (I’d been avoiding him, too).

Saturday was a bright sunny day and although I’d really have preferred to ride my bicycle the few miles to the park, I drove, since Liz and I planned to have dinner after. When I arrived, there were a couple of moms with kids in the playground, a fairly fancy one with elaborate climbing frames and beds of woodchips for any unlucky kids who fell, as well as swings and a slide.

I wandered into the adjoining community center to see if anyone was around. My experience with small kids was that they invariably all had to go to the bathroom upon arrival, however short a drive it might have been. The scent of chlorine from the indoor pool was strong in the air and people strolled in and out, gym bags in their hands.

One guy looked familiar, tall and lanky, with long brown hair tied back. For a moment I couldn’t place him and then I recognized him as Ivan from the previous night. Our gazes locked. He gave a small smile, a hint of a wink and then walked past me, as though we were strangers. Of course, all very proper according to the rules of the Association.

A large glass window looked onto the gym area. A few people were there working out with weights or on machines, and there was one guy working at a punching bag in the corner.

I looked again. It was Patrick, wearing a T-shirt and one of those strange combinations of shorts and pants that guys favor for exercise, sweating slightly as he stepped and swayed, his gloved fists landing on the punching bag with absolute precision. He was light on his feet and quick, and as I watched he closed in on the bag and landed a quick succession of short, fast jabs, his arms blurring. I’d never thought of him as being particularly athletic—he seemed fit enough, and I suspected he was one of those people who was naturally lean—and I liked what I saw. I admired his grace and his neat footwork, the look of concentration on his face.

He looked up, stopped and the bag swung toward him as he saw me.

I was convinced it was going to smack him in the face, but he lifted one hand and caught the bag with a precise, economical gesture. He grinned and raised the other in greeting, and let the bag spin away, gently rotating on the cable.

I heard a burst of children’s voices and saw Liz and another woman and a gaggle of half a dozen children come into the community center, crowding over the tiled floor. Liz raised a hand to me and pointed to the bathroom, as I had predicted.

After a few minutes, a door banged and Patrick walked toward me, a backpack swinging in his hand. “Liz said you’d be here,” he said.

“I didn’t know you boxed.” He had a scent of male sweat about him that I found disturbingly attractive.

“I don’t, really. It’s a great way of releasing tension, smacking at an inanimate object. I do a few weights, too.”

I gazed with new appreciation at the muscles in his arms before he reached into the backpack and pulled on a hoodie. At that point, the children emerged from the bathroom and swarmed toward Patrick, wrapping their arms around his legs, tugging at the hem of his hoodie, and all talking at once. He scooped one little girl with a collection of pink-and-purple barrettes on her braided hair into his arms, and, surrounded by children, made his way outside.

“He’s so sweet with them,” Liz said as we followed him and the kids outside. “It’s a pity I’m too old for him.” She added, “And married. Mustn’t forget that.”

“And he’s my tenant,” I said, half joking. “He was dating my best friend Kimberly for a while.”

“That was Kimberly? He’s very discreet,” Liz said. “Lucky girl.”

She introduced me to the other woman, Sharon, who was her assistant at the shelter. Patrick dropped his backpack onto a bench outside and went to clamber on the climbing frame with the children.

We brought each other up-to-date. I mentioned I’d dated Willis, without telling her any lurid details and she laughed and made a face.

“He’s not so bad when you get to know him,” I said. “A lot of that bluster is just for show.”

“Has Kimberly squeezed any money out of him yet?”

“I don’t think so. Are you expecting someone else to arrive?” I couldn’t help but notice how her eyes darted around, watching carefully if a car drew up at the community center.

“Sorry. Force of habit.” She laughed. “You get so used to making sure none of the abusive parents are around. It’s always a risk if you’re out with the kids. Word gets out. Sometimes one of the women will actually tell her husband where the shelter is and that makes for trouble. It’s so tough for the women, dealing with the breakup of their relationship and their kids’ sadness and anger, too.”

Patrick waved at me from the monkey bars, hanging one-handed, while the kids grabbed at his legs.

I ran over to them, jumped up to the monkey bars and hooked my legs over a rung so I could hang upside down.

“This is my friend Jo,” Patrick said and rattled off the names of the children, who stared at me.

“That lady be silly,” the owner of the pink-and-purple barrettes pronounced after a moment’s thought.

“I want to do like that lady does!” squealed a little boy, and Patrick obligingly dropped to the ground to lift him into position.

I disentangled myself from the bars, too, to lift children up and steady them as they swung, and soon they were swarming over me with sudden, touching warmth. Whatever these kids had gone through they still had a capacity for trust and affection.

I took a couple of them over to the swing set, where Liz joined me, and we pushed a couple of squealing kids high into the air.

“Oh, shit,” she said quietly.

I followed her gaze. A car had drawn up in the parking lot, stopped at an angle and with the engine still running. A couple of guys got out and for a moment I was afraid they might be armed.

But the little girl with the barrettes ran toward them. “Daddy!”

Sharon ran over to the climbing frame and rounded the kids up, while Liz and I stopped the swings.

“Call 9-1-1,” she said to me. “He’s breaking his restraining order. Kids! Come into the community center. Yolanda! Say hi to your daddy and then come over here, please.”

As I dialed, one of the guys reached into the car and pulled out a huge stuffed toy, about as big as his daughter. “Baby,” he crooned. “Look what Daddy’s got for his little girl.”

Yolanda stopped. I think she was alarmed at the size and the beady eyes of the toy.

The dispatcher wanted me to stay on the line, and as I talked, I walked toward the parking lot. Liz ran ahead of me, but Patrick got there first. He put a hand on Yolanda’s shoulder. “Say hi and then come inside with the other kids.”

“My daddy.” Yolanda stuck her thumb in her mouth but now I was close enough to see she looked scared.

“Mr. Harris, you’re breaking the terms of your restraining order and we’ve called the cops,” Liz said. “If you leave now, there won’t be any trouble.”

“Fuck off, bitch. That’s my baby girl.” Harris lurched toward the little girl, the monstrous stuffed toy in one hand, and I wondered if he was high or drunk. “Daddy got a present for you, baby girl. You’re gonna come for a ride in Daddy’s car.”

“Keep your distance.” Patrick’s voice was sharp and commanding. He moved in front of Yolanda, removing his glasses and tucking them into his pants pocket.

“Who the fuck are you, man?” Harris seemed to notice him for the first time.

“Daddy!” Yolanda wailed as Liz grabbed her. She struggled in Liz’s arms.

“You give her back, bitch.”

“Leave them alone!” Patrick ordered as Harris headed for Liz and Yolanda.

I heard the sound of sirens and willed the police to hurry. Liz, Yolanda in her arms and screaming, turned and ran toward the building, slowed by the child’s attempts to escape.

Harris’s head turned; he’d heard the sirens, too.

“Fuck you!” he shouted and swung one powerful arm. Patrick fell onto the surface of the parking lot and lay motionless as Harris and his companion leaped back into their car and drove off, tires squealing.

“He’s hit someone! They’re driving off!” I snapped my phone closed and ran toward Patrick, who struggled to sit up, his face covered in blood.

“Fuck,” he said, swiping at the blood.

“Are you okay?” I said, surely one of the more stupid questions of my life.

The sirens grew louder and a police cruiser and an ambulance drew up. Another police car, sirens blaring, shot past the park, presumably in pursuit of Harris. Paramedics pushed me aside and started firing questions at Patrick, who got to his feet, refusing to get onto the gurney they’d unloaded.

Liz emerged from the building. “I need to take the kids back,” she said. “Is Patrick okay?”

I glanced at him, sitting on the step of the ambulance, a cold pack pressed to his face, surrounded by paramedics. “He was walking just now. I guess so.”

“I’m so sorry, Jo. We’ll get together another time, okay?”

I hugged her and reassured her there was nothing to apologize for. Yolanda stood at Liz’s side, clinging to her, her thumb jammed into her mouth.

Liz talked briefly to the police officer and gave him her card. Then she and Sharon and the children, many of whom were crying, trooped out to get back into their minivan.

Someone tugged at my arm. I searched for a name— Maurice, that was it, the kid who’d wanted to hang upside down. “The bad man gave Patrick an owie.”

“Yeah. But he’ll be fine.”

“Will his momma look after him?”

“I think his momma lives a long way off. But I’m his friend. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

Maurice seemed reassured and ran to join the other kids.

I retrieved Patrick’s backpack from the bench and went over to where he was talking to some paramedics.

“Shit, no. My nose isn’t broken, I wasn’t unconscious. I’m fine, and I’m not going to the hospital. My premiums will go sky-high.”

“You may have a concussion, sir. That’s quite a bump you have on the back of your head and you shouldn’t drive yourself home.”

I laid my hand on his arm. “I’ll drive you home, Patrick, but I think you should go to the hospital.”

“No way.”

I left him arguing with them and retreated into the community center, where I made and signed a statement, kicking myself that I hadn’t had the foresight to get the car’s license plate number.

“We caught them six blocks away, ma’am,” the cop told me. “We know Harris. We can put him away for violating the terms of his restraining order, but he’ll be out and making trouble again soon and there’s nothing much we can do.”

I thanked him and went outside again. Patrick now held a cold pack to the back of his head while signing a clipboard. He looked up at me. “I’m releasing them of all responsibility,” he said. “So if I drop dead, no one will sue them.”

“Great, I’ll get to keep your rental deposit. Are you ready to go? I have your backpack.”

He nodded and stood. I grasped his elbow. The paramedic handed me his copy of the release statement, on which was written a list of frightening symptoms that might indicate a concussion. “Keep an eye on your boyfriend for the next twenty-four hours, ma’am. He’ll probably be fine, but we like to be cautious when it’s a head injury.”

“Sure. Thanks.” To Patrick I said, “Wait here. I’ll drive the car over.”

He looked at me and blinked. “Are you kidding? It’s ten yards away. I need to walk.”

He shook my arm off, and reached into his pocket for his eyeglasses.

The significance of him taking off his eyeglasses now became clear. I unlocked the car door. “You knew he was going to hit you.”

“I thought it likely. Eyeglasses are expensive.” He settled into the seat. “Your windscreen is dirty.”

“I know.” I held up a hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Seven. For God’s sake, woman, drive.”

I giggled at his sudden lapse into Irishness. “I think I have some frozen peas in the freezer.”

He blinked at me. “Why are you telling me this?”

“For a cold pack.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

We rode in silence until I drew up at the house a few minutes later. “I can light a fire. Do you want to lie down on the sofa? I have a whole bunch of DVDs and—”

“Are you planning on playing Florence Nightingale?”

“I don’t remember telling them you were my boyfriend, but someone did.”

“Right.” He touched the back of his head and grimaced. “Yes, well, they would have insisted on taking me in unless I had someone with me, so I told a bit of a fib.”