The Ex (19 page)

Deirdre had told Chumley she wasn’t feeling well. As she expected, he urged her to take the afternoon off. He’d been trying to coach her to increase her skill in double-entry bookkeeping. She’d become bored within minutes.

After buying a knish and a can of Diet Coke from a street vendor, she sat on a stone wall and ate lunch, then took a cab home. She didn’t like riding the subway. It was too crowded, not to mention the way those assholes stared at a woman. She almost wanted one of them to try something.

Besides, it hadn’t been that long ago when one of them had set off a fire bomb in a subway car. The bomb had detonated in a station, but it might have gone off when the train was in a tunnel and caused even more death and injury. The idea of being trapped in a tunnel to die of smoke inhalation or burn to death made Deirdre shudder. There would be nothing she could do about it other than to suck in the smoke or flames and make death as quick as possible. She didn’t want that to be her final and uncontrollable destiny

She entered her apartment and changed to jeans and a blouse, leaving her shoes off. After settling down in front of the TV to watch CNN, she became restless. Wolf Blitzer appeared on screen, talking about impending legislation that had to do with foreign aid. Maybe it was his name, but with his beard that never looked as if it had quite grown all the way out, he always seemed to Deirdre like a man in the early stages of transforming into a werewolf. Not that she believed in such things. Or needed to, like some people. There were plenty of very real threats and injustices in the world without worrying about the inventions of writers.

Blitzer was pointing to a bar chart with a pen or pencil. She found that she couldn’t sit still; a wild animal seemed to pace inside her chest.

When Newt Gingrich appeared on camera to be interviewed in front of a bookshelf lined with obviously phony books, she switched off the TV, stood up, and stretched to loosen stiff limbs and eager muscles. Standing tall with her head back, her arms extended straight up, she could almost feel the rough-textured ceiling with her eyes as she peered at it between the widely spread fingers of each hand.

She lowered her arms and her body shivered almost in the manner of a dog shaking off water. Then she went to the phone on the desk and used the blunt end of a ball-point pen to peck out Molly’s number. With the receiver pressed to her ear, she listened to the muffled ring and could imagine it much louder in the apartment two floors below. If she was home, Molly would probably be working. She would already have picked up Michael from Small Business. Maybe he’d be taking his nap. Molly would be interrupted at work, and Michael might awaken and cry and receive some of the attention he craved and was denied.

But when the phone stopped ringing, it was Molly’s voice on the answering machine that came on the line, explaining that the caller had reached the Jones residence but no one could come to the phone right now.

So the bitch wasn’t home.

“…but leave a message after the tone,” Molly’s voice was saying. The voice that whispered in David’s ear, that praised and reprimanded Michael, that uttered words that passed the wrong lips.

The answering machine tone screamed then was silent.

Deirdre knew what she wanted to do. She couldn’t hang up. She smiled.

“Fuck you, Molly!” she said. Was the bitch screening her calls? Sitting by the machine listening? Deirdre doubted it, yet maybe it was so.

She ran her tongue over her lips as if tasting them. Sometimes you had to take a chance, leave things up to destiny. Sometimes it was
fun
to take a chance.

“This is Deirdre, Molly. The woman who fucks your husband!” She tried to say more, but laughter almost strangled her and she had to hang up the phone.

Her blood was roaring in her ears like wild music, singing to her that now she
had
to do what she’d been considering. Otherwise, how could her message be erased before Molly returned home?

She started to slip her feet into her shoes, then stopped. Maybe what she planned would be better barefoot. More contact with the flesh and more intimate. Definitely it would be quieter. That might be important if Molly happened to be home and not answering her phone.

Deirdre padded barefoot to a small vase shaped like a star that she’d bought at the flea market at Sixth and Twenty-sixth. She turned the vase upside down and the key she’d had made for Molly’s apartment fell out into her waiting palm. She squeezed it hard until it was as warm as her own body.

She went to the door and opened it, peeked out to make sure the hall was empty, then crept to the stairs.

It took her only a few minutes to descend the stairs and let herself quietly into the Jones apartment.

She stood inside the door and knew immediately that no one was home. She could always tell about that when entering a house or apartment; she had a sense about such things.

But just to confirm what she already knew, she walked about the apartment, glancing into the bedrooms and bathroom.

Then she went to Molly’s desk and saw by the digital counter on the answering machine that there were three messages. She sat down in Molly’s desk chair and pressed Play, then got a pencil out of the mug on the desk and sat bouncing its point on the flat wood surface while she listened.

Beep.

“David, Mol. Just wanted to remind you of lunch, but I guess you’ve already left. Hope so, anyway.”

Beep.

“Traci here, Molly. The architectural manuscript is fine. Reads beautifully. Even the author is orgasmic over it, and he’s an architect who hasn’t been responsible for an erection in years. Got another assignment for you if you’re interested. A mystery. Not like the wife-in-the-trash-compactor book, but almost as juicy. Was that a joke? Call you later. Bye.”

Beep.

“Fuck you, Molly! This is—”

Deirdre pressed Fast Forward, then Erase.

So they were at lunch, together, and Michael was probably being watched by Julia after hours at Small Business.

When the machine was silent, Deirdre put down the pencil and walked into Molly and David’s bedroom. She went to the closet and opened the door, then stood looking at the now familiar array of clothes. Molly should certainly dress better for David. More the way Deirdre dressed. She smiled. Didn’t Molly know clothes could make the man?

She shut the closet door and walked to the dresser. In the mirror she saw Molly’s
SLEEP OR SEX
T-shirt lying on the bed. She went to the bed and picked up the T-shirt, then noticed the toes of a pair of women’s terrycloth house slippers protruding from beneath the spread where it draped to the floor. So this was Molly’s side of the bed.

Deirdre walked over and stood in front of the dresser mirror. She was visible from mid-thigh to the top of her head.

Staring at her reflection, she slowly and sensuously undressed, doing a striptease for the woman watching in the mirror, dropping her clothes on the floor.

Naked, she flipped her hair back from her pale shoulders then struck some poses in the mirror, some attitudes. The woman she was observing still had a superb body and no doubt about it. Breasts with gravity-taunting lift and lush, erect nipples. Her hips were still trim and there weren’t any stretch marks—none that she could see from where she stood, anyway. Her stomach was smooth and flat, her thighs muscular but not too thick.

Moving closer to the dresser, she selected one of Molly’s perfumes, unscrewed the cap, and cautiously sniffed as she waved the neck of the bottle beneath her nose.

Rose-scented, she thought. She liked it. She applied some of the perfume to the insides of her wrists, then dabbed some in the cleavage between her breasts, so much larger and riper and more appealing than Molly’s breasts. Finally she used her fingers to work perfume into the dark mass of her pubic hair.

She returned the bottle to where she’d found it, then went to David’s dresser. Familiar with the contents of the drawers, she slid open the top one. There in the left front corner were the ribbed condoms and the tube of K-Y lubricant.

She took the K-Y tube to the bed, slipped into Molly’s
SLEEP OR SEX
T-shirt, then threw back the spread and top sheet. Wearing only the T-shirt, she lay down on her back on Molly’s side of the bed. She worked the back of her head powerfully into Molly’s pillow, leaving a deep impression, letting her long red hair fan out on the white linen. More lustrous, more beautiful than Molly’s hair. She uncapped the K-Y tube and squeezed a bead of the slick substance onto the middle finger of her right hand.

Closing her eyes, letting her mind soar where it might, she lowered her hand and touched her finger to the precise spot she sought and began to masturbate.

When she was finished, she replaced the K-Y tube, then wiped her hands on the T-shirt, and laid it on top of the sheet.

Standing at the foot of the bed, dressed in her own clothes again, she drew a deep, triumphant breath, taking in the rose perfume mingled with the scent of her sex still on her hand. Surely destiny was her ally. Any threat or obstacle would be destroyed. Nothing could stop her from claiming what was hers, from being who she was.

Nothing.

No one.

Silently, she padded barefoot from the quiet apartment and locked the door behind her.

She did not make the bed.

David had a difficult time concentrating on work after his lunch with Molly. He left Sterling Morganson at four forty-five, missing most of the evening subway rush, and was home before five-thirty.

As he closed the apartment door and hung up his suit coat, he saw that Molly was seated at her desk working at her notebook computer.

“Another job for Link?” he asked.

“No,” she said without looking around at him, “it’s the article for
Author.”

She was trying to sell an article on editing from the editor’s point of view to
Author
magazine. It would be her second article for the publication whose readership was largely amateur writers. David was glad to see her working instead of worrying.

He kissed the back of her neck as he walked past her—without response—then went into the bedroom to put on jeans and a casual shirt.

Inside the bedroom door he paused.

The bed was unmade, the sheet rumpled. Molly always made the bed, even on the mornings when she was rushed. And there was the T-shirt she slept in, wadded up instead of folded as usual, lying on the bed.

As he moved closer, David saw the depression in Molly’s pillow, as if she’d been resting and had just gotten up. But he doubted that she’d taken a nap in the middle of the afternoon. In fact, he doubted that she’d returned directly home after having lunch with him.

Yet there was her bizarre story about having been followed. How might that have affected her behavior this afternoon.

He bent to straighten the T-shirt and saw that it had been smeared with something clear and oily, as if the substance had been deliberately wiped there.

Then he saw the single, long red hair on the pillow.

His grip tightened on the T-shirt as he figured out what must have happened. Deirdre had been here. Apparently Molly had set to work whenever she arrived home after meeting him, and hadn’t yet gone into the bedroom. Hadn’t yet seen this.

Deirdre again!

“Bitch!” David whispered.

Quickly he used a tissue to rub most of the slick substance from the T-shirt, then folded the shirt as Molly usually did and set it aside. He made the bed, straightening the wrinkled sheet and plumping the pillow. Then he laid the T-shirt on the bed where Molly kept it when it wasn’t in the wash, making sure the faint stains were facing down.

After changing into jeans and a faded Lands’ End shirt, he took a last look around the bedroom, then returned to the living room.

Molly was still working at her desk. She didn’t seem to have moved.

“I’m going out to get a
Post,”
he said. “Want anything?”

“Supper,” she said, without turning around.

“I’ll bring something back. Chinese? Pizza?”

“Anything,” she told him, working her fingers over the small, silent keyboard delicately, as if she were weaving.

He said nothing else as he went out the door.

He didn’t leave the building. As he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, he became angrier with every step. And more frightened.

Deirdre answered the door immediately after he knocked, almost as if she’d been expecting him. She was wearing a robe fastened tightly at the waist with a sash and was barefoot.

“David,” she said simply, not in any surprise.

“We need to talk.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

She stepped back and he entered and closed the door.

“You look upset,” she told him.

“You were in our apartment, weren’t you? In our bedroom?”

“Why, you know I’ve been there. With you.”

“I mean today, while we were both gone. You were there today.”

“Heavens no.” She smiled.

“You wanted her to find it, didn’t you?”

“Find what?”

“The unmade bed. The shirt she sleeps in. Maybe even the red hair on her pillow. But I found the mess you left. Molly hadn’t been home long and didn’t go into the bedroom, never saw any of it.”

“Then even if what I think you’re implying is true, no harm was done.”

“Listen, Deirdre—”

“I just got home from work, David, and I was about to shower. The water’s running, if you’ll excuse me.”

“I won’t excuse you. Myself, either.”

“Martyrdom doesn’t become you. Guilt’s like acid, David. It’s a stupid thing to carry around inside you.” She walked away from him, toward the hall.

As he followed her, he became aware of the roar of water thundering into the old claw-footed tub. At least she hadn’t lied to him about that.

“I want your key to our apartment,” he said.

Still walking, she untied the sash of her robe and let it fall from her body as she made a right turn into the bathroom and left the door open.

He stepped over the robe and trailed after her, saw her part the shower curtain and step into the tub.

“Deirdre!”

She didn’t answer him from behind the curtain.

He moved toward the shower, knowing he shouldn’t. Her form was barely visible behind the opaque plastic.

Suddenly she opened the curtain and smiled out at him. Her hair was wet and plastered to her skull. A layer of soapy bubbles was just disappearing beneath the hot needles of water, flowing in milky streams along her smooth stomach, down between her thighs, to swirl down the drain.

“Come in here with me if you want to talk, David.”

Standing there staring at her, he wanted to, but he didn’t move. Heat rolled out at him. The shower continued to roar.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until I’m finished,” she said, and closed the curtain.

He knew his time was limited here. He
had
to talk to her. And what more could he be guilty of than he was already?

He hurriedly unbuckled his belt and peeled off his shirt, removed shoes and socks and stepped out of his clothes.

“Well, hello!” Deirdre said with a grin when he opened the curtain and stepped into the tub. “This is where you belong, David, with me. Birds of a feather fly together.”

He kissed her hard on the mouth, held the length of her wet body to him. The bar of soap thumped hard on the bottom of the tub, something to avoid. His hands moved over the small of her back, down the smooth soapy mounds of her buttocks.

“Isn’t this rape?” she asked, still smiling.

“Hardly,” he said, and kissed her again.

Her tongue slid into his mouth, then out. “No, don’t do this,” she said without conviction. “No means no, David. That’s the law. This is definitely rape.” She bit his earlobe, then inserted her tongue in his ear, flicked it around. “No is easy to understand.” Her words were distorted, her breath hot. He felt her fingers gently grip his erect penis and stroke it vertically. “No, no, no, please!” She laughed.

He gripped her slippery body with both arms, lifted her, then brought her down on him and was inside her, turning her sideways and pinning her against the wet tile wall. He felt the bar of soap with the edge of his foot and kicked it away, struggled and found purchase on the slippery porcelain and drove himself into her. She groaned and laughed again, breathlessly. “No, no, no!…”

He grabbed a handful of her wet hair and yanked her head back so she was looking up at him as he slammed into her, bouncing her off the wall.

She never blinked but her eyes narrowed beneath the stream of warm water from the shower head. “That’s right, David. You’re angry. Take it out on me. Get it all out. Harder! Harder!”

Gripping her hair tighter, he braced a foot against the side of the tub and hurried his thrusts into her, felt her body stiffen and her stomach press hard into his, heard the wet slap of flesh as his rhythm drummed her against the tiles.

He climaxed and pressed against her hard, then realized her eyes were bulging. He was squeezing the wet clump of her hair harder than he’d realized, straining her head back so that she was staring up at the ceiling. Her pupils were glazing over as if she were strangling, but she was grinning.

Alarmed at the violence within him, he released her, pulled out of her, and stepped back.

She stood gasping and hunched over, still leaning against the tiles, one trembling arm outstretched as if for balance.

When she caught her breath, she said, “So how do you feel now, David?”

“Brimming over with that acid you talked about.”

He threw the plastic curtain aside and stepped out of the tub, then began drying himself with one of the towels from a porcelain rack.

She remained in the tub with the shower running and the curtain open, languidly soaping herself and gazing lovingly at him as he began to get dressed.

“Where are you going?” She asked as he sat on the commode and put on his shoes and socks. “Look out the window. It’s starting to rain.”

“Only to your phone to order some Chinese carry-out, so it’s ready for me when I walk into the restaurant. That’s where I am now, out buying dinner to bring back to the apartment for Molly. I’m sitting at the bar and waiting patiently while it’s being prepared.”

“You’ll still be away longer than if you’d gone straight to the restaurant.”

“They were busy, so the kitchen was backed up. A rowdy group from a convention of some kind, all of them drinking too much and making unreasonable demands on the waiters. They were feeling good and singing songs. You had to wait a long time for the food.”

“That’s imaginative. Won’t Molly think it might be a lie?”

“No. She won’t want to think that.”

“Do you tell a lot of lies, David?”

“Lately I do. I have to. But it’s to be kind, to avoid trouble and pain for other people.”

“That’s what all liars say.”

“The ones who tell mostly defensive lies.” He’d tied his shoes and knew he should finish dressing, then make the phone call to the restaurant and leave, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Deirdre.

She glided the smooth bar of soap through the cleavage between her breasts, then over her erect nipples. “You certainly are deceptive, David the rapist.”

“Aren’t I, though?” he said, standing at last and buttoning his shirt.

Whatever she wanted, he always gave her, even over his own protestations and denial. Even rape. Not really David the rapist, though. David the liar. David the rationalizer.

He smoothed back his hair and checked his image in the fogging medicine chest mirror, looking away as quickly as possible.