Authors: Colin Harrison
Now, onward to the stairs, where he heard music, jazz perhaps, floating down from the second floor. The stairs were constructed from wide oak boards, pegged into place, smooth and bowed irregularly with age. The wood creaked, and in that sound, repeated once again, he froze, knowing beyond himself and with ancestral sense that ghosts of Quaker ladies trundled up and down the stairs, a candle and brass candleholder in one hand, their long, gray wool dresses brushing the wood, while below, slaves ate soup and waited, talking about Canada, glancing up from their bowls at the slightest sound. Then, ninety years later, Italian immigrants slept here three to a room, happy that war had broken out in Europe and that the shipyards and locomotive works needed labor. He tried another step, staying on his toes.
Top of the stairs. Louis Armstrong, razz-voiced, romantic, a trumpet, a smile. Through the music, he heard them talking. The door to Janice’s room was open. It was dark.
“What are we going to do when the house is done?” asked John Apple.
“I’ll get a place not too far, someplace nearby.”
A moment of silence, filled with the last strains of Louis Armstrong. Peter sank to the top stair with infinite quietude, holding his breath, still tasting chocolate. The sweat was soaking his clothes through, and he breathed rapidly, yet he was a genius of quietude, slowing each inhalation. Every nerve wired in to silence. He crawled along the floor until he was squatting only five feet away from them. As he lifted his coat so the gun would not knock against the floor, the cassette deck clicked to a stop in the bedroom.
“I see my lawyer tomorrow,” Janice said.
“Mmm?”
“He says Mastrude is taking too long on everything.”
“He’s a bad lawyer?”
“No, it’s probably Peter,” Janice answered. “He’s got a lot of stuff going on, what with this case. I saw him on television the other day, on the news.”
“Yeah,” came Apple’s unenthusiastic reply, unwilling to grant Peter’s importance.
“I saw that boy they’ve charged with the murders.” Janice’s tone was one of sympathy for Carothers. “He looked so
scared.
I’d be terrified, too. I
know
what Peter’s going to do to him, I’ve seen it. He can be absolutely vicious. He’s going to turn him inside out and go for the death sentence.”
“I don’t believe in it.”
“Neither do I. Maybe that was a basic problem, John.” Her voice sounded sad, reflective of her own shortcomings, too. “Peter’s probably at home right now, trying to think up ways to get that poor man executed.”
Peter laughed wickedly to himself.
“Hey,” Apple soothed. “Someday you’ll look back on this—”
“You’re right, John. I just wish …”
There was the sound of bedclothes rustling.
“Hmmm?” Apple asked.
“Feels nice.”
More loud silence.
“Again?” Janice asked in mock surprise. “You’re Mr. Energetic.”
Fucking a second time—they’d done it once to the music while he was running around outside, knocking on the door, and breaking glass. No wonder they hadn’t heard him. The man would screw Janice twice in Peter’s presence?
Yes—the sound was unmistakable. Fragments of words, pieces of breath. He shut his eyes. The bed creaked.
“Here, just move down a little,” Apple told her. “Okay.”
A rhythm began. Peter stared at the wall before him. Did he dare to stand up and enter the doorway, to
see?
Could he do that? To them or himself? He did want to see, didn’t he? Oh, God, yes. To see—to find out if he could take it, or if he couldn’t. To feel the full power of his anger. Wasn’t that it? Janice was having a good time, the bed creaking faster. Her breath was shortening, her voice uttering broken cries, rungs on a
ladder. Peter had taught her to make those sounds. Didn’t they
belong
to him? And Apple was making some sort of ungodly swinelike groaning and snorting and growling, the bed about to fly apart,
Oh God, I love to fuck you, Janie,
he was slobbering, and then, right there, a happy determined madman, Peter yanked the gun from his pocket and held it out from him, aiming toward the bedroom, nodding his head forward with the rhythm of the fucking on the other side of the wall, faster and faster, and then he aimed the barrel at himself, actually putting his finger on the trigger and staring his right eye into the barrel, looking into the tiny black hole an inch before him, wondering if the gun might go off accidentally—it was a cheap gun, maybe even faulty—listening so well, wondering if he could hear the shot or feel the impact of the bullet as it splintered through his skull, hearing so clearly as Janice began to contract in pleasure, every rasping breath singing a shut-eyed lush world of pleasure—he could see and feel and taste her and he could not stand to hear another man make her make these sounds.
He slipped the gun back into his pocket, stood up, and stepped into the doorway. The sheets were gone and John Apple’s hairy, muscular ass pumped high, then deep—quickly—and Janice’s legs were lifted and bent. Apple’s moaning heightened suddenly and Peter recognized this sound.
“Stop!” Peter roared, filling the room with a huge, violent sound.
Janice screamed. The couple tore apart awkwardly, grabbing sheets for cover. Peter flicked on the wall switch.
“Peter!” Janice screamed.
He towered over them in his dark coat. They were absolutely terrified, gulping breath.
“Janice,” he breathed slowly, letting each word slip from his lips, “I need to talk with you. Now.”
“Hey!” Apple exclaimed hoarsely. “You’re the guy outside the house. Before dinner.”
Janice looked to Peter.
“You’ve been here?”
He nodded.
“You’ve been here
all along?
Why, Peter?”
“Janice,” he said, “I’m in a lot of trouble. I need to talk. Now, to you.”
“Oh, Peter.” She pulled on her nightgown, which had been crumpled on the floor by the bed, dressing quickly and modestly under the sheet, as did Apple, who struggled into a shirt and shorts. Janice’s face did not hide her concern for him. He was desperate, and there was something touching in that—sad, dangerous, but touching, her eyes seemed to say. “You
know
this is impossible.”
“Just send this guy home for a while so we—”
“I can’t do that.” She shook her head.
John Apple stood up, ready to change events. Peter immediately shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Listen, if she doesn’t want you here, you’ve got to leave.”
“Shut up,” he snapped, anger starting to leak into his words, “this is between the two of us. Don’t think you’re a part of this. This is about things you don’t know about and never will.”
“Wait.” Janice held her arms out. “Why couldn’t you have called me at work, Peter? This isn’t fair. You know that.” Her eyes were wet.
“Just tell your pal to hit the road for the night.” Breathing hard, still shivering, he looked at Apple. “You can tear yourself away from my wife for just one evening, can’t you, big guy? It’s pretty good, though, isn’t it? Hard to leave stuff that good, right?”
“You don’t have to deal with this crap, Janice,” Apple responded, helping her stand. “This guy’s fucked in the head.”
“You’re wrong,” Peter interrupted. “It’s me who doesn’t have to deal with you. Why don’t you just get the hell out of here and let us talk?”
Janice’s eyes darted from one man to the other, her mouth twisting in dismay.
“I’m not leaving unless Janice feels comfor—”
“I’m not asking you, I’m
telling
you to leave,” Peter stated. “Janice, tell this guy he has to leave. I don’t want any trouble, but he’s got to drag his ass out of here, now.”
He had to get rid of Apple. She’d understand everything he’d done as soon as he could explain.
Janice unconsciously hitched her hand against her nightgown, shifting in unease. She had just gotten out of bed, he realized, and she usually washed herself afterward—now Apple’s semen was leaving her, crawling down her thighs, making her uncomfortable. But this sensation seemed
to help her find a measure of control. She shook her head. “I can’t talk with you tonight. We can talk about everything, but not tonight. Okay?”
The room felt smaller. “No. I’ve come here.”
“Hey, Peter,” Apple said, holding his open hands out, attempting a mediation. “I appreciate that this is a tough situation for you. I mean, no hard feelings. I’ve been there before. No shit, man. But—I mean, we’re all responsible adults here, so let’s work this—”
“Be quiet,” Peter ordered. “Janice, we have to talk. Now, tonight.”
She was shaking her head, one anxious hand gathering in the material of her nightgown.
“I can’t, Peter. I really can’t.”
“Okay, you heard her,” Apple said firmly, stepping so close that Peter could see the wetness in his beard. “Let’s go.”
He fingered the revolver—his hands were warm enough now to feel the cold metal—then pulled the gun out of his coat.
“Oh, shit.” Apple jumped back.
Janice stared at him, her mouth small, watching him, he knew. Good. She saw how serious he was. He had her attention.
“Peter, put that away.”
He only stared angrily.
“Put it down.”
They didn’t believe how serious he was, they thought that they could just sweet-talk him out of the house. Be nice to him, he’s acting crazy. John Apple stood in a slight crouch, ready to spring or run, yet also by his expression scoffing at Peter. The gun was now a terrible, potent weight in his hand, and he was conscious of the thin arc of the trigger that cupped his forefinger. And with this awareness came an idea: If he fired the gun away from them, then they might realize that he was angry and that he was to be respected. This was only half an idea, carried by a fragment of conviction.
“Put it down, Peter.” She examined him, made a decision—he saw it in her eyes, just as he had seen it the moment she’d told him she was leaving. And, with a grace that looked nearly practiced, she took a long step toward the stairs and touched a red button on the wall.
“Don’t do that!” he yelled.
She turned, her eyes sad and yet resolute.
“You fucker,” Apple snapped at Peter. “That’s a police call button, a silent alarm.”
“Call them back,” Peter ordered. “You have maybe half a minute to call them back.”
“No,” Janice said.
“I will, then.”
“There’s a code.”
“Call. Tell them the code.”
“I won’t, Peter.”
“Hear that?” Apple said.
“You!” Peter stepped toward Apple and pointed the gun at his head. “God, I’d like to blow your head off, you motherfucker. Get down, now.
Now! I mean it
!” Apple collapsed heavily onto the floor and this angered Peter even more. Apple lay at his feet; Peter raised his foot and jammed the sole of his shoe into the man’s back.
“Peter!” Janice screamed. “Stop!”
He pointed the gun at Apple’s head.
“Call, Janice.”
Apple had risen to his hands and knees. Peter kicked hard, in the fleshy part between the hipbone and the bottom rib.
“No,” she cried, weeping, “I can’t.”
He touched the gun to Apple’s head.
“Please, man, I’m fucking begging you,” Apple cried. “Janice, please call.”
Peter began, slowly, to squeeze the trigger, knowing that it would take a deliberate contraction of his finger to pull the trigger to the point that it offered no resistance such that the gun would go off. As he watched their faces, frozen in anticipation and anxiety, this minute increment of space widened in his mind, and as he held the gun and the obvious danger of it—the muscles in his forearm drawn tight—he pressed the trigger ever so slightly more, experimenting where the resistance changed. There would be a great noise, the jerk of motion, a bloody spray against the wall. He felt the string of control running from his brain to his finger. Apple lay rigid.
“You lied to me and planned it for months.” He looked at Janice. “You took my parents’ money, you thought you could just cut me out. You lied to me as carefully as you could.”
She nodded, weeping.
He clutched the gun tightly, and with the means of destruction at hand, the impulse was great. He checked that John Apple did not move. It seemed most natural that he kill Apple, and the desire to do it was unchecked by further thought. Apple had impeded his plan to get back his wife. Janice sank to her knees, her cheeks wet now, a grieving tenderness in her face, and he resisted the sight of her, resisted the meaning of her torment, for it confused his resolve to destroy the both of them.
“Peter, you have to go. They’re coming.”
“What the fuck do you care?” he responded.
“I care. About what happens next.”
He stared at her.
“You can’t, Peter,” she whispered.
“Listen to her,” Apple cried hoarsely.
Without answering, he put his foot heavily on Apple’s head.
“You’re not this mean, Peter. Not this mean to anybody. Not even to yourself.”
Janice wept quietly, her eyes locked on his. He felt clearer, cleaner. Always her crying had done this—shocked him, drained him of malice—for her tears came from the deepest part of her, where she saw a world torn apart again. He hadn’t the heart for any more. He lowered the gun.
“I loved you, Janice.”
She nodded, again and again, wordlessly. The siren neared.
“Go, Peter,” Janice whispered. “Please go.”
OUTSIDE, HAVING LAID THE KNIFE
next to the chocolate cake and hurried through the back door, Peter lingered at the window. The siren ebbed directly outside, the light spinning noiselessly across the leafless trees and alley. Apple came to the door, holding both arms around his middle where he had been kicked, but Janice motioned to him with a violent, insistent waving of her arm to go upstairs and not be seen. Apple left the room. Now car doors slammed, and inside, Janice heard this, as did her husband. She wiped her eyes quickly on her sleeve and pulled on a coat from the closet. The knock came. She opened the door and invited the patrolmen in, pretending to shake her head in embarrassment,
quite obviously explaining the accidental alarm, apologizing at the stupidness of what she had done.