“You’re lying.”
M. shrugs. “I have no reason to lie. You wanted to know what Franny and I did together—I’m telling you.”
“And?”
M. smiles. “And what? Did I let him fuck her? Figure that out for yourself.”
We get into his car and leave for home. We drive without speaking. It’s only four in the afternoon and the rain has picked up again. When we turn onto the main road, I stare at the passing shops, motels, people rushing along under umbrellas. We wind around the lower half of Lake Tahoe, the water pocked by big drops of rain. Everything around us—the tall, dripping trees, the homes planked with redwood, cars swishing by—everything takes on a sodden, grayish tinge. I can’t stop thinking of Franny in that house, of what M. forced her to do.
The city falls behind. We pass the airport and head into the mountains, where the rain, quite abruptly, turns into a light shower. The droplets drizzle on the car in a languorous, misty dance. Soon it’s dusky outside, nearly twilight. The trees are sparse now, and the steep mountains have given way to the rolling, grassy foothills. We reach the flat stretch of land that becomes Sacramento and continue west. When we get to Davis, he drives up to my house. He turns off the engine and looks at me, draping his arm across the seat. Without comment, he studies me. I become uneasy.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“Come over here,” he says. This is a demand, not a request. Instinctively, I stay where I am. In the silent moments that ensue, the air becomes heavy with tension.
He smiles, smug and ominous. “Defiance,” he says, releasing his seat belt and sliding over to me. “I like that.” In a sudden move I’m not expecting, he pins me up against the door, blocking me with his arms so I can’t move. He puts one hand under my chin and lifts my head to him. “Some of it. But don’t go too far. Defy me at the wrong time, and you’ll pay for it.” He pushes against me, then he kisses me. I feel the danger again, as I did the night I slept with him; I feel, against my will, the excitement.
Abruptly, he stops. He grips my chin and mouth with one hand, pushing my head back against the window. I feel the strength in his arms, in his body pressed to mine.
Quietly, with his hold on me secure, he says, “You want to believe I killed Franny. It gives you something to hold on to. It’s a better alternative than to think her killer might go free. But you’re attracted to me. I can feel it in the way you kiss me, I can feel it in your body. You and I are going to become friends. In spite of yourself, you will like me. You may not know it yet, but we’re more alike than you ever imagined. We’re cut from the same mold, Nora. You won’t be able to resist me.”
His words scare me. To think I might be similar to him is repugnant. I struggle against the hand gripping my jaw. “Don’t be too sure,” I manage to say.
He kisses me lightly on the cheek, then releases me. I go inside the house, hearing him drive away. Immediately, I call Joe Harris at his home and tell him about the scarification. Joe tells me he’ll check it out.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rings. Ian is standing on the porch—blond, big, looking boyish in blue jeans and a red-and-gold 49ers jacket. His face is square and smooth, no discernible lines yet, with straw-colored eyebrows that look like paintbrush bristles. Rushing in with a loping gait, he kisses me on the same cheek that M. had kissed.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, perplexed.
“You didn’t get my message? I called you earlier; I said I’d be over this evening.” He puts his arms on my shoulders and kisses me again, deeper this time. I expect him to sense my betrayal, to stand back and say, “You’ve been with another man”—but he doesn’t. In his kiss, I feel passion and true affection.
I rest my head against his chest and hold him tightly. He’s a thickset man, built like a wrestler—which is what he was in college—big and brawny, but his life is mostly sedentary now and in a few years, by slow degrees, the flabbiness will appear. I can feel it beginning now. I think of M.’s naked body: sleek, taut, danger running through his blood. The image makes me nervous. 1 reach under Ian’s T-shirt and press my fingers into his cool, pale flesh. His sheer mass comforts me.
“No,” I say, “I didn’t get your message. I just got home.” I look at him, his trusting face, and know, most assuredly, I can’t tell him about M. Instead, I tell him I went up to Tahoe with a girlfriend.
I follow Ian into the kitchen, where he gets a Pepsi out of the refrigerator. I don’t drink sodas, and keep them only for him. Glancing at my answering machine, I see I have two messages. I press the button and, sure enough, Ian, in a loud voice amplified by the machine, is telling me he’ll be over later this evening. The other message is from Maisie, wondering where I am, why I haven’t returned her calls. I haven’t spoken to her since I met M., unwilling to tell her about my clandestine affair. I erase both messages.
Taking off his jacket, Ian tosses it on the counter and says, “Did you win? Up at Tahoe?”
“Not much. A few dollars.”
He flips back the tab and takes a drink out of the can, pushes his light hair out of his eyes. He looks at the answering machine and, without much energy, says, “I had lunch with Maisie today. She doesn’t understand why you’re avoiding her.”
Maisie writes a human-interest column for the Bee, and she and Ian have become fairly good friends. “I’m not avoiding her,” I say. I start to fabricate an excuse, but Ian seems distracted, and I don’t think he heard what I said. He pulls on his lower lip.
“What’s the matter?” I ask him.
He’s silent for a moment, as if he’s gauging the effect of his reply. Finally, his voice irritated, he says, “Maisie isn’t the only one you seem to be avoiding.” He finishes the Pepsi in one long gulp and sets down the can. “I’ve been trying to reach you all week. You don’t answer the phone, and when you return my calls, you do it during the day when you know I’m not at home.”
All week I’ve been telling Ian I had the flu.
He continues. “You act like you don’t want to see me. As if there’s someone else in your life.”
“No,” I say quickly. “There is no one else. I’ve been sick; that’s all.”
He looks off to the side, his face troubled, then back at me. “Are you sure that’s all?”
I nod.
He closes his eyes, sighing. When he opens them, he says, “I shouldn’t have said that, about you seeing someone else. I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion. But I love you, Nora. You can’t just disappear for a week. And you can’t push me away just because you’re sick. I want to take care of you when you’re not feeling well. I want to be with you—good health or bad.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I’m just …” I shrug, not knowing what to say, not wanting to compound my lies. Lamely, I add, “I knew you were busy last week.”
“I was—but I would’ve made time for you.” He relaxes, leaning against the counter. The beginning of a smile appears on his face. “I would’ve brought you chicken soup.”
I go over to Ian and wrap my arms around him. I hold him to me, lean against him, then hold him even tighter. This is the man I want. He’s reliable and dependable and loving. He gives me what I need.
Gently, Ian pushes me at arm’s length. “Hey,” he says, concerned. “Are you all right?” He searches my face for an answer.
I nod. “Yeah, I guess I’m just tired.”
“What you need is a little TLC—which I would’ve given you all along if you had let me come over.” He leads me into the living room, turns on the corner lamp, and we sit on the couch. The lamp has only forty-watt bulbs in it, three of them, and they give off a mellow, amber glow that fades into a furry darkness in the far corners of the room. On the coffee table lies Ian’s latest wood carving—an unfinished scorpion in holly—along with several sharp knives and chisels. I put up my feet on the couch and lie down, resting my head in his lap. I find security in the bulk of his body, and I nestle closer, wanting his solidity to anchor me.
“I mean it, Nora,” he says. “Just because you’re sick, you can’t tell me to stay away. If I get the flu, are you going to say, ‘Call me when you’re better. I don’t want to see you until you’re well’?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. So don’t tell me to stay away. Don’t shut me out like that.”
I burrow into his lap, turning away so I don’t have to look him in the face. His concern for me makes me feel even guiltier about M. “I guess I’m not very good at being a girlfriend,” I say.
He strokes my hair and his voice softens. “You’re fine as a girlfriend,” he says, and I know he means it. “Just fine,” he whispers, and he continues stroking my hair and face, his hands so large, his fingers so thick and blunt-edged you wouldn’t think they could be so gentle.
“Do you want to stay home tonight?” he asks. “Just take it easy? We can watch TV if you like.” His touch is as smooth and silken as warm butter, and I can feel the love in it. I contrast him with M. and find there is no comparison.
I nod, then roll over so I’m looking at him. His eyes are blue and clear and gaze at me with absolute trust, his face open and honest. He palms the top of my head and rubs his thumb lightly across my forehead. His touch is purifying. “What I’d really like,” I say, “is for you to make love to me.”
Ian gives me a slow grin. “I thought you were tired.”
“Not that tired,” I say. I want my thoughts of M. to be replaced with ones of Ian, and my negligence of Franny to disappear. I want Ian’s purifying touch to take away my guilt. I want, quite simply, complete and total absolution.
Since Franny’s death, I’ve learned much about the world of sadomasochism. In an S&M relationship, the dominant partner is referred to as the top, the submissive as the bottom; and if the submissive attempts to control or manipulate the relationship, his or her behavior is negatively referred to as “topping from the bottom.” This is an apt phrase for my relationship with M. He is unaware of it, but I’m topping him from below.
When Ian doesn’t come over, I spend my evenings with M. I usually don’t see him until dinnertime. When he returns from his last class on campus, he goes immediately to his piano and is loath to be interrupted. Tonight, we just finished dinner and we’re taking a brief walk around the neighborhood, Rameau—like a shadow, ever present—a few feet behind us. There are no sidewalks here, so we walk along the edge of the road, kicking up pebbles now and then. In a neighbor’s yard, pink-tipped yellow dahlias shimmer in a gentle flurry of wind, and a bird whistles in a tree. Through the treetops we see an orange sun hover low in the horizon. Soon it will be dark.
M. takes my hand in his. He’s wearing lightweight gloves, which strikes me as odd since the air isn’t very cool. Two young boys zip past us on bicycles, riding in the middle of the asphalt road.
“Do you always wear gloves?” I ask him.
“Nearly, if there’s a hint of coolness in the air. My hands chap easily.” He looks over at me and adds, “You don’t want my hands to be rough, Nora. It would be distracting. Trust me. For what I have planned, you want my hands to be soft.”
I almost ask what he has planned, but decide he’s only teasing. We walk together, my hand in his, and I can’t help but thinking that it was by this gloved hand that Franny was murdered.
We pass a home that has a small manmade pond in front. Bluish-gray translucent insects skitter on the pond, the surface rippling slightly when a breeze, carrying the sweet smell of jasmine, comes our way.
“Tell me something about Franny,” I say.
Without hesitation, he replies, “She was impeccably honest. She would never consider deceiving one man with another.”
I bow my head and sigh—a soft, repentant sigh—letting him think I’m overcome with guilt. But it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. He’s the last person in the world who should be lecturing me on deception. A ratcheting cricket breaks the silence.
“You won’t be able to keep seeing two men for very long,” he says quietly. “It’ll start to eat away at you. Drop Ian—he doesn’t have what you need.”
I hear the jealousy in his voice and make a note to use it to my advantage, if possible. Again, I say nothing, just sigh a little so he’ll think I’m troubled. The bottom of the sun disappears and long, red-flamed tendrils become visible, fringing the horizon like a decorative border of coiling threads. In the dusky twilight, the street takes on a closed-in, sheltered look, all the shrubs and trees and lawns grayish-green in the diffused light of the vanishing sun.
We finish our walk hand in hand, our shoulders touching occasionally. When we get back to his house, M. goes into the kitchen and puts a pot of water on the stove. With his back to me, I watch him fiddle at the counter, arranging two mugs, getting out two Bigelow tea bags, pouring in the boiling water.
“I’ll be back in a second,” he says and disappears. He returns with a magazine and gives it to me, Taste of Latex, issue five.
“Homework,” he says, sitting me in a chair at the kitchen table. He opens it to page twenty, and I read the title of the article: “Fisting, Part 1: The Cunt.”
I lay the magazine on the table. “Forget it,” I say. “There’s no way you’re getting your entire hand inside me.”
He places his palm on my shoulder. “This isn’t something we have to do tonight,” he says. “Or even next week. Just read the article. Learn a little about it, and try to keep an open mind.”
I look at the pictures. “I’m not big enough. You’d tear me apart.”
“Read it,” he says, and he brings me a mug of tea and walks away.
I shout at his back, “That’s all I’ll be doing.” I sip the tea, not looking at the magazine, wondering if this is something he did with Franny. I drink more tea, almost finishing it, then finally glance at the pictures again. A woman is on all fours, another person—hard to tell if it’s a man or woman—behind her, a hand inserted in her vagina. I start to read the article but find it difficult to concentrate. My gaze wavers back to the picture, back to the hand disappearing inside a vagina. I return to the opening paragraph and yawn—something about fisting not actually performed with your hand shaped in a fist. I reread the opening paragraph, not understanding, feeling drowsy. I look up and see M. at my side.