Fag Hag (Robert Rodi Essentials) (34 page)

She awakened with a start, sweat beading on her forehead. She was still in her slip.

The doorbell was ringing. She checked her watch. Nearly seven o’clock.

She rushed to the window and peeked out through the curtains. The Celica was parked in the driveway.

No, no, no,
she thought;
I’m not answering that.

The bell rang again, and again, and again.
He can’t know I’m in here,
she thought.
He can’t possibly know that.

It was still pouring relentlessly, and the first sight she had of Lloyd was of his big, burgundy umbrella as he dashed back to the car.

That’s it?
she thought.
He’s giving up, just like that? Could I be so lucky?

He opened the car door and stuck one leg in, then folded the umbrella and tossed it onto the back seat. And just as he was bending at the waist to duck inside the car, he happened to look up at the house—and he stopped.

She immediately ducked back and held the curtains shut. Had he seen her?

She peered out through the merest slit. He was still standing there, staring, rain matting down what little hair he had. He must have seen her! He’d be back at the front door in no time.

But no; he got into the car, turned on its headlamps, backed into the street, and drove away.

She let her breath out all at once, and was suddenly aware that she’d been holding it in for more than a full minute.

Relieved beyond belief, she went back downstairs to the intercom and listened again. Still nothing.

At the very least, she had to give him something to eat.

Feeling strangely lighthearted, as if no action had any reaction, as if all events were disconnected, and as though she were perfectly immune to consequence, she whipped up a quick dinner of fried eggs and bacon and took a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator. Peter would need that. Dear Peter. Loyal Peter. She whistled a Disney tune as she bustled out of the kitchen.

She got the key from beneath the potted plant and went to the basement door.

And then she balked, and the roller coaster took another plunge. The basement was the lowest pit of hell; dear, loving Peter would overcome her and lock her down there in his place, and who would help her?

She called Brynocki. “I mean it,” she said; “get your furry black ass over here right this goddamn minute!” The dog backed into a corner and refused to move.

A bolt of lightning splashed the house with momentary incandescence; it was followed by a low, rumbling roll of thunder that sounded like God himself was belching. Brynocki trembled visibly and released his bowels; urine pooled beneath where he was sitting, but still he didn’t budge.

Natalie shook her head in disgust and unfastened the padlock.

“Whistle while you work,”
she sang merrily.

She put her hand on the doorknob and turned it.

“Hitler is a jerk,”
she trilled.

She swung open the door.

“Mussolini bit his weenie, now it doesn’t work!”
She cackled with glee.

Humming a reprise, she descended the stairs alone, the dim lightbulb over her head barely illuminating her way. It threw shadows of monstrous, hulking Natalies in her path. They seemed to be trying to frighten her back upstairs.

Five steps…six…seven…eight; she’d never bothered counting them before. How many were there?

Twenty-three.

An odd number. It disturbed her.

She tried to embolden herself by singing again.
“Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg.”
Her voice was weak and tremulous; she gave up the effort.

She gripped her key and extended it toward the knob. Her hand shook.

She inserted it in the lock; she turned it. The tumbler fell.

And then the door swung open and Peter was right there, his eyes like firecrackers. She screamed and threw the tray at him. It hit him square in the face; he yelped in pain and his arms flew out at her.

She tried to slam the door, but his torso was in the way; he moved, and she caught his shoulder between the door and the frame, and he howled. She let up for a minute to allow him to with withdraw, and immediately he was back at her, shoving harder than she could, gaining, gaining, gaining ground.

She propped herself against the opposite wall and put her full weight against the door, and pushed like her life depended on it—which maybe it did. His face appeared from behind the door; it was smeared with fried egg, and his teeth were bared. He roared.

“Brynocki!” she screamed. “Oh, God!
Brynocki!”

Finally, she was able to call on some reserve of strength she didn’t even know she had; she knocked him back and pinned his neck in the door. He started to choke horribly, but she held him there a little longer. When she finally released the pressure, he pulled back inside, and she locked him in, her fingers barely working.

Then she fell to the floor and wept.

H
ER PHONE WAS
ringing. She rushed upstairs and answered it.

“Hello, Natalie; I tried you at your office and they said you’d gone home ill. Are you all right?”

“Mom?” she said, her voice like a child’s. “Is that you?”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls, you needn’t act like I’ve just risen from the dead.”

She started bawling.

“Honey—what’s wrong? Is this a bad time?”

“Everything’s gone wrong, Mom.”

“Stop that blubbering and tell me. What’s happened?”

“Peter—Peter—”

“Heavens, not him again! You told me a year ago—”

“Mom, I want Darnita to have all my money. What’s left of it.”

“What do you—I’m not following this conversation, Natalie.”

“I’m sorry about being so stingy before. The things I’ve done—”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She coiled the telephone cord around her wrist. “I wish I could write you a big check right now.”

“Stop it! Just stop it this minute, and tell me what’s going on.”

From the back of the house came a volley of gunshots and a tremendous shattering of glass.

“Oh, my goodness!” said Sandy. “Natalie, Natalie, what was that?”

“I have to go now, Mom. I love you.” She placed the receiver back in the cradle.

“Natalie, don’t you dare han—” Click.

She reached into the drawer and removed a carving knife.

The house was dark. There were corners that were darker than others. Here in the kitchen, for instance. Right by the oven.

She stood there, motionless, and waited.

The rain pummeled the earth, as if trying to beat it senseless.

The lightning was like a burst of brilliant hatred.

The thunder sounded like a death rattle.

“Brynocki,” Natalie whispered hopefully. “Oh, God, Brynocki, come
on.”

The dog did not appear.

Lloyd did.

He was dressed all in black; a sleeveless black T-shirt, black jeans, black hiking boots, a black bandana. His face was smeared with black.

And he was carrying a rifle.

Goddamn Rambo queen,
she thought.

He stepped into the kitchen, and she tightened the grip on the knife.

“I thought that was you there,” he said.

She passed the knife from one hand to the other, as if it were hot to the touch.

“You know the high regard I have for private property,” he said. “I hope you realize exactly what a violation of my moral code it is to destroy your window like that, and to enter your house without permission. I hope you realize I would never have done either of those things if I didn’t honestly believe a much higher value was at stake.”

Okay, maybe not so much Rambo.

“This has really gone far enough,” he continued. “Maybe I’ve been too hard on you. I don’t know. I think maybe you’re ill and need some kind of help.”

Oh, you fucker.
She flashed the knife at him.

He stood still and silent for a moment. “Natalie,” he said slowly, “that may seem to you like a very big knife, but this is a very,
very
big gun.”

“Too big,” she said; “I get close enough, you can’t even aim.”

She threw herself at him.

Flash of lightning. Peal of thunder.

He darted away from her and into the house. She’d missed him.

Quiet, now.

Where was he?

She crept out of the kitchen and into the dining room. “I’m out in the open, now,” she called. “Go ahead and shoot me, Lloyd.” She stood, in her blouse and slip, and spread her arms, still holding the knife in one hand.

Nothing.

She smiled. She knew he couldn’t bring himself to harm her.

She padded down the corridor to the basement door.
This is it,
she thought;
the last stand. Little goddamn Bighorn.

He appeared at the end of the hallway, a silhouette. “That’s where he is, isn’t it?”

“You think you know everything,” she snarled. A stupid remark, but she wasn’t feeling her wittiest.

“What could make you do this to him?” he asked. “Lock him up like this, take away his freedom, cut him off from everything he—”

“You wouldn’t understand!” she bellowed.

“Try me. I’m a pretty intelligent guy. And a good listener.”

“A good listener with a gun!”

He rested the rifle against the wall and stepped forward. “Okay. Now I’m just a good listener.”

“Then listen to this: One more step, and I gouge my own throat out.” She held the blade below her chin.

He stopped. “You
do
need help, Natalie. If you really mean what you just said, then you desperately need professional care.”

“Of course I mean it. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Yes, you do. All the time, you do.”

Well, she had to admit he had her there.

He started down the corridor. “I’m coming, anyway.”

Was he
crazy?
“Fine. Hope you can live with my blood on your hands.”

“I’m a gambler, Natalie. If you value your life so little, then you’ll probably throw it away sooner or later, whether I prompted you to or not. But I’m betting you
do
value your life. Maybe you don’t even know you do.”

She watched his silhouette get bigger and bigger, blocking out more and more of the light. “Then I’ll jeopardize yours,” she said, turning the knife in his direction.

“If that was your intention, you wouldn’t announce it. You’d just wait till I was within reach, and
do
it.”

He was right in front of her now. She could smell his sweat, hear his breathing.

He grabbed her wrist.

The knife clattered to the floor.

“I’ll ask it again: Why, Natalie? Why’d you do this to him?”

A howl of pain rose up in her—something primal and primeval, ancient and awful; it came up from the earth and charged through her like electricity, and took half of her with it when it left.
“Be-cause,”
she wailed, haltingly, wretchedly,
“I—love—him—so—much!”
She gasped for breath.

He was looking at her; she wished she could see his face. “You couldn’t have done this if you loved him, Natalie. You couldn’t have locked him up like an animal. It isn’t love you feel for him. It may be almost as strong, but it isn’t love. It’s something else. Something bad.”

“Some—thing…bad?” she whimpered.

He nodded.

She collapsed into his arms and unleashed everything she’d held inside for so long; years, years of it came rolling out. She wrung herself dry and lay limp in his arms, at his mercy.

She knew she could trust in that—his mercy.

A
FEW MINUTES
later, she was headed back down to the basement, Lloyd directly behind her.

She trembled like a leaf; she thought her teeth might vibrate right out of her gums.

She unlocked the door to the hidden room.

It ripped open from inside, and Peter leapt out, a cry of rage on his lips; he sailed right past her and into Lloyd. The two of them careened into the opposite wall.

“Hold on! Hold on!” cried Lloyd.

Peter stepped back. His face was streaked with egg yolk, and had a horrible red bruise on his neck. “Lloyd?” he said in disbelief. “Oh, my God! Took you look enough.” He paused. “What on earth is that all over your face?”

“Burnt cork. What is that all over
yours?”

“Egg, I think.” He cocked his head. “We’re both going to end up with killer zits, you know.”

The fell into a lover’s embrace and kissed.

Natalie stole up the stairs and took a seat in the kitchen. She would wait until they came up, wait until someone decided what to do with her.

A thunderclap rocked the house, and Brynocki slunk into the kitchen and cowered under her chair. She looked down at him. “I’m going to feed you cat food till the day you die,” she said.

Then she glanced up at the intercom unit. She reached over and pressed LISTEN.

“—have her arrested?” It was Peter’s voice.

“She’s a troubled woman, Peter. Locking her up’s not the answer.”

“You’re really asking me not to press charges.”

“Yes, I’m really asking you that.” Pause. “Come on. She was your friend.”

“Seems like a million years ago.”

“Do this for me. No police. No charges. No anything. On the condition she agrees to therapy.”

“She won’t listen.”

“She will now. It could make all the difference to her.”

She took her finger off the button. Lloyd Hood, protecting her from Peter? She had to sit and think about that for a while. What a funny, funny world it could be.

What a goddamn fucking hilarious world.

She started to laugh.

Then she heard the sirens. They were getting louder every second; she had no doubt that they were coming for her. Who had called the police? Who had even had time?

She sighed. Her mother, of course.

Good old Sandy. The bloody bomb could drop, and she’d find some way to make the nuclear winter worse for her daughter than for everyone else.

It was a small comfort that, in this chaotic, strange new world, there was at least that one constant.