Silent Screams (20 page)

“I know,” Lee replied. “I wish we had some hair, fiber, prints—
anything
.”

“Which borough do you think he’s going to do next?” Chuck asked

“I wish I could say,” Lee answered.

He didn’t say what they were both thinking. By that time, it might be too late, and someone else would die.

At some point Lee realized that sex with Kathy was inevitable.

Maybe it was when she laid her hand on his as they sat squeezed next to one another in that crowded Madison Avenue café. Or perhaps it was the glance they exchanged at the bagel shop on West Seventy-second Street, as he set the bagel down between them…the plump brown circle of dough, toasted and crisp on the outside, soft and yielding on the inside. Lee felt a rush of warmth to his cheeks as he thought about entering her. Would she too be soft and yielding, under her crisp exterior? Once the thought blossomed in his head, it sent out tendrils, runner vines that spread throughout his brain, crowding out other thoughts.

He found everything about her absurdly charming: the way she curled her index finger around her coffee cup; the way she stood with her weight balanced on one hip, arms crossed over her chest; her habit of running her tongue over her teeth when she was concentrating; the resolute set of those square little shoulders; the languid curve of her upper lip; the way one black curl fell onto her forehead. Kathy Azarian had engaged his heart from the first.

He had no idea if she felt as strongly as he did, and he didn’t want to ask, in case the answer was no.

Her invitation to come back to her friend’s Upper West Side apartment where she was staying was almost casual, another step in the delicate dance the two of them had been performing ever since they met.

“I’m house-sitting for her for the weekend, and she won’t be back until late Sunday.”

She smiled, and the dimple on her chin puckered and blossomed.

And so they found themselves, later that afternoon, lying in bed at her friend’s apartment, on a green plaid bedspread, the late afternoon light creeping across the opposite wall, forming shadows and patterns that her friend’s two gray kittens attacked in little hops and leaps.

When at last his mouth found hers he didn’t want to move on, but lingered as her strong little pointed tongue felt the insides of his cheeks. He ran his tongue over her perfectly white teeth, imagining them shining in the darkness of her mouth, waiting for his tongue to discover them. It had always amazed him that this act of intimacy was necessary to continue the species—for one body to actually enter another. Surely there would have been easier, safer ways. Instead, Nature had given them this gift, this miracle of flesh on flesh.

The back of Kathy’s neck smelled tart and fresh, like winter flowers—carnations, maybe, or narcissi? Her body was so slight that he was afraid he might crush her, but the space between her hip bones tautened and trembled when he ran his lips over it. Her breasts were small but prominent, and perfectly round, like two cupcakes, her nipples sweet as ripe cherries.

He postponed the moment of entry as long as possible, until his body ached to thrust into her, and he gave in, sinking into her wet, unknowable darkness. She took him inside her, and he could feel her body pulling him in. It seemed as natural a fit as a hand inside a well-worn glove. As he entered her he thought of the deep, soft soil of furrowed farm fields stretching out between the white and green trimmed houses of his childhood.

He looked down at her face. She smiled at him through half-closed eyes, and again the dimple on her chin blossomed. He had wondered what her face would look like in the heat of passion, and now he knew. Her dark skin was flushed, her lips full and open.

He drove deeper inside her. She moaned and dug her nails into his back.

Being inside her was like being at the center of the earth. He had experienced good sex that was simply a physical connection, a mutual satisfying of needs—but this was different. He felt engulfed, surrounded, and he surrendered gratefully, wanting her to suck out all the pain of the last few years.

It was still amazing to him that these beautiful creatures, women, could be touched and smelled and licked and entered.

She breathed harder and harder, until her breath was coming in hoarse gasps and she moaned underneath him. He loved the feeling of power it gave him to make her moan like that, as she writhed and cried, “Oh, oh, oh
God
,” her slim body twisting like a snake beneath him, perspiration collecting on her upper lip, in the hollow of her neck. He wanted to know things no one else knew about her.

The aftermath of his orgasm was like the descent of the winter sunset outside the lace curtains, as daylight slipped slowly into night, separating into a pastel palette of colors too subtle and delicate for the robustness of a summer’s evening. He watched the shades of winter twilight, watched as the day seemed relieved to let go and enter the long slide into night. They lay wrapped in the green plaid bedspread as the light outside the window faded, a tangle of arms and legs and cat hair.

He braced himself against the sadness that followed. It surged up inside him, just under his breastbone—soft, wet, and full. It pulled at his throat, closing off his airway, until he cleared it with a deep sigh.

She looked at him, alarmed. In the dim light, her eyes were the color of spruce needles: greenish blue, opaque as storm clouds.

“What’s the matter? Are your injuries bothering you?”

“No.”

“What was that sigh about, then?”

He wasn’t sure how it would sound, to speak of the sadness that always settled upon him after sex. He was afraid she might take it the wrong way.

She rolled over onto her side, her breasts pressed together to create a narrow valley between them. He thought of losing himself in that valley, of sliding in between the heavy softness of those breasts, nestling there forever like a small, furry animal. Her nipples were deep red, almost brown.

“Is it the sadness?” she asked. The question was so unexpected he was caught off guard. She smiled and leaned up on one elbow, her breasts brushing against her arm. “Do you get it too—the sadness that comes afterward?”

He looked away. He had never discussed this with anyone. “Sometimes, I guess.”

She reached over and traced a straight line down his forearm with her little finger. It made him shiver. “I’ve often thought that this might be why the French called orgasm ‘a little death.’”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. He had always believed his reaction to be peculiar to him alone. Talking about it felt more intimate than sex itself.

She retraced the line on his arm in the other direction. “It’s probably a biochemical reaction of some kind. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Her scientific bluntness made him laugh.

“That’s a relief. I’ll call off the existential angst patrol.”

She laughed and flopped over onto her back. Her breasts were the whitest part of her body, but they were still darker than his skin.

“I just didn’t know anyone else felt it.”

“You never talked about it with anyone?”

“No.” He didn’t want to know whether or not she had.

“It’s really an odd thing, when you look at it—sex, I mean,” she said.

“How so?”

“Well, I suppose nature has made it arduous and difficult for the male for a reason—another form of natural selection, I guess.”

“So how is making it hard for computer geeks to get laid good for the species?”

She punched his arm. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean that it requires a certain amount of…stamina. If it weren’t a fairly athletic activity, then anyone could mate, and that would be bad for the species.”

“I just love it when you talk science.” He ran his tongue over the outer rim of her ear, tasting the mixture of sweat, ear wax, and lavender.

After the third time he slipped into a deep, stuporous sleep. Murky images drifted in and out of his dreams, sluggish and bulky as whales, sinking just beneath the reach of his conscious mind. He awoke to a bright dawn seeping through the white curtains and the comforting sounds of pans clattering in the kitchen. For a few minutes he lay there on his back, eyes closed, listening to the city coming to life around him. The sound of traffic was picking up momentum on Amsterdam Avenue, and he separated the various sounds in his head: the low diesel rumble of the M11 bus, the rattle of delivery vans as they lurched from one pothole to another, the clatter of metal security gates being raised as shopkeepers opened their stores for the day.

The two gray kittens entered the room and attacked his feet under the covers. The cats waged a continuous campaign of attacks and counterattacks, flinging themselves upon each other in a series of short leaps and hops, and then went instantly from full battle mode to licking themselves.

Contentment crested over him like a wave. The kitchen sounds were replaced with footsteps. Already, he thought, he could identify her walk, light and quick. She appeared at the doorway, wearing a green terry cloth robe knotted loosely around her waist, so that the upper part of her inner thighs was visible, dark and inviting where the robe came together. The smell of coffee floated in through the open door.

As she entered the room, the cats skittered out of it, brushing her ankles as they dashed off after each other.

Kathy laughed. “Those two—they’re like teenagers cruising down Main Street. They’re just looking for action, and pretty much anything will do.”

Lee smiled. “They put on a pretty good show. But then, so do you.”

She cocked her head to one side. The black curls, uncombed, grazed her shoulder.

“Coffee?”

He stretched his arms out to her.

The next day Lee took a long-promised trip to drive to his mother’s house to pick up his niece and bring her back to town with him for a visit. Chuck had insisted he take the weekend off, and he even though he disagreed with his friend, he had no choice but to obey.

Fiona Campbell lived in the same house where Lee and Laura were born, in a tiny village nestled deep in the Delaware valley. She had lived there since the first day of her ill-fated marriage, and she intended—or so she often claimed—“to die there, by God,”—which was more of an oath than an appeal directly to the divine.

When Lee arrived to pick up his niece, Kylie was on the front lawn waiting for him, standing on Turtle Rock, the big round boulder he and Laura used to pretend was a giant tortoise. Sometimes it was a whale, a pirate ship, or even a magic carpet, but most often it was a turtle. The boulder rose from the earth in a single graceful arc, its smooth gray hump of a back perfect for straddling, or standing on, or jumping from. Once, years ago, his mother had contemplated having the boulder removed from her lawn, but Lee and Laura made such a fuss that she’d dropped the idea.

His niece was dressed in a pink and white snow parka, with matching pink sneakers and a pink ribbon tied around her blond hair. Pink was Kylie’s favorite color, followed by purple. Unlike his mother, with her stern Scottish Presbyterian spine, Kylie was all girl, soft and sweet, but with a streak of mischief.

Lee got out of the car. “Hi, there, pastel girl.”

Kylie made a face and balanced on one foot. “Why are you calling me that?”

“Is today a No Teasing Day?” Lee asked, scooping her up off the boulder and putting her on his shoulders. He managed to keep her from seeing his face—at least for now.

“Maybe,” she said, putting her hands over his eyes. Her fingers smelled of lemons.

“Guess who!”

“Uh, let me see. Pastel girl?”

“Ugh!” Kylie gave a grunt of mock frustration. It was a sound Laura used to make when she was faking exasperation.

“Where’s your grandma?” he asked, holding on to her ankles so she wouldn’t fall as he walked toward the house.

The house was built in 1748, the large, irregular river stones held together by white masonry. Most of the wide, hand-hewn floorboards and ceiling beams were original, and the ceilings were low—only about eight feet high—and always made Lee feel a little like stooping.

“Mom?” he called, as he pushed open the heavy oak front door. The front hall smelled of eucalyptus and apples and ancient wooden beams. The walls were painted a creamy off-white, adorned with rather masculine hunting prints.

“Hello, Mom!” he called again.

“Fiona!” Kylie shouted.

“You don’t have to shout—I’m right here,” his mother said, coming around the corner from the dining room. She had perfectly good hearing, but some of her friends had bought hearing aids, and she was sensitive on the subject. Physical weakness would not be tolerated when you were a Campbell.

“Uncle Lee’s here!” Kylie cried, rushing to wrap herself around her grandmother’s legs.

Fiona Campbell gave Kylie’s head a perfunctory pat before extracting herself from her granddaughter’s embrace, like a cat stepping over a wet spot on the floor.

Fiona Campbell had the kind of square, strong-jawed good looks that were not exactly pretty, but her high, firm cheekbones, as she put it, “held age well.” Her skin had a healthy, ruddy glow, and with her clear blue eyes, straight nose, and firm, determined mouth, she was a handsome woman. Lee had once suggested to her that she try modeling for the cover of magazines for seniors, and she had dismissed the idea with a contemptuous wave of her hand. He wasn’t sure whether the contempt was aimed at the idea of modeling or the notion that anyone would think of her as a “senior.” She talked about the “old ladies” at her church as if they were an alien species.

Fiona exchanged the necessary kiss on the cheek with her only son and then looked at him closely.

“What on earth happened to you?”

“I had an accident.”

“Good lord! What on earth?”

Kylie looked up him too, squinting in the dim light.

“You have a black eye, Uncle Lee!”

“I ran into a door,” he lied. “It was stupid.”

Kylie was satisfied with this explanation, but his mother was not. She raised an eyebrow at him, but he shook his head and glanced at Kylie. His mother took the hint and changed the subject.

“So where are you two going today?” she asked.

“Can we go to Jekyll and Hyde?
Please
, can we?” Kylie asked.

“Sure,” Lee replied.

Kylie turned to her grandmother. “It’s the
coolest
place!” She hopped from foot to foot, humming to herself.

“Well, mind you don’t stay up too late,” Fiona said.

“We won’t, we won’t!”

“Okay, we’d better be off,” Lee said, twirling the car keys in his left hand. He had a tendency toward ambidextrousness, a trait Fiona claimed was inherited from his father.

“Would you like a cup of tea before you go?” his mother said.

Lee glanced at his watch. “No, I don’t think so. It’s kind of a long drive.”

“Very well. Off you go, then,” she said briskly, whisking the two of them out the door after brushing her lips across their cheeks.

“Who’s that?” Kylie asked when she saw the dark sedan parked out in the road.

“Oh, that’s my own personal guard,” Lee replied, nodding to the plainclothes cop behind the wheel.

“Cool,” Kylie said, waving to him.

Lee decided to take River Road—he liked the view as it twisted and wound along the Delaware. As he headed toward the river through the farm fields, he rounded a familiar turn in the road. There, ahead of him, was McGill’s Hill. A wide, steeply sloped incline, it was the prime sledding venue for everyone within miles. People came all the way from Doylestown to sled there. The hill humped steeply at the top; then a sharply angled grade bottomed out into a concave, bowl-like base, followed by a football field’s worth of flat land all the way to the creek that snaked through a smattering of trees.

McGill’s Hill was an exhilarating ride. The top was so abruptly humped that the sled left the ground, only to return with a thump on the fast downhill slope before rising into the air again at the bottom. After clearing the spoon-like hollow, it was straight across the flatlands to the creek. If the creek was frozen, and if you could manage the sharp turn, you could glide along the ice for a while. The trick was not to hit any of the trees lining the bank. He had seen more than one concussion suffered when head met tree trunk, and had banged his own head once or twice trying to make the treacherous turn.

McGill’s Hill was a mecca still popular among local children, who zipped down the hill on everything from plastic bags to fancy hand-steered toboggans—and they still tried to make the dangerous turn, hoping to eke out just a little longer ride.

A thin dusting of snow clung to the brown grasses on the hill’s slope, and Lee was reminded of a mocha cake with vanilla frosting. A lone terrier trotted along the crest of the hill, sniffing energetically at the base of a tree before depositing his calling card, casting a short shadow in the feeble February sun. A young woman followed at some distance, carrying a rolled-up leash and reading a book, not paying any attention to her surroundings.

Lee had to stifle an impulse to stop the car and tell her to be more careful. The sight of a woman alone in an isolated area always brought up these feelings for him now. Laura had loved sledding on McGill’s Hill.

“Does your grandmom take you there to sled?” he asked Kylie, who was sitting next to him, her eyes half closed, lulled by the motion and warmth of the car.

“Sometimes,” she answered. “And she likes to be called Fiona, not grandmom.”

Lee smiled. He didn’t know what his mother’s latest little quirk was about—not about her age, surely. She told anyone who would listen how old she was—usually after asking them to guess first. Then she would beam proudly when they guessed ten or fifteen years too low, as they usually did. Once a very young black waitress had gotten it right on the nose, and Fiona had been in a bad mood all during the rest of the lunch.

“Trying to insult me!” she’d muttered as she picked at her salmon mousse. “She’ll be lucky to look half this good when she’s my age!”

“Well, you did ask her to guess,” Lee pointed out, but that didn’t pass muster either.

“I don’t care—it’s just
rude
, that’s what it is!” she insisted.

“Never mind, Mom. We all look the same to them,” Lee remarked, but the joke had gone so far over her head he could hear the rushing of wind as it passed.

He had left an especially big tip in case the girl had overheard anything his mother had said.

He looked over at Kylie, whose eyelids were sliding shut, her head resting against the windowpane, her breath forming a cold little spot of mist on the glass. She was a pretty child, with her father’s coloring—blue eyes and blond hair. He breathed a silent prayer for her safety to gods he didn’t believe in, an empty benediction without the power of faith behind it. Things that were mysterious in his childhood were mysterious to him still. Life’s big questions remained unanswered, and he had no faith that would ever change.