Topping From Below (34 page)

“Listen,” he says. “I want to tell you something else about Franny,” and he presses my head to his chest. He plays with my nipples while he talks, squeezing them gently at first, then harder so there is a sweet, steady pain. As the pressure increases, my fingers tighten on his arm. But I am compliant; I want him again. He’s aware of this, and he applies even more pressure to my nipple, and I cannot help but moan in pain … or is it pleasure? I know not which.

“Do you know much about dogs?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for my reply. “If the bitch isn’t ready to be mounted, the male will urinate in the surrounding area to warn other dogs that this is his territory, and that the female is his bitch. I told Franny that I wanted to do the same to her, stake her out as my territory, my property. I took her into the bathroom and told her to take off her clothes and get in the bathtub.”

I start to lift my head to say something, but M. presses it to him.

“Shhh,” he says. “Just listen.” He puts his hand back on my breast, rubs the nipple between his thumb and index finger. “She did what I asked, of course; she always did what I asked. I gave her no choice. She took off her clothes and lay in the tub. I urinated on her. I pissed on her belly, on her cunt, on her breasts. I told her to close her eyes and I pissed on her face. Then I straddled her chest. I told her I had just a little urine left and to open her mouth. I told her she didn’t have to swallow it, that she could just let it drip out, but that I was going to piss in her mouth.”

I shake my head. “I know you’re making this up. There are some things she wouldn’t be able to do. That is one of them.”

M. gets up and goes to the desk; he stands there, leaning against it casually. He continues. “Afterward, I turned on the water and let her rinse out her mouth. I filled up the tub with warm water and washed her so she was clean again, talking to her gently the entire time I lathered the soap on her body. I thanked her for letting me urinate on her. I always thanked her when she pleased me. I wanted her to feel that she had a choice, and that she was doing it of her own accord. I never had to force her to do anything; I very rarely even had to raise my voice with her. As I let the water out of the tub, I told her I wouldn’t want to urinate on her very often, but occasionally I would need to. Then I dried her off and took her into the bedroom. I told her she could finish me off now. I placed my hands on the bureau and bent over and had her lick my anus—something else she hated to do—and then fuck me with her tongue as she reached through my legs and stroked my cock. When I was ready to come, I turned around and put it in her mouth.”

I am on the sofa, smiling uneasily. “Nice story,” I say. “But I don’t believe it.”

He shrugs, then tells me to stand up. After I am standing, he tells me to come with him, that we are going to the bathroom. When I don’t move, he calmly explains that I am his property, his bitch, and that he will possess me in a way Ian never will. He tells me that, yes, he is jealous, and he will make me pay for keeping Ian in my life. He demands that I go into the bathroom with him.

I stand still. My nerves are jangled, confused, raw. I begin to realize I don’t know what I’m doing. I begin to realize I’ve entered a bog, a quagmire from which extrication will be difficult. I thought confronting M. would be a simple, straightforward matter. He’s the bad guy, I’m the good guy; ergo, I’d prevail. But it’s not turning out to be so clear-cut. I feel as if he’s pulling me in—no, not pulling—sucking me in, his hold on me seemingly frail yet in actuality tenacious, like being mired in quicksand with only one place to go … down, all the way down.

M. waits. He senses my apprehension and says, “Think of this as taking one more step that will bring you closer to understanding your sister.”

I am unable to move. I hear the boy again, distantly, plaintively.
Duke! Where are you, boy? Heeeeeere, Duke! Come here! Duuuuuuke!
With the sound of the boy’s desolate cry comes the understanding that I will not wander from the path Franny traversed. I follow her footsteps closely, duplicating her experiences with each revelation that M. chooses to share.

Finally, I say, “Not on my face. Or in my mouth.”

He comes over to me and says, “All right.” He kisses me on my forehead and adds, “For now,” and he takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom. I feel like a dog on a leash, blindly obedient. I had thought my demise with M. was complete, but I see now I have further to go, that there are lower levels to which I can sink.

As I step into the bathtub, I get a heady feeling that is not unlike the effects of too much alcohol—a slight disorientation; a disgust with myself for allowing this loss of control; and, in spite of the disgust, a numb, boozy warmth that makes everything okay. I slide down into the tub and wonder if this too will be something I’ll enjoy.

Later that afternoon, we lie naked together on his bed. “I got a note in the mail yesterday,” I say, “warning me to stop looking for Franny’s killer. I suppose you’ll deny sending it, just as you did the photos.”

M. leans up on an elbow, frowning, looking me in the face. “Tell me what it said. Exactly.”

After I tell him, he says, “I think you should show the note and the pictures to your detective. It’s probably nothing, just someone playing a sick joke, but it’s beginning to worry me.”

He doesn’t know that Joe Harris already took the note and pictures. He hasn’t got the lab results back from the note yet.

M. is still frowning. His concern seems so genuine, but disbelief must register on my face because he adds, “Nora, I didn’t take those pictures, and I didn’t send the note. I swear it.”

I say, “Did you think they would intimidate me? That I would fall apart and stop searching for Franny’s murderer?”

M. shakes his head. “I want you to find out who killed Franny—if for no other reason than to know it wasn’t me. But you’re looking in the wrong direction. I had nothing to do with her death.”

He will never admit to sending them, so I drop the subject. I roll over onto my side, and M. curls up next to me.

In my ear, he whispers, “You know of course you’ll be punished. I’ve warned you not to interfere with my practice time.”

I feel a rush of anticipation, even though I know he won’t punish me today. I say, “I love listening to you play. You’re very talented. Why are you teaching and not playing full-time? Why didn’t you become …” I hesitate, not sure of the word.

“A virtuoso?” he says. “Talent is not always rewarded.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m very good, but not good enough. I never was and I never will be. I recognize my limitations, and I’ve learned to accept them. My desire far exceeds my talent; it’s that simple.”

He says this matter-of-factly, without bitterness. He is quiet for a moment, then leans over and kisses my bare shoulder, a very gentle kiss. “I want you to finish your story,” he says softly, changing the subject. “You said there was more.”

He is speaking of the abortion. I lie on my back and look up at the ceiling. He places his hand on my stomach, moving his fingers gently on the surface of my skin, waiting patiently for me to find the words.

“I’ll probably disappoint you,” I say. “There isn’t a lot to tell.” He strokes my skin lightly, not saying anything. His touch is not sexual, but meant to soothe.

When I don’t speak, he says, “This isn’t about disappointing or pleasing me. I care for you. I want to know more about you.”

I sigh, wondering how much to tell him, wondering how much to hold back. “After the abortion, I was celibate for five years—except nobody knew it. I talked about my boyfriends, but they were phantoms, created so I wouldn’t have to answer any questions. When I was twenty-three, I decided that my celibacy wasn’t normal. So, just like that, I slept with someone. But he didn’t mean anything to me at all. Then I started sleeping with a lot of men, and none of them mattered to me, either. It was only sex, nothing more. And it suited my lifestyle. I had just begun working at the Bee, and I was incredibly busy; casual affairs were all I could handle.”

I stop talking. After a while, I say, “It’s funny how one little event can change the course of everything. You wouldn’t think the reverberations would be so far-reaching. A decision you made as a teenager shouldn’t be allowed to carry so much influence; it shouldn’t be allowed to change your life forever. Choices should be weighted, like questions on an exam. You’re eighteen years old and made a poor choice?—okay, that decision will only affect you for four years. But twenty-eight?—well, you’re ten years older and should’ve known better; the same decision will cost you ten years. Forty-eight?—now you blew it; the rest of your life is changed.” I think of Franny and how the course of her life had been altered the day Billy died. Again, I see parallels in our lives. She felt responsible for a death she was powerless to prevent; I, for one I caused; and each of us was changed by the event forever.

I sigh, then say, “Getting the abortion solved my problem. I didn’t think about it much at the time, not about the abortion itself. I was too panicked; I didn’t allow myself to think about it. But after several years went by, I couldn’t keep it out of my mind. It started coming back to me, like a bad meal I wish I’d never eaten.”

The air conditioner clicks on and fills the house with a hollow, susurrous murmur. The room is suddenly cool, and I pull a blanket over my body. M. reaches under the cover to touch me.

“This wasn’t an embryo,” I say. “I was three and a half months pregnant, almost four. It was a fetus the size of my hand, about six inches long, with arms and legs and fingernails; eyes, nose, mouth; sex organs; a brain, a heart, a nervous system. It was a human being, a living being, a baby, and I, with little thought, took its life.”

I shake my head slowly, thinking. “I’m pro-choice,” I say. “I believe women have the right to control their bodies. Abortion should be legal; it should be a woman’s choice. But still … taking a life … it changed me forever; it diminished me. Not immediately, it took years for the consequences to manifest, but it caught up with me. One day I realized my act was irrevocable, eternal. It marred my soul.”

I let out a small, nervous laugh. “I’m not a religious person,” I say. “But if I was, I guess this would keep me out of heaven. One act, one moment of indiscretion, and I’m on God’s blacklist.”

M. does not laugh at my poor attempt at levity. He moves closer and holds me tighter. I want to finish the story—there’s only one part left, possibly the most important part—but I can’t. As if he could sense my reluctance, he says, “There’s more?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me the rest.”

“No.” He does not press me to continue. He kisses my neck, lightly, then lays his head on my chest.

Very softly, he says, “You meant nothing to me when we first met, and your adamant belief that I killed Franny amused me. I even enjoyed the role you put me in—is he or isn’t he the killer? It was a game for me, making you believe I killed Franny. But all that has changed. I’ve come to care for you, deeply. I didn’t realize in the beginning that I would fall in love with you.”

I am silent as I listen to his declaration of love. His words, and the obvious meaning in his voice, the clear tenderness, take me by surprise. I don’t know what to say. My own feelings are not so clear. We lie together quietly, limbs linked, skin pressing together as if in union.

After a while, M. says, “I’m going to tell you something important.”

I hear the gravity in his tone and pay attention. “About Franny?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What?” I ask, feeling the tempo of my heartbeat increase.

M. breaks away from me. Propping himself up on one elbow, he looks down at me, his other hand still under the blanket, playing his fingers lightly on my midriff.

“Ian knew Franny. He fucked her.”

“What?” 1 say, sitting up.

He doesn’t answer. He knows I heard each word he said.

“You’re lying.”

“He was so tormented by guilt that he confessed to his new best friend—‘Philip Ellis.’”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s in her diary. You’ve read it; she met him at one of your office parties. She didn’t mention Ian by name in the diary—only that he was a reporter for the
Bee
and that she slept with him the night they met. He regretted it the following morning, took her to the Food for Thought Cafe, and told her their encounter was a mistake.”

“You’re lying,” I say. “Why should I believe you? You read her diary, and you knew about the man from the Bee. It could’ve been anyone—you’re just trying to implicate Ian. He wasn’t the one she slept with.”

“I didn’t make the connection at first, but then Ian confessed to me.”

“I don’t believe you. He would’ve told me.”

M. pauses, then says, “Not if he killed her. Think about it—you barely knew him, but he shows up miraculously as soon as Franny is murdered. He works his way into your life.”

I get off the bed and go into the den to get my clothes. I’m angry and incredulous.

M. follows me into the room, and, still naked, he leans against the doorjamb, watching me dress. I put on my underwear, slip my dress over my head, and button it, then buckle my shoes.

“Open your eyes, Nora. You’re so convinced I killed Franny, you can’t see the truth—or don’t want to see it. Ask Ian where he was the day Franny died.”

“I will,” I say, and I walk out of the room, out of his house, slamming the door behind me. Outside, blackbirds poke in the glistening grass, still damp from M.’s sprinklers. It’s hot and the sky is gleaming, as if it has just been polished to a high shine. Chrome trimming, from a car parked along the street, throws off the brilliant sunshine in shards of bright light, piercing and harsh, that make me squint and turn away. I rummage in my purse for sunglasses.

Right now, I’m about as angry as I’ve ever been. I should’ve known M. would try to deflect suspicion from himself, but to say Ian and Franny were fucking—well, it’s preposterous. Exercise has always helped me burn away excess stress or anger, so I decide to go to the athletic club. I stop by my house to pick up a gym bag, and as I’m backing my car out of the driveway, I glance—as I always do—at Franny’s Cadillac. I note once again that it needs to be washed. I take the Mace-Covell Boulevard out to the club, a long road on the edge of the city that bypasses the downtown area. A brisk wind flutters the tall grasses on the side of the road.