Wallflower (26 page)

For two months I loved her, passionately, feverishly. She didn't reciprocate, just had me do special things to her, things she let me know she liked by the way she wiggled and moaned and swooned. And I was glad to do them, although I believe now some part of me must have known I was being used. But even if I'd realized it at the time, I wouldn't have cared. The bliss, you see, was all mine. Her needs became my obsession; her secret chambers became my pleasure domes. All day long in my various classes I'd think about servicing her at night. I was totally enraptured by her, enthralled, enslaved, possessed. Cynthia Morse, blond Thoroughbred mare—she became my world.

Looking back now, I can see it all coming and wonder at my blindness to what was going on. She needed me that winter, but as soon as spring came, she was ready to cast me aside.

That in itself could be understood. In this life, as you so often remind me, Mama, people use one another all the time. "It's all this use," you say, "that makes the world go around." But use is one thing, betrayal another. Cindy betrayed my love for her, betrayed it in a vulgar way. Use can be forgiven but not betrayal. You taught me, Mama:
Betrayal must be avenged.

I had gone down to Cambridge for the weekend to do some research at Widener Library. My intention was to spend the night in Millie's Harvard dorm room, work the following day, then return to Bennington on Sunday night. But when I got to Millie's, I found I wasn't welcome. She and her roommates had male guests; there'd clearly be no room for me unless I slept on the floor. In any event there'd be no privacy.

I was furious. I'd told Millie I was coming, and she'd promised she'd save me space. We got into a fight, which led to my walking out in a snit. Steaming with anger, I decided to hell with research, I'd return immediately to Vermont.

Back in Bennington, tired and depressed, I taxied to my dorm from the bus stop. Our room was empty. Cindy wasn't there. Feeling needy for her friendship, I decided to search her out.

I found her finally, or rather should say I heard her, for it was her unique effervescent laughter that told me where she was. In a room on the floor below, belonging to Gretchen Hawes and Karen Tate, well-known campus lesbians, close buddies of Cindy's but not, I'm afraid, of mine.

I don't know what made me hesitate before I knocked. Perhaps I was curious about what was inspiring so much giggling inside, afraid, too, that my depressed mood might bring the others down. I certainly didn't want to intrude and put a damper on their fun. So I stood outside the door and listened. And then I understood: They were talking about me.

"She's too much, Cin.
Too much,"
said Gretchen.

"Well, I think she's very sweet," I heard Cindy reply.

"You
would.
Seeing as how you've been on the receiving end." Laughter.

"Sick, sick, sick," said Karen. They all broke up.

"Play us some more. Come on, Cin. More!"

Much giggling again, and then I couldn't believe what I heard. My own voice, on tape, begging Cindy to let me love her: "Please, Cin. I know just what you need. Please—let me do it. I can make you smile, you know I can.
Please."

The blood rose, boiling, to my face. I felt as if the top of my head were about to explode. My voice! Begging to be allowed to pleasure her! And she recorded it! And was playing it now for
them!

"Hey, I've got an idea, Cin." Gretchen tittered. "Bring the little mouse down here one night. Share some of that 'please, please, please' with us, okay?"

"I've got some special places she can do." Karen snickered. "So long as she
begs
for it." And then: "Sick, sick, sick!"

I wanted to scream. Don't know why I didn't. I wanted to curl up, die right there on the floor. But instead I took hold of the doorknob and shoved the door open. The three of them were sprawled out on their stomachs on top of Karen's bed, the little tape player in the center.

Six eyes met mine, laughing, defiant eyes. And then, when they realized I'd been listening, those six eyes turned mean.

"Snooping, Bev?" Gretchen sneered.

But I ignored her. I stared straight at Cindy. "You recorded me?"

She shrugged, then smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, well, I guess I did."

"How does it feel to be a rat?" I spat the words, then reached to the tape player and ripped out the cassette.

"Hey, watch it!" said Karen. "You can screw up the machine. We were just having a little fun. God!"

But I kept my eyes on Cindy and let her have it. "Is this your idea of fun?"

"Get off your high horse, honeybunch," said Gretchen Hawes. "Eavesdropping at the door is like reading other people's mail. Do that, and you deserve what you get."

I met their eyes with as much contempt as I could summon, then, bursting into tears, ran back to our room and flung myself onto my bed. "How could she? How could she? How could she?" I screamed into the pillow. I wept and wept and wept.

Cindy turned up an hour later. She'd been drinking. I could smell the booze on her the minute she walked in. I pretended to be asleep. She was noisy as she undressed. It was clear she wanted to disturb me. Finally she spoke: "Stop faking, Bev. I know you're wide-awake."

"How
could you
do that to me?" I asked. "How
could you?"

"You kind of let yourself in for it if you know what I mean," she said.

I sat up in bed. "
Let myself in for it?"

"Sure. The way you've been slinking around all winter, trying to get into my pants all the time. I mean, now and then it's fun, but when I asked you to be my roommate, I didn't know I'd be taking the, you know, lezzy route."

"But it was
you
!
"

"Uh-uh, Bev. Was you started it. I never put the make on you. I wouldn't want to." She snickered. "You don't turn me on."

I stared at her. This was my Best Friend! "I turned you on plenty as I remember," I whispered bitterly.

"Work your tongue around long enough you'll get a reaction. I'm just flesh and blood, you know."

"So you never cared for me? Is that what you're saying?"

"Frankly I like guys, but I try to understand other points of view. You know the saying 'Different strokes for different folks'? Right?"

I rushed at her then, attacked her with flailing arms and nails. I wanted to scratch out her eyes. Being bigger and stronger, she overpowered me easily. Finally, when I was exhausted, pinned to the floor, she looked down on me and smiled her unforgettable smile.

"Let's not make such a big deal out of this, huh? There're still a couple months till the end of the term. Let's try and get along, Bev. I'm sorry about playing the tape for those guys. I really am."

Sorry about playing the tape! What about recording it? What else besides playing it did she have in mind when she taped me when I was most vulnerable?

It all had been a setup, that much was clear; I'd loved her as best I could, but to her I'd been little more than a pest.

The next day I packed up my stuff. She came into the room just as I was finishing.

"Leaving, huh?"

"What did you expect?"

She shrugged. "Well, it was nice while it lasted, Bev. It's too bad you had to sneak back early on the weekend."

Sneak back!
The girl was incredible.

"You hurt me, Cin. Hurt me a lot."

"If I did, I'm sorry, I really am. I'm sure you'll get over it. When you do, I hope we can be friends." She shrugged again and left the room.

Twenty years ago, and I never did get over it, Mama. And I never loved anyone carnally again. I'd learned the risks the hard way and didn't like them. Cindy was the last lover I ever had.

That whole spring was miserable, that whole summer, too, not to mention the whole rest of my life. But as they say, you live and learn. And there was one good thing that came out of our relationship: Cindy steered me to my profession. On her advice I became a psychologist.

By the following autumn, tired of suffering, I decided to concentrate on my anger. And then I began to have fantasies, delicious fantasies of Cindy begging me not to hurt her the way she'd hurt me.

In response I shrugged and smiled and told her not to make such a big thing about it. I was going to kill her; that's all I was going to do. After all, she was only flesh and blood; isn't that what she'd said? And after she was dead, I was going to seal her up with glue. No big deal, right, Cin? Different strokes for different folks, right?
Huh? Right?

I'm looking now at the trophy Tool brought back from Seattle. The yearbook of our Bennington class. Nice book, though I'm not in it. Nice picture of Cindy as she was then, tossing back her head to flick away the long blond hair that always used to fall across her face. Reminds me a little of someone I've seen recently, same eyes, hair, same warming, radiant smile.

C
arl's bedazzled reaction when you broach taking the tool into your house: "Sometimes you surprise me, Bev."

"I don't know what's so surprising, Carl. Diana's my patient, she's my responsibility, and since I've got an unrented basement apartment available, and she's going to be coming to me four days a week for therapy anyway . . . well, it just seems natural to throw in a little housing, too."

"Sort of like a halfway house for her. That what you have in mind?"

"Now that you mention it—sure, why not?"

His little eyes dance a jig. "And you were so against her being released."

"Never against it, Carl. Hesitant about proposing it, that's all." You shrug. "I guess you could call me conservative when it comes to murderesses."

He strokes his beard, becoming grayer and more pointy by the month.

"What about a job?"

"There're a lot of possibilities right in the neighborhood—museums, institutes, archives. She's a trained librarian. She'll have no trouble finding a position."

"Small-town Connecticut girl—think she can hack it in the city?"

You put your hands on your hips. "I'm from Cleveland, Carl. I can hack it, so why not her?"

He fondles his beard again. "Want to know what I think? I think you're one superduper human being. How's that?"

You stare at him incredulously. "Well, thank you, Carl. I believe that's the first real compliment I've ever had from you. And we've worked together a lot of years."

"We have, Bev. And pardon me for not being one of those bosses effusive with the praise. But when I say something like that, I mean every word of it. I think you're an incredibly talented shrink and a terrific person, too."

Flattered and stunned, you shake your head. "I'm going to treasure what you're saying, Carl. It really means a lot."

W
hen you first noticed the tall blond girl in Diana's martial arts class, you knew she reminded you of someone, though you couldn't put your finger on exactly whom. It was only later, after you asked Diana to get to know the girl and cultivate a friendship, that it struck you whom she reminded you of. Cindy Morse, of course.

Then you couldn't wait to get your hands on her. But you were patient. Patience, you might say, is your middle name. And Diana was clever about it, too, building the friendship slowly, exactly as you'd ordered.

You'll never forget the evening Diana reported that she and Jess Foy had gone out for coffee after class. As you'd instructed, Diana told Jess she worked part-time at the New York Society Library and confided, too, in a most casual way, that she was in intensive therapy with a female shrink. Jess, in turn, informed Diana that she was a student at Columbia, where she was also on the women's varsity fencing team. She herself had never gone to a therapist, she said, although there were times when she was sorely tempted, what with the pressures of college and all. The girls chatted about karate, gossiped about the sensei, and exchanged tales of their initial embarrassment at having to change clothes in the unisex dojo locker room. But then, giggling, each admitted to the other that she now deliberately took no special pains to conceal herself when undressing.

"Let the novice hard-ons drool, that's my motto," Jess told Diana.

Diana reported how much she liked her new friend and was pleased at your instruction to nurture the relationship and make it grow.

B
everly Archer and Diana Proctor both were aware that the stakes were high and that for each of them, in separate as well as connected ways, it would be a night of destiny. Depending on the outcome, Beverly would learn whether the course she had embarked upon obsessively so many years before would finally lead to the attainment of her goals. For Diana the night would prove whether her murderous passions, once raging and incoherent, now disciplined and honed, could be applied to the completion of Beverly's design.

As the day ended, the strain between the women, always apparent on account of the extreme polarity of their roles, seemed to increase with the inexorable withering of the light. Beverly was more snappish than usual; Diana, quieter and more withdrawn. As night settled in, there was a palpable tension in the second-floor bedroom, where they waited, silent, before the large portrait of Beverly's mother in the niche.