With an Extreme Burning (26 page)

She was alone now; Amy had gone upstairs to her room. So quiet in there she could hear the erratic thump of her heart. And every time she closed her eyes, every time she focused inward instead of outward, she could see Louise Kanvitz lying broken and bloody at the bottom of the stairs. She thought she would see that lifeless, bulging eye of Louise's for the rest of her life—a Cyclops to haunt her dreams.

Amy had taken the news well enough, as well as could be expected. She was afraid but just how deeply Cecca couldn't tell; most of the fear was locked within. She'd always been that way: emotions bottled up, not much outward display except in sudden sharp, brief outbursts when she was provoked beyond her limits. As a baby she hadn't cried much; as a little girl she had rarely thrown a tantrum. In fact, Cecca could remember seeing her cry only once since she'd passed the toddler stage—the day she'd told her Chet had moved out and she was filing for divorce.

Resilient at seventeen, yes, self-contained, but Amy couldn't handle this kind of psychological fear-pressure indefinitely. Neither of them could. It would damage Amy just as it was damaging her. Survival was still the primary issue, and they would survive—Cecca refused to let herself think otherwise. But survival at what cost?

She started to lift the glass to her mouth, and almost dropped it. The fingers on her left hand had gone partially numb. They had a dead-white look, as if they'd been frostbitten. The ice in the glass radiating cold; and bad circulation on top of everything else. She went into the kitchen, ran hot water over her hand until the fingers began to tingle and turn a splotchy red. She was drying them with a dishtowel when the telephone rang.

Cecca stood rigidly, waiting for the machine to open the line. But it was only Laura Flores. She'd just heard about Louise Kanvitz, she said, and oh you poor dear, it must have been awful for you and Dix. What were you doing at Louise's house anyway? A nightmare, what's been going on lately—one hideous tragedy after another. Why are all these terrible things happening
here
? It makes you want to lock all your doors and windows and not ever go out anywhere again. Call me as soon as you can, Cecca, okay? I'm worried about you.

When the machine clicked off, Cecca finished her drink in one long swallow. News travels fast in a small town; she should have remembered that. And bad news travels fastest of all. Laura's call wouldn't be the last tonight. The phone would keep right on ringing, and then somebody would stop by—Owen, he would surely come—and she couldn't deal with it. She could not deal with any of it tonight.

Well? she thought.

There was no hesitation in the answer she gave herself. Admit it, Francesca: It's been there in the back of your mind all along.

She went upstairs, quickly, to have another talk with Amy.

Dix wasn't surprised to see her. He didn't ask why she'd driven up; it was almost as if he'd been expecting her.

“You okay?” he asked when she was inside.

“Not really. Hanging in there.”

“Me, too. Take your jacket?”

“No, I'll leave it on. I'm cold.”

“A drink might help.”

“I don't think so. I've had enough liquor.”

“Coffee?”

“Not that either. Have you had any calls?”

“Three so far,” he said. “Laura and Jerry and that damn
Herald
reporter that tried to buttonhole us outside Kanvitz's house. I didn't talk to any of them.”

“Laura called me, too. The first of many. I didn't think I could stand it alone.”

“Did you tell Amy what happened?”

“Yes. She took it well enough.”

“Sure it's a good idea to leave her home by herself?”

“I didn't,” Cecca said. “I asked her to stay with my folks for a while, starting tonight. He can get to her there, too, of course, but … I don't know, I just thought it would be best.”

“I think so, too. She give you any argument?”

“A little. But she went. I want to call my dad, make sure she got there all right.”

She made the call from the kitchen. Yes, Pop said, Amy was there and everything was fine. He hadn't asked any questions when she'd called before leaving home and he didn't ask any now. She wished she could confide in him. But there was no telling what he might do; he was unpredictable these days. And Ma's health was fragile enough as it was. At least they were accepting people, never prying or poking into her private life. There when she needed them; left her alone otherwise.

She said she'd talk to him again tomorrow, and that she loved him, then rang off. When she turned from the counter, Dix was standing a few feet away. He said, “Okay?”

“For now.”

She was conscious again of her heartbeat. Its rhythm was rapid but less erratic than it had been earlier. She closed the gap between them, put her hands flat against his chest. They seemed very small to her at that moment, like a child's hands. Through his shirt she could feel the throb of his heart—quick, too, and as steady as her own. Her eyes held his, and when his arms came up she moved into their fold and fitted her body to his. She'd hugged him before … earlier at Louise's … but never like this. It was a good feeling. It felt right.

Against his chest she said, “Do you want to be alone tonight?”

“No.”

Trust him now, this way, or she never would. You had to have complete trust in somebody at a time of crisis, above all other times. If you didn't, you were lost—you'd be trapped by suspicion forever.

“Neither do I,” she said.

They undressed in the bedroom, by the pale light from the bedside lamp. She was unhurried and neither embarrassed nor shy, and this made him the same. Naked, her small body was firm, almost girlish, where Katy's had been long and ripe and soft; her breasts were half the size of Katy's, the nipples dark and hard rather than pale and plump; her pubic hair was as thick and black and curly as poodle fur, where Katy's had been sparse, blond, downy—

Angry at himself, he yanked down the mental curtain. Cecca, this is Cecca. No more comparisons. Cecca.

He drew her into his arms. Her flesh was cold and she was shivering. He kissed her tenderly, and when they lay down together he pulled the covers up over their bodies. He stroked her until the trembling eased, until there was warmth instead of chill under his hands; the skin of her breasts and hips was satiny once the gooseflesh disappeared. They kissed deeply then, and he continued to caress her, heard her breathing quicken, felt her begin to knead his flanks with mounting urgency and then take hold of him with her small fingers. Long minutes of this, sweet minutes.

But none of it had any effect.

There was not even a stir of arousal in his loins. It was as if he'd gone dead from the waist down.

“I can't,” he said after a while. “It's no use, I just … can't.”

“It's all right,” she said.

“It's not all right.”

“We'll just hold each other.”

“I'm sorry, Cecca …”

“Shh. Lie still. Rest.”

“I can't rest.”

She reached behind her. The room went moonlit dark.

“Yes you can. Sleep. We'll both sleep.”

“I can't sleep,” he said.

And slept.

Sometime toward morning, he awoke with a hard-on.

That was the proper term for it. A great, throbbing, painful thing such as he hadn't experienced in more than fifteen years, since the early days of his marriage. A swelling pressure, a blood balloon that felt as though it would burst at any second. When he moved, the light friction from the sheet covering him was excruciating. He lay still, waiting for it to diminish. It didn't. If anything, the pressure and the hurt intensified. Finally, almost in desperation, he turned toward Cecca sleeping beside him.

She moved when his body touched hers, came half awake, murmuring something; then, when she felt the heat and bone-hardness, she said, “Oh!” and woke fully. “Oh, Dix.”

“Do you still want to?” he whispered.

“Yes. Yes.”

Their joining was awkward, fumbling, and when he filled her completely, they both gasped. For him, as they moved together, it was mostly painful, with very little pleasure and faint random twitches of guilt. His climax was sudden and fiery, and it brought no relief. He was just as hard and swollen afterward as before. He knew that it had not been good for her either, and immediately he tried to withdraw; but she held him tightly with her arms and legs.

“Stay with me,” she said against his ear. “I like you there, I like the way you feel.”

He stayed, and still he did not diminish. For a while they were motionless; then Cecca began to nuzzle his neck, to pet him with her fingertips. He held her fiercely, and soon the rhythms started again, now slow, now gentle, now synchronized. And this time it
was
good for both of them, relieving and searching. This time he felt mostly pleasure, with very little pain and no twitches at all.

“Dix?”

“Mmm?”

“Any regrets?”

“No. You?”

“No, but I keep thinking I should have.”

“Why?”

“Katy. Katy's house, Katy's bed, Katy's husband …”

“Not anymore. ‘That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’ ”

“… I know she hurt you, but that sounds cold.”

“I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that she's gone. So is the man she was married to, in a way.”

“Gone? What way?”

“I'm not the same person I was before Katy died. I've changed and I'm still changing and that's probably a good thing.”

“Why do you think it's good?”

“I don't particularly like the old Dix Mallory.”

“Why not?”

“He isn't much of a man.”

“I always had the opposite view. I still do.”

“You're not looking at him from in here.”

“What don't you like about yourself?”

“Mostly it's what I've done with my life, the way I've … thrown a lot of it away.”

“How do you mean, thrown it away?”

“Too many compromises, large and small. Self-delusion. Contentment with mediocrity.”

“You think you're mediocre?”

“… Yes.”

“If you are, then so am I. So are most people.”

“But we don't have to be. We don't have to settle for it.”

“No, that's true. We don't.”

“Let's talk about you. You don't really consider yourself ordinary?”

“I'm not that self-analytical. But if I were … yes, I'm ordinary.”

“You must have taken a good look at yourself a time or two.”

“A time or two.”

“And what did you see? Who is Cecca Bellini?”

“An unfulfilled woman.”

“You said that without missing a beat. Why unfulfilled? Not because of Chet.”

“God, no. You can't think all a woman needs for fulfillment is the right kind of man?”

“No. That was a statement, not a question. Sexism, at least, isn't one of my failings.”

“Well, it has nothing to do with Chet. It's … expectations, I suppose. I always expected a lot of myself. I don't mean I had visions of becoming somebody important or famous, being a mover and shaker. Or that I had any specific goals I haven't met. It's just that I expected more of myself, more out of life. And it's my fault I haven't gotten it.”

“Settled for less when you didn't have to? Opted for what was easy, safe? Accepted and never questioned unless you were forced to?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“So did I. It's the same feeling I have about myself, exactly the same. You call it unfulfillment, I call it mediocrity.”

“Birds of a feather.”

“Well? Aren't we?”

“I guess we are. And I guess I've changed, too.”

“Grown more self-aware.”

“Yes.”

“And maybe found out some things about yourself that you don't like?”

“That, too.”

“Things you want to change, if you can?”

“If I can.”

“… Funny.”

“What is?”

“I feel closer to you than I've felt to anyone in a long time. Closer than I was to Katy for the last dozen years of our marriage.”

“That makes me want to cry. And I'm not sure why.”

“Do you feel close to me?”

“Yes. But I don't know how much of it is comfort, a reaction to what's ripping both our lives apart.”

“Neither do I. But we'll find out.”

“Yes. We'll find out.”

Cecca left at seven. They had coffee together first, in the kitchen, and there was no awkwardness between them, no daylight doubts—as if they were old lovers rather than new ones. Dix still felt as close to her as he had in bed, in the dark. It was true, what he'd said to her, painfully true: He was closer to Cecca than he had been to Katy at any time except in the beginning. He could not have talked to Katy as he had to her, even in the dark. He could not have told Katy about his feelings of mediocrity.