Love Creeps: A Novel Page 17

  Max screamed back, “Shit! What does she have? Herpes, gonorrhea, HIV? Please don’t tell me it’s HIV!”

  “She’s a sex addict,” Alan hissed.

  Jessica said, “I’m sorry, but it’s over, Alan. I can’t be with anyone for very long. Being with you this long was my record, and I thank you for it, but it was becoming too hard for me.”

  “You’re dumping me for him?”

  “No. I’m not interested in having a relationship with Max. I have no intention of ever seeing him again. It was just a fling.”

  “I’m not breaking up with you over this,” Alan said. “I’ll help you get back on track. You were doing so well, so many months. You mustn’t let one slip-up ruin everything!”

  “I wasn’t doing well. I was having sex with other men almost every day.”

  “No.”

  “Yes! You thought I was jealous about this weekend. Well, you were wrong. I was upset with you going away, because I wouldn’t have the willpower to resist sleeping with a dozen men.”

  Alan thought he might collapse. He staggered to his borrowed car and sped off.

  Without so much as a word or a glance back at Max, Jessica rushed to her rented car and followed Alan, not only because it was in her nature to follow, but because she wanted to make sure he wouldn’t do anything self-destructive.

  Alan cried as he drove. He could feel his stalking urges, but he tried to fight them. He would not stalk Jessica. He did not want to want her. Anyway, he knew that the urge to stalk her was an absurd urge, since at the moment he could see in his rearview mirror that she was stalking him, and on top of that, after learning of her ongoing infidelity, he didn’t really want her back at all. And not wanting her back was strangely more painful than wanting her.

  His only comfort was that he had been sexually abused as a child. It was a relief to blame his problems on his abuser. Since he had an urge to fix something in his messed-up life, he suddenly made the decision—which lifted his spirits slightly—to go and confront his abuser, scream at her, show her how she had ruined his life. Things could only get better after one lashed out at one’s abuser.

  Alan drove straight to Cross, forty-five minutes away. He tried calling Roland to tell him he’d be at least an hour late for their meeting in the field of Lynn’s love, but Roland didn’t answer his phone, so Alan left a message.

  He parked his car at his abuser’s house. Jessica parked a ways away.

  He rang Miss Tuttle’s doorbell.

  Miss Tuttle had aged a lot in thirty years. She stood in the doorway, tying her bathrobe.

  “Am I disturbing you?” he asked, and before she could answer, he added, “Not that I care.”

  She looked him up and down in a snobby way, he thought, and said, “You caught me in the middle of taking monthly nude photos of myself to observe the aging process.”

  “You are a sick woman. I’m surprised you haven’t committed suicide.”

  “Why say such a horrible thing to me?” Miss Tuttle asked.

  “You made me touch a mangofish. Remember? I was only five years old, for God’s sakes! At least Seymour never made the little girl touch the bananafish.”

  “That’s because there is no such thing as a bananafish,” Miss Tuttle said. “But I did have a mangofish. I still do. It’s in my bedroom. Go in and see, if you want.”

  He went into the bedroom, expecting her to either strip for him or attempt to murder him.

  But in the bedroom was a fifty-gallon fish tank that shone in the darkness like a gigantic jewel. Inside was a fish that was about six inches long, and had whiskers and wrinkled skin, like a basset hound.

  “But how did you have the fish in the water with you? You can’t hold a fish on a leash.”

  “I had it in a plastic bag, and I opened the bag a little under the water to let you pet it.”

  Alan apologized to Miss Tuttle for having accused her of such a heinous crime. He had an irrational urge to apologize to the fish as well but knew it wasn’t the exact fish, because fish didn’t live that long.

  They went back into the living room. Alan seemed deflated. In an attempt to make him feel better, she brought in a muffin from the kitchen, and asked, “Do you want to taste my pussy? It’s nice and warm.”

  He blanched. She burst out laughing. “I’m teasing! You are too funny. You must come and visit me again. People around here are so jaded, let me tell you. But you!” She left it at that.

  He confessed to her that he would have liked her to have been his abuser and that now he couldn’t help resenting her a little because she wasn’t. He explained how bad his life had been, and how it had gotten better, and now bad again, and how blaming it all on her had eased his suffering.

  And he rushed out, disgusted with himself.

  Ten minutes later, Alan had to pull over on the side of the road to cry some more. Jessica pulled over behind him. She looked at him through her binoculars. She felt sorry to see him cry but knew this was how things had to be.

  As he cried, Alan felt like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. All the wonderful things in his life had turned back to crap. He had lost his girlfriend and his abuser. And to top it all off, he hadn’t even registered for the fall semester. If only he had classes to fall back on, perhaps things wouldn’t seem so dire.

  He thought of calling Lynn and using her for sex, but first he would check his messages to see if any suicidal friends called who might cheer him up. There were nine new obsessive messages from Lynn, which made her unappealing, and therefore useless, even for a rebound.

  He would meet with Roland, and they would commiserate: two dumped men.

  Alan started up the car and headed to the field of Lynn’s love.

  As he drove, Jessica looked at him through her binoculars. Even though she could only see the back of his head, he seemed calmer now. So she turned her car toward Manhattan to start an ordinary day of private investigating and a new life as a single sex addict.

  While Alan had been confronting his abuser, Roland had his meeting with Max.

  Max was surprised to see Roland at his door. They sat in the living room, to chat. Roland was visiting him under the guise of wanting to hear how the weekend went.

  “Have all your guests left?”

  “Yes,” Max said.

  “This house is very quiet when it’s totally empty.”

  As Roland had hoped, Max did not contradict the part about the house being totally empty.

  “Don’t you have cleaning people who work for you or any sort of help? It must be so much work to do everything yourself.”

  “A cleaning person will come this afternoon,” Max said.

  “So, do you think you were able to shine a bad light on Alan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know one thing that really annoys me about him?”

  Max shook his head.

  “It’s that he drinks water so slowly,” Roland said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean exactly that. And if he tries to drink it more quickly, he chokes. Maybe because I drink water very quickly I expect it of others,” Roland said. “I never knew I drank it quickly until I noticed that certain people could not drink it as quickly without coughing. You’ll see, I’ll show you.” He got up.

  “Are you serious?” Max said.

  “Yes! Do you mind if I go in the kitchen and get some glasses?”

  Max chuckled. “Be my guest.”

  Roland came back two minutes later with two tall glasses of water. In front of Max, he placed the glass in which he had mixed the contents of his locket.

  “What? I’m supposed to do this, too?” Max asked.

  “Yeah, but hang on. Look at this, okay?”

  Max nodded.

  Roland drank the water very quickly—not extraordinarily quickly, but like a normal human drinking a glass of water quickly.

  Max nodded again, slightly, to acknowledge being mildly impressed.

  “Oh, come on,” Roland said
. “You have to admit that was pretty damn quick.”

  Max snorted, said, “You’re nuts.”

  “There’s no way you could drink water even half as quickly as I just drank it. Anyway, I think French people have a natural advantage over Americans. I think we’re able to drink water much more rapidly, on average.” Roland plopped down in a chair, as if ready to leave it at that and move on to another topic.

  Max languorously heaved himself into an upright sitting position and picked up the glass of water.

  Roland’s heart raced. He couldn’t believe it was as easy as that. Now that Max was about to drink the cyanide, Roland’s mind was free to worry further about his risks of getting caught and charged with murder. He blurted, “Where’s your assistant?”

  “What assistant?”

  “The guy who, on the first day, told Lynn and me that you arranged for us to walk in on you having sex because you love feeling embarrassed.”

  “Oh, he was just a friend of mine who does that favor for me sometimes.”

  “Because you love feeling embarrassed.”

  “Yes. And blushing, especially.”

  “That’s crazy, you know. But also stupidly endearing,” Roland said, annoyed.

  “I’m glad you think so. And let me be even more endearing by showing you how quickly I can drink this glass of water. Ready?”

  Roland scowled, but didn’t move. He didn’t stop him, though it would have been easy. He could have taken the glass from him, said he had peed in it, or something harmless of the sort.

  Max drank the glass of water very quickly. A few drops ran down his chin. He slapped the empty glass on the table.

  “That water sucks,” he said. “You got it from the tap?”

  “Why did you betray me?” Roland asked. “When I phoned, not only did you tell Alan and Lynn it was me calling, but you lied and said I was asking if they had had sex! I heard it all.”

  Max only had a few seconds to live, and Roland wanted to satisfy his curiosity. “Why did you betray me?”

  “Because you’re a prick. Today, however, I find you more charming, with your special water criterion for evaluating people. Ow,” he said, clutching his stomach.

  “Why am I a prick? Because I asked for your help? Because I revealed that Lynn thought you were my sublime enhancer? Is that it? Your feelings were hurt? And you think that’s enough reason to ruin my life?”

  “Ow!” Max buckled over. And then he shouted, “You gave me something bad to drink!”

  “Yes! Cyanide. In seconds you’ll be dead.”

  “No!”

  Max convulsed and slumped on his side. Roland knew it was the one-minute coma that preceded death.

  As soon as Max was dead, Roland wiped his fingerprints off everything. He used all his willpower to restrain himself from dropping a paper clip—he didn’t want to leave any evidence.

  Roland returned his car to the rental place and took a cab to the field of Lynn’s love to meet Alan. He got there before Alan, who had been delayed not only by the visit to his abuser, but by his poor sense of direction, which had been just moderately improved by the map-reading class.

  When Alan arrived, he saw Roland sitting cross-legged, in the middle of the deserted field. As Alan got out of the car, Roland called out to him, “Is Lynn still interested in you?”

  “Yes. She won’t leave me alone. She left nine messages on my voice mail.”

  “You just couldn’t get yourself to be more unattractive, could you?”

  Alan didn’t need to be criticized at the moment. He decided to get a quick ego boost. “I tried. But, you know, it’s hard.”

  Roland approached Alan and screamed, “You are an asshole!”

  “Really. Did you try to make Lynn dislike you when I wanted her?”

  “Blah, blah, blah!” Roland screamed, and surprised Alan by punching him in the face. “Did you really think I came to this field to be in the place of Lynn’s love?” Roland said. “You are so gullible. And dumb.”

  “I don’t need this,” Alan said, straightening himself, finger to bloody lip. “My girlfriend just broke up with me, I’m not registered in any classes, I’ve caused Lynn to be on the verge of self-destruction. And most troubling of all, my childhood sexual abuser never abused me, which means there is no explanation for any of this, other than that I am a born loser.”

  Roland again punched Alan, who fell to the ground. He kicked Alan once, twice, but forced himself to stop. He had already killed one person that morning. He dropped a paper clip, hopped in his car, and sped off.

  Alan dragged himself to the train station and took the train home, repeating affirmations that he was great, he was pure, he would remain well-adjusted, would not let himself slide back, would not stalk his girlfriend, would never again chase after someone who didn’t want him.

  He was repeating these mantras as he stepped out of his elevator and was jumped on from behind. Lynn had sneaked past the doorman and been hiding in the stairwell, waiting for Alan to come home. This was too much. He felt beaten down. He flung her into his apartment. She stumbled but was not deterred. She came back at him like a magnet, arms outstretched, to hug him. And she did. She tried to kiss him. She put her hand on his crotch.

  Alan could feel his erection. He knew he didn’t have to take it anymore, and he knew how he could fight back. He would rape her.

  It would be difficult, but he would try. It’s hard to rape someone who wants you desperately.

  As he ripped off her clothes, she clearly misinterpreted his actions. She thought he was being passionate. He’d show her it was not passion. It was violence, it was rape.

  Of course, that she opened her legs so willingly and widely didn’t appear much like rape, but he’d fix that by thrusting hard.

  “Yes!” she moaned.

  Was she actually attempting to enjoy this? How dare she! She was hugging him, which spoiled the rape effect, got him dangerously close to coming, and also hurt him where Roland had kicked his ribs, so he took her wrists and held them down on either side of her head. He came anyway.

  She moaned slightly. With pain. Or at least he tried to believe it was with pain.

  That hadn’t done the trick. She still wanted him. He got off the bed, feeling emasculated. He dared not inform her that he had raped her, for fear she’d laugh in his face. He didn’t know what to do. He took his rat from the cage and stared into its beady eyes, and thought to it, Did you see Jessica cheating on me, again and again? He couldn’t tell what response the rat was giving him, but he was sure the answer was yes.

  The phone startled them both. It was a wrong number. Alan turned off the ringer and sat on his armless white easy chair in front of the window, staring out. He said to Lynn, “Leave me alone for a bit, will you?”

  She sat on the couch and read a magazine, glancing at him regularly.

  “What happened to your face?” she finally asked.

  He didn’t want to tell her Roland had beaten him up. “I fell.”

  After a while he went and took a shower. At noon he said he was going out for a walk.

  Perhaps if he allowed her to stay in his apartment, she wouldn’t follow him down the street. It would be a welcome respite.

  An hour later, when he opened the door to his apartment, he was assaulted by a delicious smell of cooking.

  He felt oppressed and comforted at the same time. He happened to be hungry. Dammit, he thought. And when he finally got a glance at her, she was wearing nothing but boxers and an undershirt, and she looked damn sexy.

  She came out of the kitchen with a saucepan and presented him with the wooden spoon, asking him to taste her sauce. She pushed it against his mouth more gently than he had pushed himself into her. He parted his lips reluctantly and tasted. Mmm. His stomach growled. He hoped she hadn’t heard it, but her smile seemed to indicate she had.

  “Sit down. It’ll be ready very soon,” she said, and sauntered back into the kitchen, her firm butt jiggling in that special way onl
y firm butts can.

  Five minutes later, she placed a meal on the dining table.

  He dug into the pasta. It was good. He felt embarrassed by the pleasure it brought him. He ate, his eyes focused on the plate. He looked up at her only once, just out of curiosity, and she was looking at him, smiling. He looked back down, irked. He ate a few more mouthfuls, pushed his plate away, and was about to get up when she said, “There’s more.” She got up and came back from the kitchen carrying a warm crème brulée. Damn, he thought. He didn’t know she cooked. He pressed his palms over his face. What was he going to do? She giggled. She must have guessed his thoughts. Yes, he would eat some crème brulée. But that didn’t mean she had won. The grilled caramel on top looked crispy. And the smell. The smell was perfect, too.

  He just stared at it.

  “Eat it,” she said.

  He picked up the spoon and tasted the crème brulée. He frowned. How had she become such a good cook? Had she taken secret classes? He ate all of it.

  “Please make love to me again,” she said.

  ‘Make love to me again’? That’s what she thought he had done before? I fucking raped you. What was the point of even trying? He looked at her coldly.

  “Please make love to me again,” she repeated.

  “I never made love to you,” he said, getting up from the table.

  “Ouch.”

  Ah, now, finally, she said ouch. It was about time.

  “Please take me again,” she said, stepping in front of him. She held his face in her hands and kissed him gently on the lips. He didn’t move. His arms hung limply at his sides. She raised them and attempted to wrap them around herself, but when she let go of them, they fell.

  “I don’t want to,” he said. “I didn’t want to before, and I don’t want to now.”

  “You didn’t want to before? You could have fooled me,” she said.

  “That was an act of violence, not of sex,” he informed her, hoping she knew he had just uttered the definition of rape.

  But she didn’t pick up on it.

  “I wish you would go home and leave me alone,” he said.

  She kissed his ear, licked his earlobe. He hoped she couldn’t feel him getting hard. She stuck her tongue in his ear.