Fiends

she stayed on her feet and vanished below.

    He sat at the stern, waiting.

    Finally, the cabin door opened, then latched shut. Brad watched Tina’s dark form rise and step into the moonlight.

    ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

    ‘Very nice.’

    ‘It’s absolutely beautiful in the light. All gold and red and blue. I guess you know that, though.’

    ‘Does it fit all right?’

    ‘Does it?’ She posed for him.

    ‘Looks great to me. Is it supposed to cling like that?’

    ‘Sure.’ She walked toward him, keeping a hand on the gunwale to steady herself.

    The fabric, glossy in the moonlight, sheathed all the rises and hollows of her body until it stopped partway down her thighs.

    ‘It makes me feel naked,’ she said. ‘Naked and covered with something like baby oil so I’m all slick and shiny.’ She rubbed a hand over her ribs. ‘Feel,’ she said, and stepped into Brad’s arms.

    Her back was a curving sleekness under the cloth’s lubrication.

    She moaned. ‘It feels so good.’ She squeezed him extra hard, grunting with the effort. ‘This is just the nicest gift anyone’s ever given me.’

    ‘Like it, huh?’

    ‘I love it. Here, you feel.’ She tugged Brad’s T-shirt off, embraced him and moved lightly against him. The fabric was warm with the heat of Tina's skin, a slippery film between her body and his.

    Then Brad noticed that the dress was gathering above his hands. He rubbed upward on her sides, working the dress higher, and slid a hand down until the silken fabric ended and he felt the bare skin of her buttocks.

    ‘Lift your arms,’ he whispered.

    She raised her arms and he pulled the dress over her head. He draped it across the stern seat. Then he held her hands and looked at her.

    He swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said.

    ‘I love you so much,’ she said. ‘I love you more than anything.’

    ‘I love you, too,’ he said.

    She moved in against him and unfastened his jeans.

8

    When Marty awoke in the morning, the drapes above her bed were bright with sunshine. The drawcord was just out of reach, so she got up quietly and opened the drapes, freeing the sunlight to slant downward onto her bed.

    She lay down, closing her eyes against the brightness and enjoying the feel of the heat as she listened to the house. Her mother and father were not yet stirring. She sat up and slipped off her nightgown. As she pulled it over her head, the sunlight touched the skin of her back, warming and soothing, draining away all desire to move. Elbows resting on the knees of her crossed legs, she hung her head and let the sun sink in.

    Things should always be this way, she thought.

    And her stomach knotted as she half expected to hear the doorbell ring - just as it had rung that other morning, a sunny morning so much like this - when she was fifteen years old.

    A warm, summer wind had been blowing through her room that morning, whipping the drapes above her bed and making the light flutter on the pages of Jane Eyre. The breeze smelled of flowers and freshly mowed grass, and hinted of a blistering day.

    When the doorbell rang downstairs, she didn’t want to answer it.

    But if she didn’t get the door, nobody would, and maybe it was something important.

    Rolling reluctantly out of bed, she pressed the open book face down on the sheet to keep her place, then hurried across the carpet to the closet door and pulled her robe off its hook. As she slipped her arms into her robe, the pajama sleeves were shoved up almost to her elbows.

    The doorbell rang again.

    She fastened the top button of her pajama shirt, hitched up the drooping pants, and tied the robe shut.

    The bell rang once more before she got downstairs.

    She opened the door. Seeing a total stranger took her by surprise, but there was nothing menacing about his skinny body or his crew cut or his black eyebrows meeting above his nose. His big ears made him look funny.

    ‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, bowing his high, narrow head. ‘Can I talk to the master of the house?’

    ‘He isn’t home right now,’ she said.

    ‘When do you expect him back?’

    ‘What’s this about?’

    ‘I do odd jobs.’

    ‘Well, I don’t know if he’d…’

    ‘Can I talk to your mother about it?’

    ‘She isn’t…’

    Marty suddenly realized that she shouldn’t be saying such things to a stranger.

    ‘She isn’t home,’ he said. It wasn’t a question. ‘I know.’ His thin lips curled into a grin. ‘They shouldn’t have left you alone.’

    The door crashed into her. She tumbled backward as the stranger rushed in.

    Looking up from the floor, she saw the knife in his hand.

    ‘Stand up,’ he said, waving it.

    ‘What do you want?’

    ‘I want you to stand up.’

    It was hard getting off the floor because her bones felt soft and wobbly. But she did as she was told.

    ‘Your bedroom’s upstairs, right?’

    She nodded.

    ‘I know. I know all about you, Marty. I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a long time. Ever since I saw you at the car wash with your old lady. You had on white shorts and a red blouse. I wanted to rip ’em off you and fuck you right there. But I’m not stupid. I waited for just the right time. And guess what. This is it. Let’s go upstairs.’

    ‘I don’t want to.’

    ‘Start walking.’ He waved his knife under her chin.

    She began to cry.

    He walked behind her, the knife point biting through her robe and pajamas, nipping her back. Up the stairway. Down the hall. Into her sun-bright bedroom.

    When he began to strip her, she said, ‘Don’t. Please.’

    He didn’t bother to move Jane Eyre before shoving her backward onto the bed. By the time he finished, the book’s slick dust jacket was ripped off. The covers were broken. The spine was split, and loose pages were scattered over the sheet, spoiled with blood and semen.

    Lying back, Marty covered herself with a sheet, curled up on her side, and watched her forefinger draw a line along the edge of the mattress pad.

    Why did he have to come back? What does he want?

    Me.

    He wants me.

    Again.