Safe House

I didn’t move a muscle this time, feeling Crystal Beth next to me even though we were a couple of feet apart, watching the woman on the couch until she started again.

“When he was . . . finished, he said something to the one in front. Or that one said something to him. I don’t remember. It was all so . . .

“They found a place to park. By the water, that’s all I could tell. Then the one in front got in back. And he raped me.”

I sat quietly, knowing the end to the story before she was into the second paragraph. Predators’ footprints were all over the narrative, as stylized as a religious ritual. No way that was the first time those maggots had done that number. But why was she with Crystal Beth? The rapists weren’t anyone she knew.

I waited for the rest.

“It took me hours to get home,” the woman said. “I was a . . . mess. And petrified they would come back. I walked and I walked. I didn’t have money for a cab. I should have called the police. But all I wanted to do was to get home.

“When I got upstairs, my husband was there, waiting up. It was after midnight, but he wasn’t mad. I work late a lot. And the overtime’s good. But as soon as he saw me, he knew. I wanted to take a shower. A long, hot shower. And a bath. I wanted to boil them right off me, make the dirt go away.

“But he wouldn’t let me. He wanted to know what happened. I told him. I . . . think I told him. But he was so angry, I don’t remember exactly. His face was so red, like the blood was going to break right through. He asked me, were they niggers? I didn’t understand what he meant. They were . . . rapists. I didn’t look at their faces. I didn’t want to. And they told me not to, or they’d hurt me more.

“I told him everything. I didn’t want to, but he kept slapping me and shaking me and screaming. I was so . . . humiliated. I was sure the neighbors could hear him. He made me tell him. Every single thing they did. And what I did. That’s what he said, ‘Tell me what you did.’ ”

“You didn’t—” I started to say, but Crystal Beth cut me short with a chopping motion of her hand.

“He ripped my clothes off. My dirty clothes. From those dirty men. Then he shoved me on the bed. Face down. ‘At least they didn’t get this,’ he said. Then he . . . Oh God, it hurt. Not just the . . . He killed me when he didn’t care. When he blamed me.”

The woman tried to take a deep breath. Failed miserably, soft sobs shuddering.

“After that, it was never the same,” she finally said. “That was the only way he would ever . . . do it. And when I told him I wanted a divorce, he said I couldn’t leave. Because I owed him. For what I did. And I couldn’t go until I paid it off.”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” the auburn-haired woman said, her eyes hidden behind amber- tinted glasses even though the only light in the living room came from a deep-shaded lamp in the far corner. She was sitting on a straight-backed armless wood chair, knees together, hands in her lap. The room was furnished in heavy dark pieces bordered in ornate woodwork. The walls were eggshell, a framed print of a fox hunt over the fireplace, where a trio of small logs burned steadily. One corner of the big room was empty of furniture, waiting. She turned her head in that direction, turned it back to me, a question in her gesture.

I answered it with an affirmative nod.

Crystal Beth wasn’t in the room. She was somewhere on the upper floors of the East Side townhouse, packing the woman’s clothes. Some of them, anyway.

“It’s the way I like to play,” the woman said. “Hanky-spanky. Games, that’s all. Foreplay, if you like.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t like you’d expect,” she continued, judging me as I wasn’t judging her. “No progression. No Nine and a Half Weeks scenarios. He did it the way I wanted. My rules. I like to be spanked, all right? Paddled, sometimes. Even the crop, if I feel especially . . . It doesn’t matter. But when it’s done, so am I, understand?”

“Yes.”

“I was done. Not with . . . what I like. With him. That’s all. People break up. They get tired of each other. Bored. Whatever.”

I didn’t say anything, watching the amber lenses watching my eyes, knowing mine were even flatter.

“But he got it confused. He thought, if I went over his knee, if I called him ‘sir’ and stood in the corner when he was finished . . . he thought that I belonged to him. I don’t. I belong to me.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“He took it calmly when I first told him. It isn’t like we were in love or anything. I met him through . . . an ad. In a magazine. After we broke up, there wasn’t any trouble. I never knew where he lived. He always came here for . . . our meetings. But after I told him it was over, I . . .”

She went silent then, bowing her head. It lasted so long I realized I wasn’t being tested. She couldn’t finish the sentence.

So I did. “You put another ad in the same magazine. And he recognized it.”

Her head came up. I could feel her eyes behind the amber lenses. “Yes! That’s when it started. That’s when he said if I ever . . .”

“It’s all right,” I told her. “You’re leaving here today. He won’t know where—”

“He said he owns me. I’m not allowed to . . . or he’ll . . .” She took a deep breath. “I’m not going to . . . He can’t make me give up my . . .”

“I know,” I said. “It’s what we’ll use.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re going to move, okay? He won’t know where. But he will know where to look, right?”

“You mean—?”

“Sure. Another ad. Change it around enough so it’ll look like you’re trying to disguise yourself. He’ll answer it, do the same thing. When it comes to the meeting, it won’t be you he finds.”

“That’ll make him so—”

“No it won’t,” I assured her. “It’ll make him forget about bothering you anymore. The only thing you’ll be giving up is those personal ads. There’s other ways to find people to play with, right?”

“The scene is pretty . . . closed,” she said dubiously. “The same people. The same places. It’s hard to —”

“Get to know them first,” I told her. “Sharing a fetish isn’t a credential. First get close, then tell your secrets.”

“That could take a long time.”

“Safety costs.”

She took off the amber glasses. Her face was heavily made up, dark eyes glinting with intelligence. “Do you know why I need . . . that, sometimes?”

“Guesses,” I told her. “Varies, right? It may turn you on, but it also soothes you. Makes things right. Adds some balance. Pays the debts.”

“What debts?”

“Guilt. Bad guilt. The kind other people give you. The kind you never deserved.”

“How do you know so much?” she asked.

“I was looking for somebody else,” the plump girl with the granny glasses and frizzy hair said softly, her back to me. Her eyes were locked onto a computer screen. A large one, vibrating with the brilliant colors of the advertisements they made you wade through before the Web browser she was using started to work.

“On one of the Survivor boards?” Lorraine asked.

“No,” the plump girl said, still not turning around, Crystal Beth, Lorraine and me all standing in a fan behind her. “I was trying to reach a . . . warrior.”