'Harder, damn you!'
She was telling Doctor to stab her. She was telling him to hurt her!
She liked being hurt!
Doctor was monster-growling and monster-grinning, pushing the words out in between breaths that sounded like a steam engine puffing: 'Here, look at it, take it.'
'Oh, I hate? you.'
'You love it.'
'I hate you.'
'Want me to stop, bitch?'
'No, oh, no.'
'Say it!' Growling.
'No-don't stop, damn-'
'Say it!' Grinning.
'I love it.'
'That's better. Again.'
'I love it Uoveit!'
'Here, look, I'm fucking you. Feelit.'
'Oh. Oh, oh. Jew? bastard? oh, oh.'
'Take it.'
'? goddamned kike? cock. OH!'
All of a sudden Doctor was thrusting himself up, raising his hairy butt off the couch, lifting her with him. Stabbing fast and hard and yelling 'Damn!'
She flopped like a rag doll. She yelled, 'I hate you!' Made a noise that sounded like she was choking. Then her fingers came loose from Doctor's hair and started to wiggle around like white worms, the kind the boy sometimes found under wet rocks in the garden.
'Oh.'
'Bitch.'
Then, all of a sudden, she stopped moving and Doctor was slapping her butt and laughing and grinning and the boy was running upstairs gasping and tripping, his heart fighting to burst out of his chest.
He threw up on the floor, got into the bed and wet it.
He spent an eternity under the covers, shaking and biting his lips, scratching his arms and his face until he bled. Tasting his blood. Squeezing his thing. Hard.
Hurting himself, to see if you could like it.
You could, kind of.
It wasn't until later, when he heard her come up the stairs, sobbing, that he realized she was still alive.
When the woman opened the door, Shmeltzer was surprised. He'd expected someone older, the same age as the Hagah man, maybe just a little younger. But this one was much younger, in her early fifties, younger than him. A round, girlish face, plump and pretty, though the gray eyes seemed grim. A little makeup applied well, thick dark hair pulled back in a bun, just beginning to streak with gray. A heavy, sagging bosom that took up most of the space between neck and waistline. The waistline well-padded, as were the hips. Small ankles for a heavy woman. Just like Leah. No doubt she fretted over her weight.
'Yes?' she said, sounding wary and unfriendly.
Then he realized he was being stupid, a fine detective. The fact that she'd opened the door didn't make her the wife. A niece, maybe, or a guest.
But when he introduced himself, showed his badge and asked for Schlesinger, she said, 'He's not here now. I'm Eva-Mrs. Schlesinger. What do you want?'
'When do you expect him back?'
The woman stared at him and bit her lip. Her hands were small and soft; they started kneading one another.
'Never,' she said.
'What's that?'
She started to say something, clamped her lips shut, and turned her back on him, retreating into the apartment. But she'd left the door open and Shmeltzer followed her inside.
The place was simple, bright, immaculately maintained. Lean Danish furniture that had probably been purchased as an ensemble from Hamashbir. Bowls of nuts and candies and dried fruits on the coffee table. Crystal animals and porcelain miniatures, all female stuff-the Hagah man probably didn't give a hoot about decorating. A teak bookcase filled with volumes on history and philosophy. Landscape prints on the walls, but no photos of children or grandchildren.
A second marriage, he told himself: the old guy hot for a young one, may be divorcing the first one, maybe
