odor under the heavy perfume. It triggered a childhood memory of a vacant house where he had played sometimes as a child, a house where a sick old dog had crawled under the floorboards and died. His mouth dropped open as he recognized the smell. It was rot.
NINE
“Marianne, what’s wrong with you?” Kyle’s throat tightened, squeezing his voice out in a tremulous whisper.
Marianne looked him straight in the eye. She smiled slowly and let her head fall to one side, at the angle it had lain that night in the road outside Elkhorn City.
“Don’t you know what’s wrong with me, Kyle? You should. You did it to me. You made me what I am. You and that Gypsy. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“That’s crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pulled up his pants.
She opened her mouth to speak.
He put a hand over her lips. “I don’t want to hear any more. Go home, Marianne. Go home and take a bath.”
She got to her feet, looking not quite steady. “If you say so, lover. I can see you’re all through for now, anyway.”
She found her jeans and pulled them on. Kyle turned away so he would not have to watch her. When she was dressed Marianne pushed open the door of the tool shed.
“Bye,” she said. “For now.”
Kyle hastily closed his fly and stood in the doorway. He watched Marianne walk to the little red Mustang in a peculiar gait that made her look like her joints were a little too loose.
She turned when she reached the car and waved at him, the unhealed wound a dark smear on the pale flesh of her arm. “See you soon,” she called.
The implied threat in her words froze his heart. He turned away and stumbled back toward the house.
Mrs. Simms was in the kitchen as he came in through the back door. She stood at the counter chopping at something with a chef’s knife. She did not look around.
“How’s Marianne?”
“She’s fine,” he said, ignoring the insinuation in the woman’s tone, and hurried through the kitchen and upstairs to his room.
He stripped off his clothes, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded across the hall to the bathroom. There he got under a steaming shower and scrubbed at his skin until it was pink, trying to obliterate any memory of the act in the tool shed. When the flesh of his entire body tingled, he switched the shower to
Cold
and stayed under it until his teeth chattered.
When at last he came out he felt a little better. At least he could no longer smell Marianne on himself. He bundled up the clothes he had worn and stuffed them into the wicker laundry hamper.
He declined supper that night, pleading a touch of the flu, and went to bed. He pulled the sheet and hand-stitched quilt up to his chin, and lay shivering despite the warmth of the June evening. All the scrubbing in the shower had not erased the mental picture of the scene in the tool shed, nor cleansed his nose of the odor of rot. He lay curled into the fetal position until far into the night before he slept.
The next day Kyle stayed in his room with the window shade pulled all the way down. He kept seeing Marianne’s loose-lipped smile and hearing her parting words.
“See you soon.”
He was reluctant to open the door for fear she would be standing there grinning at him, loose limbed, head askew. Stinking.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said aloud, “how did I get into this.”
At sundown Mrs. Simms rapped once and opened his door. “You feel like eating something?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You’ll feel better if you eat.”
Okay, might as well admit it, he
was
hungry. And he couldn’t hide under the covers forever.
“I’ll be down soon as I wash up.”
Mrs. Simms had prepared a supper of creamy chicken fricassee, mountains of mashed potatoes with cream gravy and green garden peas. Kyle ate with an appetite that surprised him. Dessert was German chocolate cake with caramel frosting. He was about to take the first bite when an automobile horn sounded outside.
Kyle jumped up
NINE
“Marianne, what’s wrong with you?” Kyle’s throat tightened, squeezing his voice out in a tremulous whisper.
Marianne looked him straight in the eye. She smiled slowly and let her head fall to one side, at the angle it had lain that night in the road outside Elkhorn City.
“Don’t you know what’s wrong with me, Kyle? You should. You did it to me. You made me what I am. You and that Gypsy. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“That’s crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pulled up his pants.
She opened her mouth to speak.
He put a hand over her lips. “I don’t want to hear any more. Go home, Marianne. Go home and take a bath.”
She got to her feet, looking not quite steady. “If you say so, lover. I can see you’re all through for now, anyway.”
She found her jeans and pulled them on. Kyle turned away so he would not have to watch her. When she was dressed Marianne pushed open the door of the tool shed.
“Bye,” she said. “For now.”
Kyle hastily closed his fly and stood in the doorway. He watched Marianne walk to the little red Mustang in a peculiar gait that made her look like her joints were a little too loose.
She turned when she reached the car and waved at him, the unhealed wound a dark smear on the pale flesh of her arm. “See you soon,” she called.
The implied threat in her words froze his heart. He turned away and stumbled back toward the house.
Mrs. Simms was in the kitchen as he came in through the back door. She stood at the counter chopping at something with a chef’s knife. She did not look around.
“How’s Marianne?”
“She’s fine,” he said, ignoring the insinuation in the woman’s tone, and hurried through the kitchen and upstairs to his room.
He stripped off his clothes, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded across the hall to the bathroom. There he got under a steaming shower and scrubbed at his skin until it was pink, trying to obliterate any memory of the act in the tool shed. When the flesh of his entire body tingled, he switched the shower to
Cold
and stayed under it until his teeth chattered.
When at last he came out he felt a little better. At least he could no longer smell Marianne on himself. He bundled up the clothes he had worn and stuffed them into the wicker laundry hamper.
He declined supper that night, pleading a touch of the flu, and went to bed. He pulled the sheet and hand-stitched quilt up to his chin, and lay shivering despite the warmth of the June evening. All the scrubbing in the shower had not erased the mental picture of the scene in the tool shed, nor cleansed his nose of the odor of rot. He lay curled into the fetal position until far into the night before he slept.
The next day Kyle stayed in his room with the window shade pulled all the way down. He kept seeing Marianne’s loose-lipped smile and hearing her parting words.
“See you soon.”
He was reluctant to open the door for fear she would be standing there grinning at him, loose limbed, head askew. Stinking.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said aloud, “how did I get into this.”
At sundown Mrs. Simms rapped once and opened his door. “You feel like eating something?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You’ll feel better if you eat.”
Okay, might as well admit it, he
was
hungry. And he couldn’t hide under the covers forever.
“I’ll be down soon as I wash up.”
Mrs. Simms had prepared a supper of creamy chicken fricassee, mountains of mashed potatoes with cream gravy and green garden peas. Kyle ate with an appetite that surprised him. Dessert was German chocolate cake with caramel frosting. He was about to take the first bite when an automobile horn sounded outside.
Kyle jumped up
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