Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 17

Perfect, she thought.

Then she Amytaled the prost.i.tute and sewed her lips shut.

L Street, between 13th and 16th, looks like a black hall of mirrors from all the plate gla.s.s on the office buildings.

It's a beautiful, warm night.

She feels happy, s.e.xy.

Beautiful.

I'm a prost.i.tute tonight, she thinks. I'm a wh.o.r.e!

Cars rove by.

Men whistle at her.

Her high heels tick along the dark cement. The sound of traffic, the whistles, the overall sounds of a city night, make her feel free in a great open s.p.a.ce. One prost.i.tute pa.s.ses her on the left. Silly tight gold hot pants like foil. Big brunette curls s.h.i.+ny with hairspray. Little b.r.e.a.s.t.s swaying braless beneath a red fishnet top. She frowns over her shoulder as if to say Invader! Two more prost.i.tutes pa.s.s in the opposite direction. They're dressed like twins, arm in arm, in short leather miniskirts and pink halters. They, too, frown at her. Of course, she thinks. Territorialism. It shouldn't be long. "No one works this block solo, honey," a fourth prost.i.tute says to her at the dark crosswalk. "You better be careful." High heels tick away on the asphalt. She remains on the corner.

She's staring at the dark church on the corner.

It looks desolate, doomed.

The cross on the steeple catches her eye.

But it's not her her cross, it's not The Cross. cross, it's not The Cross.

This cross is meaningless.

There is no power in it.

It does not make her strong against the past.

"You and me, we gotta have a little talk."

The BMW idles at the corner next to a wire wastebasket that reads PITCH IN! KEEP WAs.h.i.+NGTON CLEAN!

The black man is looking up at her from the open driver's window. He's wearing a gray pinstripe suit jacket, crisp white dress s.h.i.+rt, a dark silk tie with a diamond stickpin.

"Get in. I won't bite," he says.

No, she thinks. But I will.

Be careful, her mother says. her mother says. Wait 'til he's off the crowded blocks. Wait 'til he's off the crowded blocks.

I know, she thinks.

"Are you 'Rome?" she asks. "I'm looking for a guy named 'Rome."

"Hmm," he says. He's driving down M Street now. "What we need to talk about concerns a little matter of professional protocol, not to mention professional etiquette and known doctrines of professional boundaries, not to mention the way things f.u.c.king are."

"I know," she says. Signs on buildings pa.s.s. THOMAS CLOCK JEWELRY, LATT'S COUNTRY SQUIRE, C & P TELEPHONE COMPANY. "I can't work the street without a pimp."

The black man seems to wince. "You're on the right track, in spite of a slight misapplication of terms. I'm 'Rome."

"Can I work for you?" She keeps her voice quiet, cool. "I need work."

"Umhmm. Well. That depends." He turns right back onto L, pa.s.sing the huge pickup spot called Rumors, a Thai restaurant called Star of Siam, and then a city cop parked facing out in an alley. "Only the cla.s.siest, the cleanest, and the best girls work for me. I have criteria, which we'll get into later. Before I can fairly even think about taking you on, I want to take you back to my place and rap, find a little bit out about you. Does that sound all right?"

"Sure," she says. "You don't buy a car without taking it for a test drive first."

"Something like that," 'Rome says.

He's looking at her now, at the stoplight.

Do something, her mother says. her mother says.

Her mother is in the back seat.

Act normal!

She removes a compact from her purse, examines her face in it. She knows he's looking at her, she knows his eyes are roving her the same way Daddy's hands pushed her legs back on the couch while she looked at The Cross.

She's dressed much better than the other girls she's seen. A short black halter dress with a wrap front, a spare goldbuckled belt, pearl earrings, a pearl bracelet around her wrist. The wig gives her s.h.i.+mmering shoulderlength whiteblond hair...

"Before you can test drive the car, of course," the black man metaphors, "you have to start the ignition." He calmly places her left hand between his legs, urging her to prod him. She is able to do this without hesitation because when she closes her eyes she can see The Cross, and The Cross gives her the power to fantasize. 'Rome makes a sound like "Mmmmm" as her hand deftly caresses the satchel of flesh at his groin. She thinks of prejudiced jokes, of bigotry and stereotypes, and she wants to say something whory like, "So it's true what they say about black men." She's delighted by what she's feeling in her hand, this burgeoning parcel of s.e.xual meat, and it doesn't bother her at all to be made to feel him like this because for the whole time she fantasizes carefully about cutting it all off with Bruns serrated plaster shears.

"How far away do you live?"

"Four, five blocks up."

Now, her mother says, before you get back on the crowded blocks. her mother says, before you get back on the crowded blocks.

He slides his big black hand up her left thigh.

She s.h.i.+vers a moment.

She doesn't like to be touched.

His fingers slide under her high hem, touch her panties, and suddenly she's disgusted.

It's Daddy's hand.

It's Daddy's hand, she thinks.

It's the hand of every man who ever touched her mother.

Her right hand slips into the purse.

Now! her mother says. Hurry! His girls will see you from the street.

She feels so bad, so small.

She feels like if she died right now, she'd feel better.

She can see his skull beneath his face, like glowing bone.

Skulls mean death, she remembers.

She pulls Daddy's big revolver out of her purse.

She c.o.c.ks it and quickly presses the barrel into his crotch.

"Wh-" 'Rome big white eyes bulge. "Jesus..."

"Drive where I tell you to drive," she says, "or I'll blow your c.o.c.k off."

(II).

"It's probably not a good idea for you to stay with me tonight," Kathleen said to the dashboard.

"Nonsense. I think it's a great idea."

They pa.s.sed long lines of warehouses on New York Avenue. Most had windows broken out of lattices of steel frames. They appeared abandoned, bombed out. In a rubbled lot, several rats the size of puppies glanced up with red eyes.

If you don't want him to stay with you, Kathleen, how come you're heading back to your apartment instead of his? She didn't even want to contemplate what the radio shrink would say about that. She didn't even want to contemplate what the radio shrink would say about that.

"I'd really like to stay with you tonight," Maxwell said.

Kathleen didn't say anything in response.

When they pa.s.sed the police station, she thought sourly of Spence, and of his sour face and att.i.tude. She didn't mind being disliked but only as long as she knew the reason. That's what bothered her foremost.

What's the reason?

She needed to distract herself. A large sign on an office building read: IT'S THE CRIMINALS, STUPID. "I don't get it," she said, pointing errantly. "What does it mean?"

"That's the NRA building," Maxwell replied. "I think what they're trying to say is that guns shouldn't be blamed for the crimes people commit with them."

"Oh."

Maxwell didn't say anything more when she pulled into her own parking lot. Kathleen supposed one thing she liked about him was his sense of tact. He knows when to not say anything. He knows when to not say anything. She thought about what he'd said at the sus.h.i.+ bar. She thought about what he'd said at the sus.h.i.+ bar. Am I afraid of communicating? Am I afraid of communicating? she wondered. Apartment buildings pa.s.sed like rows of gravestones. she wondered. Apartment buildings pa.s.sed like rows of gravestones. Am I afraid of my own emotions? Am I afraid of my own emotions?

I'm afraid of a lot of things, she realized. she realized.

"How, uh, how come we're driving around in the parking lot?" Maxwell piped up.

Again, she didn't reply. She scanned the rows of cars, idling past in the big TBird. When she drove the full loop, she parked in front of her own building. A breeze moved down the lot, but it was hot, humid. The sound of slow traffic came like surf.

"What are you looking for?" Maxwell asked when they were out of the car. She was looking behind her, scanning the parked cars. Sentinels, Sentinels, she wanted to say. Spence had told her he was putting a plainclothes officer in the lot round the clock. She didn't know how she felt about that. She didn't know if it made her feel safe, or scrutinized. Knowing that there was a cop out front all night might make her feel peeped on through a hole in the wall. she wanted to say. Spence had told her he was putting a plainclothes officer in the lot round the clock. She didn't know how she felt about that. She didn't know if it made her feel safe, or scrutinized. Knowing that there was a cop out front all night might make her feel peeped on through a hole in the wall.

No, she didn't know at all how she felt about that.

She walked briskly ahead of him, so he couldn't put his arm around her, or hold her hand. Trotting up the apartment steps, an image pounced on her: falling into darkness, an abyss.

Inside Maxwell made himself right at home. Kathleen didn't know how she felt about that, either. He opened the refrigerator for a soda. Then he turned and said, "Do you want anyth-Kathleen? What the h.e.l.l are you looking for?"

She held the curtain back at the slider, peeking down into the lot. You're out there somewhere, You're out there somewhere, she thought, squinting. she thought, squinting. Where are you? Where are you?

"Sentinels," she eventually answered Maxwell.

"You know something?" He sat down casually on the couch, turned on the TV with the remote. "You have some really bizarre things going on in your life."

"Really bizarre," she murmured. Earlier she'd Express Mailed next month's column to the magazine. She couldn't believe she'd almost forgotten.

"And I'm trying to figure out why you don't want to tell me about them," he went on. He kicked off his shoes, put his feet up on a coffee table full of women's magazines. "Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you," she said. All at once she felt wound down, exhausted. When she looked over, she smirked. Maxwell had turned on a baseball game.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n Yankees," he griped, shaking his head. "The second I turn the set on the first thing I see is Ripkin knocking one out of the park. Wells should try pitching with his feet."

"You're a poet, Maxwell," she ventured. "Poets don't watch baseball baseball. It's primordial. It's stupid."

"Especially when the Yankees are playing," he added. He turned off the set. "Thanks for the sus.h.i.+. It was good. It was unique. I never thought I'd be able to say I ate fried shrimp heads..." He leaned up on the couch. "Are you all right? You look exhausted all of a sudden."

"I am," she said. "I don't know why. Can we go to bed now? You know, just to sleep?"

"Okay."

She had the notion that he understood immediately: she didn't want to have s.e.x, she just wanted to sleep. Halfway to the bedroom she turned and saw him peering mystified out the front window. He shook his head then came back.

"...simple human spontaneity," came a voice like mist from the clock radio. It was the radio shrink's show. Was she on all night? "This needn't be confused with abnormal behavioral thought patterns." "But it was just...so wild, so unlike me," a caller said. The radio shrink continued: "It's your spirit, your innermost self, telling you that it's all right to be happy again. Spontaneity is often how we celebrate our joys, our happiness..."

Kathleen turned the radio off before Maxwell could hear. The radio shrink's show often depressed her in her fascination for it, for listening to strangers open themselves. She took off her shoes, unbuckled her jeans, and sat on the bed.

"I'm sorry," she said when Maxwell came in.

"Sorry about what?"

"I don't know." Her desire to sleep made her feel narcotized. Her eyelids fluttered as she slid off her jeans and began to unb.u.t.ton her blouse.